I can’t remember the last time I was this excited. Hell, I can’t even remember the last time I went out on a date.

How do I even act? Fork on the left? Spoon on the right? What if I end up talking too much and he gets Billy Mays vibes from me? Should I do that thing at the end of dinner when I reach for my wallet, but the whole time we both know that he’s going to pay? Seriously, it’s 2013. When can I stop doing that whole wallet fake out thing? Do I wait for him to open the car door? Do I just open it myself? What if he doesn’t open the door and I’m just awkwardly standing there? Like, maybe less awkward than Michael Cera, but probably more awkward than Kristen Stewart? Or what if he unlocks the door and I open the door at the exact same time? And then my door locks and he crawls into his side and I wish I could crawl into a hole, but really I’m again just awkwardly standing outside the car door. Why does every fictitious scenario in my head end with me awkwardly standing by myself outside of a car?

Sam, breathe, get a hold of yourself. You’ve done this before, and he just wants to take you out to dinner. It’s just dinner. Wait, is it just dinner? Will there be a movie after? I could have sworn he said he “wanted to see a movie,” but maybe he just said he likes movies? Sam, everyone likes movies, why would he say that? OK then, I guess we’re going to see a movie. I wonder if we’re actually going out to the movies or going back to his house to watch one? Well great, if we’re going to his house, that means I have to shave my legs. Or at least shave everything from the knee down. He is not touching anything above my knees, that’s for sure. Obviously, I’m still going to show off my knees. If I show off my knees, but I don’t let him touch them, subconsciously I hold all of the power. I’m pretty sure Oprah taught me that. Wouldn’t it be funny if while on our date, I randomly just started talking in an exaggerated Oprah voice?

“You get a tip, you get a tip, everybody gets a tip!”

I wonder if he would think I was funny or straight up psychotic. Maybe that’s more second date material.

Focus, Sam. What should I wear? Cool, I literally have nothing to wear. Jeans and a blouse could work? Maybe a dress? Whatever. I’m so perpetually bloated, it doesn’t even matter what I wear. Are trash bags in style?

Sam, calm down. This guy should be getting on his hands and knees, Wayne and Garth style, chanting, “I’m not worthy,” whenever he is in your presence. You are a hot piece of real estate and any guy would be lucky to own you. I’m pretty sure that came out wrong. Look, you don’t want to look too sexy, but you also don’t want him to think that you’re not interested in doing the deed, either. Ew, who even says “doing the deed?” I’ve become my mother! Why are you thinking about sex with this guy anyway—this is a first date. Cool your jets, Kemosabe.

Wait, is this guy even attractive enough to go out on a date with? I mean, I think he was cute. I can’t really remember, it was kind of dark when we met. Eh, it doesn’t matter, I’m not that vain.  I’d go out with him regardless—OK yeah I’m pretty vain, but let’s face it, I am a strong, independent woman. I’m the Beyonce of upper-middle class Caucasian early 20s undergraduates. I have standards that need to be met. I should probably check his Facebook again, just to make sure he’s up to par with what I deserve.

(Sees profile picture.)

Oh hot damn, this boy is my jam. He’s much cuter than what I remember. Then again, I did meet him at a bar, with strobe lights as the main source of illumination. This hottie hot hot wants to go on a date with … me? This must be a prank. I’m being punked.

Oh god, what if he’s like, a white supremacist? Or a Dodgers fan?  What if this is some ploy and at the end of the night, I think he’s leaning in for a kiss, but really, I end up being sold into human trafficking, never to be seen by any of my loved ones again. And when the nation is alerted that I’m missing, it’ll use my high school gradation picture, the one when I had just figured out how to use a straightening iron and I look like a mix of a pre-makeover “The Princess Diaries” Anne Hathaway and that giant Yeti on the Matterhorn Bobslides ride. But hey, this is my life we’re talking about, so worst case scenario is that he’s probably not even going to show up for the date.

I honestly don’t know which situation I’d rather be in at this point.  Uh oh … I think that’s him at the door.