Blind date: that predetermined meeting arranged for two otherwise unknown souls to deliberately cross paths thanks to the meddlesome interference of one or more well-intentioned mutual friend(s) in the hopes that the planets will be so perfectly aligned as to create a magical, memorable moment whereupon the blind datees will someday look back and mark it on their shared calendar as The Day We Fell in Love.
Or, in simpler terms: a nearly always ill-fated, disastrous meeting of two completely mismatched persons.
The latter was my fate on Friday. When a newlywed chick friend (yellow flag #1: deliriously happy, recently married friends have absolutely no business playing matchmaker; they are horribly biased toward life's sugar-coated aspects and can only see the world through their nauseating rose-colored glasses of marital bliss) mentioned a few weeks ago that a single guy friend of hers had been admiring (code for: cyberstalking) my blogs and photos on MySpace (yellow flag #2: seriously, all my pics are Photoshopped six ways from Sunday, so of course they look half decent, ergo, no man in his right mind would think that's actually what I look like; therefore, this guy can't possibly have all his marbles) and suggested I meet him, I balked.
Every time I see her, she casually mentions his name, or tells me where he's playing (he's a musician, and she knows I typically go for the brooding, intellectual, guitar-playing types) and hints that I should go check him out. OK, here's my first reaction: if a guy takes an interest, then he should make the first move. We aren't in junior high anymore. Asking a third party to intercede on your behalf indicates a serious lack of balls. And since I am, in Christopher Moore's terminology, a classic Alpha Female, I am not terribly impressed by men who lack a sack. But the Friend (as she shall henceforth be deemed) wore me down and I reconsidered. Plus, as the ultimate in ulterior motives, she said she would finally return several of the aforementioned author's books which I'd loaned her last year. This was the deal-sealer. I have missed my books!
So the Friend emailed last week because the Guy asked her if I might be interested in a double-date kind of outing, say, over dinner at a place that is known for its romantic ambiance. Normally, I'm all about some cozy, candlelit intimacy over a bowl of pasta, but that was major yellow flag #3: restaurants are No-Nos in blind dating. Wikipedia proves it. And yet, the Guy suggested the outing and suggested the specific location. In my hopelessly old-fashioned logic, this implies that the Guy would also pick up the tab. Due to my impending financial doom (two more paychecks and I'm up a creek with no boat!) I relented.
Friday arrived, and I was in no mood for company. I was nine kinds of cranky thanks to an insufficient intake of Midol and an exorbitant level of soon-to-be-gone work-related stress. What I wanted more than anything in the world was to go home, curl up on the sofa with some DVDs and whine until the drugs kicked in. But damn me and my "always keep your word" ethical bullshit mantra! So off to the restaurant I went...
And this, boys and girls, was when the red flags started flyin'. They say you can judge your interest in someone within the first 30 seconds of meeting. In this case, it took about 7.2 seconds. Physical appearance is of secondary importance (the first is always that one-two punch of intelligence paired with a wicked sense of humor) so I decided, "Hmmm, I won't be shallow. He's not even remotely attractive, so maybe he's brilliant." Let the litmus testing begin!
How 'bout the conversational highlights, to save time:
Friend: "Here are your Christopher Moore books. I am so glad you introduced me to him - "You Suck" is hysterical!"
Guy: "Who's Chris Moore? What's the book about?"
Friend: (chuckling) "Beta Males."
Guy: "What's a Beta Male?"
Me: (trying to be tactful, knowing I am in the presence of one) "Um, well, basically it's the opposite of an Alpha Female," (and, anticipating the obvious next question) "which implies one who shouldn't have balls hypothetically does and one who should have balls often does not."
Friend: "It's a vampire love story."
Guy: stares blankly
That was Red Flag #1: he had no clue about one of the funniest writers of this generation. So the Friend and I continue talking about other books/films/music we love while we wait for her husband to arrive. After mentioning David Foster Wallace, Jose Saramago, Chuck Palahniuk, Elliott Smith and Ray LaMontagne (seriously mainstream names here compared to my more obscure favorites) we get zero feedback from the Guy. Ooookay...moving on.
While ordering, I am in "frugal date" mode, ordering water and the least expensive entree, which in this case, was a $12 dish of fresh spinach/roasted garlic ravioli. When asking about the possible sauces to accompany this, I discover Red Flag #2. Once again, the conversational highlights:
Me: "Would the garlic-goronzola sauce be too heavy for this pasta? Or should I try the roasted red pepper pesto?"
Guy: "What's gorgonzola?"
Friend's Husband: "It's cheese, dude. Even I know that."
Friend: "So what ever happened to that Dresden Files show?"
Me: "It was cancelled after one season."
Friend's Husband: "Oh, man, I loved that show!"
Guy: "I don't own a TV."
So there I was, knowing I was in for a miserably long evening with a philistine who neither reads the books I like, watches movies I like, watches TV shows I like (the fact that he doesn't own a TV prompted our discussing the "Stuff White People Like" blog - and of course, he'd never heard of that, either) and didn't know what that gorgonzola was a cheese. I could feel the Midol wearing off, revealing signs of the fire-breathing demoness stirring inside me who never makes for a pleasant dining partner. 'Ruh-'roh, 'Raggy.
Then came Red Flag #3. In an effort to volley the conversational ball, Guy (who had obviously read my MySpace profile) asks some harmless questions:
Guy: "So, what's your connection with New England?"
Me: "I lived there during the 90s when I was unhappily married; now that I'm happily divorced, I'm too broke to move back."
Guy: "I lived in New Hampshire for awhile."
Me: "Why the hell would you voluntarily leave New Hampshire and move back here?"
Guy: "The girlfriend I had was crazy."
Me: (thinking, "yeah, but I'll bet she knows what gorgonzola is") "Wow."
Fast-forward to the point where the server asks, "Is this all on one check?" and before he could fully pronounce the last syllable, Guy said, "Ours are separate; theirs (pointing to our mutual married-couple friends) are together." OK, so then I'm thinking, 'let me get this straight: you pursued me, you asked me to meet you here, you heard me telling my friends how I'm soon to be unemployed, and you still don't offer to pick up the fucking tab?!?" While the server processed our credit cards, I whipped out my phone & texted (under the table) "WTF? Dutch?!?" to one of my guy friends who replied: "The nerve!" Indeed...
At that point, I vowed to never again agree to a blind date, under any circumstances, period. Trust me, next Friday evening you can bet your ass I'll be parked on mine, all cozy & comfy on my sofa, drowning my then-unemployed sorrows in several bottles of Sam Adams. And that scenario will be infinitely superior to the 2.5 hours of near-hell I spent with Gorgonzola Clueless Guy...
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