When I start seeing a new person who I like, I put on airs.

I laugh a little louder and a little longer at jokes that don’t deserve such praise. I try a little harder to remember to put on mascara and wash my hair once in a while. I hold in my farts for so long that I worry the trapped air in my body will somehow inflate my eyeballs like balloons until they pop. I, like a lot of us, do the Dating Dance.

But over the course of those first few unofficial months, I slowly peel back the layers in little, unassuming ways. It’s never that I was being dishonest, it’s that as things move along (and if, god willing, I still like you after you asked me to pop a back zit that you couldn’t reach very early on, which I probably do, because I’m not easily grossed out and I am a currently a very desirable mix of a little desperate and a lot lonely), I will slowly become more comfortable and more like my actual self around you. Frankly, I think this is going well, and the better it goes, the less I feel I can keep up the charade. A blessing [for me, because this is exhausting] and a curse [for you, prospective mate, because I can be, as we say in the biz, “a handful”].

1. I stop using laughing emojis in texts.

I hate those fuckers. They’re disingenuous and, sorry, only old and/or unfunny people use them*. I much prefer a “haha,” with length and capitalization proportionate to the funniness of whatever it is that you said, and that is what I will use if you text me something funny. But I’m not talking about what happens when you say something funny.

Much to the dismay of most authority figures and telemarketers with whom I’ve interacted, a lot of what comes out of my mouth and/or fingertips is dripping with a thick layer of irony. It takes a lot for me to be serious, and that will almost never happen in a text message, especially this early on. So I have to stick a goddamn laughing emoji at the end of the messages in which I am only kidding (and if you ask me, that really quells the efficacy of the joke, but at least you know I don’t actually think any of the awful things I may say, because, laughing emoji. Haha.).

In a perfect world, this falls away quickly, because if I’m talking to you often, I will soon become bothered by having to use them so much. Luckily, I text and write a lot like I talk, and once you spend a handful of cumulative hours with me, you will probably soon be able to automatically pick up when I’m joking, you sensitive bastard.

*Am I dating myself with this? I have seen that people a little younger than me actually have a pretty major emoji affinity. And honestly, how dare you Zoomers make me feel old with your emoji use. I will desperately cling to my “haha’s” and “lmao’s” and “lol’s” until my dying breath, just as I cling to my fleeting social relevance. I’ve no time for Youths and their frivolous laughing emoji usage. This is Reason #2 why I don’t date younger dudes. Reason #1 is their complete lack of interest in me.

2. I start bringing my actual skincare routine to your house.

I am not presumptuous. Even if you were interested in having sex with me when you initially asked me out, I feel as though there’s a comfortable chance that sometime over the course of the drink or dinner or walk or whatever we do the first time we hang out**, a healthy dose of my personality may well thwart any physical desire you felt toward me beforehand. Or, maybe you suck, and I don’t want to pursue this further, ever thought of that? In any case, I like to be prepared.

When I’m going on a date that I believe may go well enough for me to wake up with this person tomorrow morning, I always bring a little go-bag containing some essentials:

• Travel toothbrush

• Travel size facial cleanser

• Travel size dry shampoo

• Mini deodorant

• Collapsible hairbrush

• Fresh underwear

I owe the mini-bottle travel section of Rite Aid my life. And, duh, I hate putting crusty undies (crundies? ugh gross sorry oh god) back onto my body. But the underwear doesn’t come from Rite Aid. Okay, fine, some of them do. What? I’m ballin’ on a budget.

Sometime in the last couple of years I remembered that I know how to read, and started regularly reading again (brag). When I discovered that it was difficult to fit books in my usual purse, I transitioned to more regular use of a small tote, which has proven to be great for dating, because I can fit all that other shit in there, too, without looking like I’m moving in (even if I am). It’s just my usual bag! No overnight packing here!

Anyways, those six things help me to look more like a person come morning, and they’re all small enough for me to stow in a discrete makeup bag, so no one will ever know that I prepared for this. That Emma, she’s so chill, they say (they do not say). But I do not have naturally nice skin, and even one wash with just a travel size bottle of Cetaphil will somehow result in both dryness and a breakout. My skin is not infomercial-bad, but it is needs-that-infomercial-skincare bad. Proactiv 4 life.

Unfortunately, my Proactiv dependency means carting along a three step system, plus some cotton rounds to apply toner, a spot treatment, and maybe some other goodies depending on the weather or time of year. And having that many full-size bottles of potions to apply to your face in the beard-trimming coated (those are beard trimmings, right? Please say yes) bathroom of a man in his mid- to late-twenties does not look too much like the easy-breezy-who-knows-if-we’re-gonna-sleep-together-totally-lowkey-no-pressure vibe I’m going for out the gate. But eventually, I will no longer be able to deal with the havoc that this out-of-the-ordinary facial cleanser is wreaking on my poor face in the name of discretion. I’ve been here a few times, we know what we’re doing, and from here on out, the whole apothecary is comin’ with me. Please prepare for my toiletries bag to grow three sizes.***

**Yes, the first time. If I’m into you, I am totally willing to have sex early on. It helps alleviate the tension and, in my experience, makes both parties act more like themselves and relax a little bit. Are you being judgy? Stop that. I’m fun.

