My only blind dates were actually pretty contractual, the “mutual friend” being a dating service (which, I hasten to add, I would never have considered had they not cold-called me at a time when I was a sufficiently desperate, 39-year-old bachelor, with a little bit of spare cash with which to say what the hell).

The first one went pretty much according to your contract, and ended, amicably but by mutual acknowledgement of non-into-ness, right after dinner. Nice young woman, attractive, but let’s face it, a bit too normal.

Then they gave me a card with particulars on a woman describing herself as African-American, 5′11-1/2″, a six-year-old daughter, and into country music and pro wrestling.

Well, that’s hardly how I would have described my own interests, but come what may, I at least had to meet this person! (As it turned out, she was also into books of all kinds, social justice, and lots of other cool stuff). This was also her second card, the first being another white guy who may have been intimidated by her stature. (”This poor guy, I could have eaten him for breakfast,” she reported.) But I was okay with showing up in my own unimposing, ectomorphic 5′9″ frame.

We had lunch, dated, popped the question a year later, had another beautiful daughter, and just celebrated our seventh wedding anniversary. Ya never know.

Thanks for the nostalgic trip to singles-land.

Steve