First of all, thanks for asking me out. For finally realizing that all my e-mail chatting about local cuisine wasn't just for conversation's sake, but was my attempt to open a relational door to you. I really was trying to meet you halfway in this process. I hope it felt like it.

Now that we have the date set, forgive me I seem a little cautious and tentative. I've been here before, staring down a relationship potential with a seemingly great guy. And, well, the fact that I'm here again tells you a lot about the success of my previous efforts. I'm trying to let the past be the past, but also to guard my heart. It's such a precarious balance at times.

I don't want to put undue pressure on you, but I have to be honest that a little bit of my faith in your gender is riding on how you treat me. You've already restored some of my faith in just asking me out—it does still happen! But I've been burned before and yes, I'll admit I've done my share of singeing as well. Going out with you makes me vulnerable. I don't know if you realize it, but in going out with you I'm handing a little piece of my heart to you to see what you'll do with it. If you're just planning to drop it or perform a juggling act with a couple other heart-pieces from others, could you just let me know now? It would be great to save us both the trouble and time and heartache. I know as fallen human beings we're destined to inadvertently hurt each other in some way at some point, but if we know it's coming sooner than later and more through negligence or a cavalier attitude than accident, I'd really like to opt-out of this one. I don't know how many more heartbreaks or disappointments I can take before I become a jaded, bitter date-monster. And I really don't want to become that person.

At our age I know we both come with our fair share of past experience—some of it great and enriching and some of it painful and tough to get past. But I also recognize that some of my best growth has come through my toughest times, and that good, bad, and ugly experiences have all formed me into who I am—and who you are. And these are the selves that were drawn to each other.

We've both also gotten a little set in our ways. My friends and I joke about living alone too long and hoping we haven't spoiled ourselves from ever living with anyone ever again. In full knowledge of that dynamic, I look forward to the way getting to know you better will expand my paradigm, show me a different way of doing and viewing and approaching life. Thank you in advance for that privilege to come alongside and walk a bit in your shoes—whether our journey together lasts five minutes, five miles, or forever.

I promise you now I'll try to leave my Hollywood expectations of love and leading men at the door. I'll try to remember that romantic comedy heroes have script-writers and personal trainers and directors and lighting technicians and a whole host of others who make them seemingly perfect. I pledge to try my best to let you be a human being and to be wowed by the complexity and messiness and wonder of that. I'm praying that God will help me value what's truly valuable and to see you as he does—more from the inside out. Looking for and valuing your heart above any of its packaging. I hope and pray you'll afford me the same eyes.

That said, I'll also try to leave my "best foot" at home. I'll try my best to let you see the real me. The one that will no doubt change outfits five times before selecting what to wear when we go out, that doesn't pray enough, that has too much coffee and not enough exercise, that loves quirky comedy and dancing flicks and secretly fears you won't mind that I'm more indoorsy than outdoorsy. That has a large vocabulary and a smallish bustline, too many pajamas and not enough cleaning skills. This is me. The unadulterated me. The one you'd have to live with if this works out someday, so I'll try my best to let you get a glimpse in appropriate measure.

I was talking with a fellow singleton the other day who also has one of those elusive first dates on her calendar in the coming days. In chatting over the hows and wheres, the silly and secretly delicious 16-year-old feelings, we both admitted to being scared. Scared that it won't work out—that we'll get hurt or disappointed and that it'll be another year or two before we even find ourselves back here at square one. And yet, oddly, also scared that it will work out. That this could be the beginning of the end of our singleness, the only life stage we've ever known. As much angst as I feel about it at times, this status is the only one I've ever known and there's a certain comfort in this familiarity.

Most of all I'm trying to temporarily set aside the reality that, as Christians, we aren't just looking for a good time, a one-night stand, or, at most, a live-in love interest. Rather, we're looking for a spouse. A til death do us part. I'm trying to overlook this truth right now because frankly it's a tad terrifying and immobilizing.

Instead, I'll try just to let this be a possibility. A mystery. An open door for God to usher in whatever he wills. And though I'll never breathe any of this neurosis to you before we go out next Friday, this is what's knocking around in my head as I prepare my best to let our dinner date be just that, dinner.