As many of you might glean from my multitude of posts regarding the dating dance and the many extracurricular games that ensue past the first “Hey”, I hate dating. I find it awkward, inauthentic, useless and often boring. Like an excruciating movie, I can’t get my precious time back. It may sound a bit harsh, but when you are no longer a wistful, naïve teenager (literally and metaphorically), dating is right up there with root canals, funerals, commuting to work and breathing in the Fulton Fish Market on a hot summer day in New York City. Yes, it’s THAT much fun!
As the great Chris Rock says, “On a first date, you’re not meeting the person, you are meeting their “Representative”. A more accurate analysis has never been presented regarding this most ancient of rituals. Some may call me a tad bitter, I just call myself “pragmatic” or the “antida” (short for anti-date). After a life-time of short guys, tall guys, rich guys, poor guys, fat guys, skinny guys, bald guys, hairy guys, professionals, artists, entrepreneurs, students, teachers and rocket scientists, I have concluded that all my dates have a common denominator which is that stimulating conversational foreplay is dead, along with chivalry and chastity. I, personally, think that my point is proven with the proliferation of “hook up” sites like “Tinder” and others. Instead of resurrecting the old-fashioned, civil way of dating, we’ve eliminated the whole courtship process. There’s got to be something in between the two extremes, especially since “hooking up” with some stranger is not an option for me, except when installing a washer/dryer (usually the time when I most need a man)
Each dating scenario begins the same way. Well-meaning friend/acquaintance/stranger or random dude reaches out to me and asks if I know a “Joe D.” This is followed by “He’s an amazing guy, about 45 years old, has a great business. Really handsome”. I ask a few questions like “Does he have all of his limbs”?, “Does he see his children”?, “Is there a pic I can see on Facebook or instagram”?, “Does he have a criminal record”?...you know, the typical questions one asks when being set up on a blind date. Of course, it sounds perfect, but I still want to check him out, so I do what any girl does, I “google” him. Since his name is, fairly, common, I check through the images to see if there’s a middle-aged handsome relationship material “punim” (face)in the crowd of results. After a few minutes, I have narrowed it down to two pictures. One looks like Albert Einstein, but with better grooming habits and a great tan, while the other looks about 12. I don’t need to be Einstein to figure out who my suitor might be. I, then, deduce that I will either be on Chris Hansen (2.0, if they ever revive it) or be on trial for murdering whoever set me up. Either way, jail may be a possibility.
Einstein (I mean “Joe) calls me before I have a chance to vet him further and suggests that he pick me up for dinner. I thank the Lord, that he doesn’t have a German accent and he offers to pick me up, which I find refreshing and a strong “mensch” indicator. I, grudgingly, recite my address and pray that my kids don’t find me dead in a back alley somewhere and only discover I’m missing, during their desperate quest for my babysitting services.
A few evenings later, there’s a guy at my door. He looks NOTHING like “Einstein”. My career as a private investigator is over before it begins. It’s the “12 year old’ in the picture, all grown up. Unfortunately, his height remained the same, so I switch into flats, put on sunglasses (though it was evening) and direct him towards a remote place near Flushing Meadow Park in Queens. I wasn’t scared he was a serial killer. I was scared that I might become one, if anyone saw us together. Dead men don’t talk, I’m told. Guess there wasn’t going to be “stimulating conversation” after all.
I have another blind date this week in Miami Beach. At least I won’t look strange wearing sunglasses at night here.
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