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Musings from Moyieboy ... |
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The Blind Date Hall of Fame is still
safe |
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August 2, 2017 |
By Ken Carpenter
There are few more horrifying terms in the world
than "blind date." Strong bachelors turn pale at
the thought, for their fate is no longer in
their hands but in the control of at least one
and often two or more other people. One they
know, or think they do, and the other could very
well be Charles Manson's cranky twin sister.
The only guarantee is that you are one of two
pawns in a game somebody else made up the rules
for, a comforting thought, is it not?
For some reason there are people out there who
insist on trying to change and improve other
people's lives, even if the process leaves the
recipient with two bloody stumps. They can't
help it any more than they can help
eavesdropping on a juicy conversation in the
grocery store checkout line.
A bachelor with no social life is like the
nectar of the gods to them, and whether the
miserable bum likes it or not he is going to get
a healthy dose of fine tuning crammed down his
pitiful throat. Sometimes it even works, but for
every buttinsky who sincerely wants to help
because they care, there are others who just do
it because their nose is as long as the old arm
of the law.
As might be expected, this is all leading up to
somewhere we are all better off not going, but
will anyway.
Back in 2000 or so I was a bachelor in turmoil.
My savior at the time was an ex-girlfriend who
dumped me for a guy 10 years younger and 150
pounds heavier, most of it in his rear end. Yes,
it was a low blow, and no, I am no longer the
least bit bitter. He can't help it if he gets
mistaken for a dumpster now and then.
Anyway, she was still calling once in a while to
check up on me and I talked to her just like I
had good sense. Forgiveness is considered a
virtue, but past a certain point it can become
foolish.
To prove how much sense I had, I let her give me
the phone number of an old family friend she had
not seen in over 15 years. This lady had called
her mother (CLUE) out of the blue, and happened
to mention a willingness to remedy her dateless
life of the past few years.
I was told she was a wee bit older than me and
quite fun. Despite major misgivings I called and
arranged to meet for Mexican food in a small
town out of state, near where she lived.
Desperation is not a comforting mistress.
The drive down did not serve to calm me, and the
butterflies in my stomach soon turned to drunken
fruit bats.
That is the power of a blind date, the ability
to transform a man about to turn 50 into a
fretful kid. Five minutes from my destination
the bats affected my brain and I stopped and
bought a single rose, perhaps thinking it would
distract her from my sweaty brow.
I entered the restaurant, short stemmed rose in
hand, and nervously inquired if they had any
single women wanting a man. I think I could have
worded it better, for the Hispanic hostess
arched her rapier eyebrows and gave me a heavily
accented "Certainly not, sir!"
Appalled, I soon managed to explain myself and
discover that I was the first to arrive.
A bevy of waiters led me to a corner booth, and
my first thought was a rodent-like fear that
there was no rear exit. With a heavy sigh I sat
back in the corner, placing the by now
traitorous-looking rose next to me, out of
sight.
Several tables were filled within minutes, but
no ladies were seated by themselves. Then I
looked over to see the perpetually smirking
waiters escorting a lone woman past the
scattered tables.
I did not take a second look because she could
have passed for my late Aunt Bertha. Or, more
accurately, two of my Aunt Berthas sandwiched
together.
With rising alarm I realized they were not
seating her, but I shook it off. It could not
be, that only happens in bad sitcoms. Yet they
drew closer, and when the waiter's smirks
broadened into sharklike smiles, reality set in
like day old cement.
The only thing my brain was capable of
registering at the moment was "Good Lord, lime
green polyester pants!" but I imagine they
matched admirably with the sudden green of my
gills, so who was I to complain?
Our croaking introductions were a blur as I
fought to regain control, and I recognized a
flash of confusion on her face as well. I really
hoped my grin wasn't as sickly as it felt,
because I was suddenly determined to play this
as straight as possible in hopes of salvaging a
shred of dignity.
Silly me.
Then I dropped my hand on the vinyl next to my
leg and felt the prickly hide of that cursed
rose, and I suddenly felt a little queasy. For
an instant I had the selfish thought of just
leaving it there out of the line of sight, but
one look at the pack of goggle-eyed waiters
across the room convinced me.
They had seen it, and they would surely squeal
on me.
I picked it up, mumbled something lame, and
handed it across the table to her. She rewarded
me with a genuine smile and I was suddenly glad
I had it to give, and a little less convinced
that I would die of mortification before the
night was over. An instant later I had my
doubts.
I sensed a presence approaching our table and
looked up into the amused brown eyes of my
original hostess, who came to a halt with a full
bowl of mortification sauce balanced in her
hands.
With a voice any drill sergeant would be proud
to own she bellowed out "Oh, a rose, how
romantic!"
At that point the whole place became dead quiet
and I realized every tortilla chip gobbling neck
present was craning to get a good look at the
romantic couple. My pasty cheeks suddenly
matched the gray of my date’s hair, and I smiled
my best gigolo smile and tried to ignore our
audience.
At that point I would have sold my soul for the
powers of invisibility, but unfortunately at
that moment my soul was basically worthless so I
was foiled again.
My date, who actually seemed to enjoy the
attention we were drawing, proved to be sweet,
funny, and intelligent. Neither one of us
acknowledged the fact that this meeting was one
that never should have happened. I managed to
finish my tasty meal without strangling any of
the leering audience around us.
We did not see each other again, and I had a few
choice words for my date-master the next day,
though we were both giggling before we were
finished talking.
Would I ever go on another blind date, in the
highly unlikely possibility that anyone thought
me worth the risk of ruining their introductory
reputation?
Of course I would, since I not only seem to be
stuck with a morbid fascination for the
ridiculous, but fate seems to steer me in
directions I have no control over anyway.
But I might not let any ex-girlfriends set it
up.
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