Blind, But Now I See

It holds in its grasp a bank of conflicting connotations: to the wide-eyed co-ed, it entails a trip to Nordstrom for lip gloss and new patent-leather heels. For the mid-life divorcee it requires a babysitter and two week’s notice. For me, it’s come to be a typical Tuesday night.

I leave work in a bustle, checking myself in the rear-view mirror only for as long as it takes to find my key and turn the ignition. A swipe of lip gloss and fingers through my hair between my intermittent shift-changes provide the only primping necessary for the night’s events: The Blind Date.

“I’ve found your soul-mate.”
“You two: I see it happening”
“He’s single. You’re single. It’s just so coincidental!”
“We’ll just set up this casual thing, so you can meet him.”
“Don’t go getting a boyfriend. His divorce is almost final!”
“Really, his speech impediment isn’t bad. You can understand him most the time.”
“Well, what else were you going to do tonight?”

I have yet to uncover the “Find Me a Husband: Reward Offered” flier attached to my chest, and it’s a rare occurrence that I walk the greater Salt Lake area humming “Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match. . .” nonetheless, my knack for being set up has become, by this point, nearly uncanny.

And yet, after seven years of eligible singledom, I feel the time has come to retire this player’s jersey. I gave it all I had, coach. But you’ve had me working so much defense that, well, I have yet to even graze the rim.

It is for the following reasons that I am giving up, officially, on blind dating:

The Age Guage
Blind dating? More like carbon dating. I know I’m not 18 anymore, but I’d like to think I haven’t been let out to spinster pasture either. I used to get offers of, “I have this friend. . .” They have since digressed to “My dad’s business partner. . .” In my mind, there are only two reasons for being set up with the grossly over-aged: 1. You’re desperate. At this point, romantic beggars can’t be choosers.” 2. He’s rich, divorced and only dates 25 year-olds. A strike on both counts, sirs.

The Connection Rejection
Wait, you dated who? This came to a climax a few weeks ago when, on my third date with a July set-up, his roommate came home and in an awkward yet silent moment we came to the sickening realization that we’d had dinner the prior week. Such connections make one horrifically aware of how shallow the dating pool really is.

Baggage Claim
Men, take note: A blind date is not therapy-for-the-price-of-dinner. My listening ear cannot be bartered for two California rolls and a diet coke. Your divorce? No. Your last girlfriend? Zip. Your stalker-like tendencies? Mum.

20,000 Leagues Under . . . ?
Five minutes into the drive to the restaurant and you have the sickening realization: This is what my friends think I deserve. There is no way to dodge the “league” they’ve neatly filed you into. The next two hours involve the painstaking introspection required to find just why your dating rating has slipped three notches.

They say love is blind. Well, my friends, I say dating is not. I’m turning in my stick and my friendly German shepherd for binoculars and Visine: From here on out, feel free to pass me on the right: I no longer have a blind spot.