***Insert Grinch joke here. Or something. Really I just felt like I needed a third footnote. Hey.

3. I read in bed before you wake up.

I always wake up first. Always. I am not much of a morning person, but I am an early bird (there is a difference) and I am going to wake up before you, in your bed or mine. Early on, I will try to keep my phone nearby so that I can idly scroll through Twitter until you wake up. And then, when you wake up, I can put my phone away quickly before you rub the sleep out of your eyes and pretend that I, too, only just woke up. Wow, we’re so in sync, waking up at the same time! Look at us! Absolute lies. I have been awake for hours and you know what? You need to have more than one pillow. You’re a grown man.

Once I’ve slept next to you enough times to know that 1) it’s going to be a while before you wake up and 2) if I just shove you onto your side you’ll stop snoring and somehow still not wake up, I remember that I’m trying to not be on Twitter so much, and I’m gonna open a damn book (which, as you now know, I always have in my tote bag). And I’m gonna finish my chapter before I allow you to touch me when you finally wake up, like, two hours later. Snooze ya lose (which is to say, snooze you fuckin’ wait a second, let me at least get to the end of this page before you get all up in here, man. Where’s my bookmark?).

4. I tell you how I actually take my coffee.

I don’t have a dairy sensitivity, but I’m still going to need you to get your heavy cream the fuck out of my face.

I am perpetually fearful of appearing high-maintenance, because the fact is that I am not (please do not consult any of my ex-boyfriends on this matter). I try to make an effort to bring everything I need to stay the night to and from your apartment, which is to say, I would never ask someone who is not my boyfriend to keep something in their house for me. For the most part, this is fine — I can bring my own toiletries and clothes. Certified independent woman.

The only thing I cannot feasibly bring for myself is coffee fixins. I’ll just take whatever you have, because I’m so relaxed and easygoing. But I am not strong or cool enough to drink black coffee, so I need you to put something in there, whatever you usually do is totally fine by me. At least that’s what I’ll say to you, even though in reality I’m choking down your half & half because I am not cut out for thick creams (*wretch*). Generally, I prefer milk, actual cow’s milk, and I don’t really care what kind — if I go to Dunkin and get a “medium hot coffee, just milk,” then I’m good with whole milk, and I normally buy 1% for my own fridge (if you’re keeping score, that was “milk” four times in one sentence. Shit. Five.). See! Look how flexible! Look how completely chill! I’ll take any kind of milk, dude! Fuck your cream! I know it also comes from a cow! I only like specific cow juices! I will not be shamed for preferring one cow drink to another! Milk and cream are very different! I’ll die on this hill! What! Shut up!

I will take my coffee “however you take it” for a while, in the name of politeness. Also in the name of sticking to my bullshitty “chill” narrative and not coming off as demanding. But I’ve been here for a lot of mornings lately, and every time I drink your heavy-cream-cut coffee, I’m stuck miserably slurping down a too-viscous cup of minimum 36% milkfat when I prefer ONE, and all I have to show for it is this weird, gross film on my tongue. I can only take that for so long. I’m going to have to burst your cream bubble (kill me) at some point. Just milk, please.

5. I develop the ability to poop in your apartment.

No further questions.

6. You ask me to be your girlfriend.

And I’m like, hell yeah! Because by now you definitely know too much about me and I can’t just let you back out into the world with all that information!

Despite whatever progressive ideals I like to think I hold near and dear, I still cling to the arguably archaic desire to be the askee, as opposed to the asker. I’m not deeply attached to gender roles or anything, I for one love being able to open a bank account all by myself. It’s just that, against my better judgment, I have allowed myself to become invested in this, so I’m nervous. Sorry! I might be full of snarky things to gripe about, but somewhere along the line I developed actual feelings for you (wait, sorry, I was so not supposed to reveal that. Let me add a panic-driven laughing emoji so you know I’m being casual and funny and not attached to this at all, which is how I feel...please stop looking at me), and those emotional stakes freak me the fuck out, man! Yikes!

Maybe you’re willing to take that risk. I hope so. Otherwise all that heavy cream I consumed was for naught.

Then, perhaps, whoa, we are together together. I’m going to leave a toothbrush in your bathroom now, mostly just because I can, but I’ll still haul my books and skincare routine back and forth, so don’t you worry about my trying to move in. By the way, sorry, do you mind if I just leave this shirt here?

It’s gonna be great. You in?