Last week, a friend asked me if I would be interested in meeting someone on a kind of blind date.
I couldn’t get the word ‘no’ out of my mouth fast enough. I realized that if someone were to arrange for a date with me based on what I look like, things would not go well.
I am the first to admit that if I were to date, the woman would have to be significantly more attractive than me. I would then try to compensate with my sparkling wit and personality.
I still have blind dating wounds from 40 years ago, as painful as though they happened last night. At the time, I was dating a very nice looking lady, but I was having a bit of the itch. Just at that time, a coworker asked me if I wanted to join in an evening of fun with her cousin at her house.
I said sure.
Oh man, what a mistake.
First, my regular girl friend wanted to know why I’m not available on Friday night. So I come clean, and she gets pissed. I tell her it will only be this once, not realizing how true that would be.
I put a little extra effort into preparing for this date. A new razor blade, a few extra swipes of the speed stick, shine the old shoes.
I show up at the house with alacrity, and knock on the door. The door opens, and sitting before me is a beach ball with a head of gray hair. I laughingly realize that this can’t be my date, so I look about, and no one else is there except for the hosts. The beach ball is mine.
Always a gentleman, I go through the mandatory introductory stuff. Beachball is stuffing her face with cheese cubes. When I asked her what she does for a living, she says “groof spoo skrak.” More cheese cubes sucked in at the speed of fat.
A bit of chatter over a glass of wine, then dinner. Beachball sucks down the pot roast and potatoes like a 68 Hoover. Huge slices of apple pie and ice cream are served for dessert, and beachball asked for seconds.
After dinner, Jean, the hostess, suggest we all take a ride to Hondo’s bar and grill. I am paralyzed with panic. Hondo’s is the place where all my friends go on Friday night. To show up with Beachball would be incredibly, stupefyingly awful. They wouldn’t say much at the site, but they all would say plenty in the weeks ahead. The only good part is that social media hadn’t been invented yet.
I’m mopping sweat off my brow, what can I do to keep this bizarre party from going to Hondo’s?
“Nobody goes to Hondo’s anymore,” I say. ” Let’s go bowling!”
With great, great relief, they agree to go bowling. I don’t know f’ing anyone who goes bowling. No one will recognize me.
To be honest, I hate bowling. But that night, I loved bowling with a passion.
The rest of the evening is survivable-we return to the house, I give Beachball a hearty handshake, I head home.
Later that week, host Jean calls and says something to the effect of doing it again.
I beg off, claiming a case of terminal crabs, but thank her profusely for a fine time.
I vow to never go on a blind date again.
And I didn’t.