Tonight I had my first blind date. I’ve always wanted to go on a blind date for the two possible outcomes. One, if it goes really well, that is a good thing for obvious reasons. Two, if it is disastrous, this is also a good thing. Sometimes a horrific and embarrassing story you can retell later on is just as good as true love. Mine fell somewhere in the middle. It wasn’t bad, and it wasn’t necessarily good.
I want to be very clear that I am not disrespecting the date I took out. Sometimes people just don’t mesh. This should be expected. I think we both recognized this, but unfortunately, neither of us had enough gauze to stop the hemorrhaging wounds.
It was obvious minutes into the date that I had overlooked something. There are clearly (at least) three ways a blind date can go. Good, bad, and slightly uncomfortable. I wasn’t ready for the third one. It’s the feeling that you get when you are 14 and watching Titanic with your parents and the “Paint Me Like One of Your French Girls” festival begins. Part of you wants to be there; the other part is wondering who cranked the thermostat to Habanero. Option three in blind dating is probably the worst. At least if it’s disastrous, you can see it coming and either jump out of the way or enjoy a head-on collision. Instead, I stood there using the romance defibrillator on a relationship that just wasn’t meant to come to life. Certainly, every date starts off a little rough. A bad step turns into a bad touch. You reveal too much about your drinking habits and also while drinking you talk about your ex-girlfriend. Then you mention how hard it is living with mom three or four times.
And so, I charged the defibrillator.
“What kind of hobbies do you have?”
The sound of the defibrillator going off was a saddening aural stimulus. I’m pretty sure that question blasted ear drums at nearby tables. The shock paddles rallied a gasp of air and a few blips on the heart monitor. However, the bleeding had worsened and without a hot nurse by my side, I mopped my own brow with my French cuffs.
That wasn’t the last time I used the shock paddles… Clear!
“What music do you like?”
I stared sadly at the paddles. I think I forgot to charge them. Or I had misdiagnosed. “What music do you like?” was like giving a diabetic a Super Big Gulp and a king-sized Snickers. This was a terrible question for me to ask. I am a music snob, and the answer I was expecting was completely irrational. For some reason, some part of my brain expected “Band of Horses” or “Mates of State.” I am trying hard as a recovering music snob not to judge, but c’mon, I also wasn’t expecting country.
Shock ensued, and I panicked. I tried every trick in my charm satchel and came up with kazoos. I was a clown surrounded by crying five year olds at a birthday party. A donkey ate a baby in the petting zoo. Someone stabbed dad with alligator scissors. The party was over, so I declared a time of death.
“What time is it?”
When you ask that question, you don’t care what time it is. “6:13? Oh, I have to be somewhere at 6:14! Icantbelieveialmostforgot pleasedtomeetyou. Ohyoucanseestraightthroughme becauseyouarentdaft!” She was keen to my manuever, and I’m pretty sure she was about to pull the same move on me. I think she was a lot kinder than I and was going to wait another 30 seconds. At that point, I was exhausted. We limply embraced and split ways.
I shut the car door and soaked in the awkwardness. Then the question arose: Would I go on another blind date?
In a heartbeat.