Ah yes, can you smell that? The scent of the weekend is in the air. A sweet mixture of happy hours, hangovers, and expectations from the person you’ve been casually dating for a few months. It’s the same old story. As you’re in your post-lunch haze on Friday afternoon, you’ll get the text. The dreaded, “Soooooo, what should we do this weekend?” text.
Maybe you had plans to sit on your ass and do nothing. Maybe a college buddy was in town, and you expected to drown in whiskey on the rocks while reminiscing about your golden years. Still, you know that if there’s any chance of
getting laid this weekend not ending up alone in this godforsaken world, you need to make some time for your almost-significant other.
So, you hit her back with the “whatever you want, babe,” and feel pleased about the fact that you’re a fucking boss and there’s a 100% chance of precipitation in her panties (Jesus, I’m sorry). Still, by doing that, you risk her picking any one of these four soul-crushing dates that will ensure your weekend, and libido, are totally destroyed. Now, I’m not sure why we, as women, love to pick dates that we know men will hate, but if I’m being honest? Something about it just feels good.
When you told her she could pick the date, you probably imagined something like, going to get some fondue then seeing “Fifty Shades.” Instead, she giddily informs you that she signed both of you up for a 7 a.m. yoga class on Saturday morning. And while sure, the idea of seeing a whole bunch of 20-somethings sweating in tight yoga pants doesn’t exactly sound like torture, that’ll change real quick after five minutes of downward dogging. And not the fun kind. Your palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy, and you totally regret wearing a fucking sweater because at any moment you’re going to vomit. You know, spaghetti.
Outcome: You’ll look like a little bitch because you can’t support your own body weight for a 60-minute class, and by the time you get out, you’ll be so shaky and exhausted that the thought of thrusting will be a distant memory.
I mean, what’s not to love? There’s tons of food, women in sundresses, and sometimes, if you’re lucky, even some alcohol. You know, as long as you’re fine with just standing around for hours and hours and hours. And then shelling out way too much money for kettle corn, artisan crepes, and homemade jam that’s going to sit in the back of the fridge for a year without being touched before someone throws it away when it’s time to move. It’s hot, it’s expensive, and by the time you guys leave, everyone is so tired and cranky that all you’ll want to do is lay down and avoid physical contact for an extended period of time.
Outcome: You’ll get a weird, ironic farmer’s tan. You’ll have to make small talk with a man selling dog outfits for twenty minutes because you’re lost and don’t know what else to do. And you’ll inevitably get into a fight when she says she thinks the two of you should get a dog so you can get a dog outfit, and you inform her that you don’t think you’re at the point in your relationship for that level of commitment. And also, are you kidding? You would never put a dog in an outfit.
A Painting Class
There’s a lot of different companies and a lot of different names for it, but you know what I’m talking about. You shell out $70+ for two people, you sit in a tiny little room with other miserable folks for a couple of hours, and you smear paint around on a canvass just counting down the moments until you can leave. Sure, if you’re somewhat artistic, it’s not horrible. But if you’re not? This might just be a solid circle of hell for you. Not only will the instructor come around and try to give you pointers before just taking your brush and doing it for you, but there’s a 0% chance that your “art” isn’t going to be blasted all over social media where you will absolutely be ripped a new asshole.
Outcome: You’ll sit there sullen and grumpy because your happy little trees just look like blobs of paint, so you chug your entire 6-pack a little too quickly (thank God these are always BYOB) before moving onto the wine and browning out. She gets mad that you didn’t care about your “couple art,” and you wake up the next day alone, hungover, and covered in a mixture of paint and shame.
Brunch With “The Girls”
You were told “brunch.” You weren’t told, “brunch with a whole bunch of her annoying friends.” And you absolutely weren’t told, “brunch with a whole bunch of her annoying friends where you will be the only man within a 10-mile radius.” And yet, here you are. Sitting at the end of the table, chugging a bloody, and trying to catch a glimpse of the TV and avoiding listening to everyone complain about how they’re not engaged yet.
Outcome: Not only will you end up being tricked into paying for a round of drinks (“Oh, don’t worry, ladies! He’s got this one. That’s why I brought him along anyway, hahaha!”), but you’ll quickly realize that while having sex and finding someone to settle down with is good, it’s never worth the torture that is a Sunday spent solely with a group of bitter girls and a solid mimosa special..