Blind dating is an extreme sport; sort of like bungee jumping off the CN Tower. Some people like the feeling that they are plunging to their deaths, but I don't. In fact, I don't even do yoga because of the alternate nostril breathing that it entails. What if one nostril plugged up? So what possessed me to go out with someone I had never met? Well, I'll tell you: desperation. Bone-chilling post-divorce desperation. My best friend, Sal, told me she knew this intelligent guy she could hook me up with. And when he wrote to me, I had to agree. He gave good e-mail. There was something about the font he chose that told me he was a sensitive man. We decided to meet.
Outside the café, I checked my lipstick. There in the reflection in the window was my mother's face staring back at me. When did I become host to her face? I was even holding my purse like her, up around my bra line. I then looked at my backside and thought, I hope he doesn't think I'm fat, because this is me, thin. I hadn't even met the guy and already I felt inadequate. Do men do this? I've never seen a self-help section for men in the bookstore. There's no book called Men Who Love Too Much, or Men Who Worry About Their Backsides.
Anyway, I made my entrance and we looked at each other like two deer caught in headlights. I could tell that he hated my handbag. Well, I hated his bicycle shorts. Just by the look of him I could tell he was a chaos junkie: someone who thought it would be fun to zip-line above a volcano. After preliminary introductions, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I couldn't parachute out of there because there was no window. (Oh yes, I checked.) So I gave myself a good, stern talking-to – in my mother's voice. If I was going to look like her, I might as well sound like her, too.
When I got back to the table, I found he had ordered me a latte with an extra shot of espresso. Well, that wound me up. I babbled on about the weather, how it rained and then it snowed and I didn't know if I should wear a rain hat or a toque. Have you ever seen a cat just standing there and pawing at a piece of fabric over and over again? That was me. At some point during my scintillating speech about Hurricane Katrina he said he had to go before it started to rain. As he cycled out of my life, I heaved a sigh of relief as I landed safely back in Singleville. No bumps. Just bruised pride.
The next day Sal called me to ask how it went. "Well Sal, it was a lot like Grade 11 – without the lemon gin." She told me there were plenty of fish in the sea. In fact, there is a dating website by that very name. That night I had a dream about swimming with sharks in the middle of a tsunami. Or maybe it was a tidal wave. I always get those two mixed up.
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Deborah Kimmett is a freelance writer who has given up dating for safer pursuits, like cruising nursing homes for a man with a bum hip and a tax shelter.
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