I sit in my parked car, trying to slow my heart rate. My hands are shaking. I wonder if there are any bags I can breathe into. Would the silky one that holds my jumper cables work? Every part of me wants to turn on the ignition and drive home. You’d think I was preparing to base jump or face a cancer diagnosis. Instead, I’m about to go on a first date with a random guy named Brent, who I met on Hinge. He likes “women who don’t take themselves too seriously.”
People are always surprised by my debilitating anxiety around dating. I’m generally outgoing, confident, and—as my friends have assured me—not a complete ghoul. So when I tell people that the mere idea of a date makes me want to crawl under my bed, they brush me off. Everyone gets nervous before dates; it’s normal. It’s too much effort to convince them I don’t simply “get nervous”—I have full mental breakdowns that require an Imodium and a lot of deep breathing into the mirror just to get out the door.
