Appalled as I am with Dad and his Personals page, he’s right. I am familiar—unhappily familiar—with the dating scene. Most of those I meet on my online dating site can’t even be bothered to reply to my e-mails. But then, I ignore my share, too.
Never mind the lure of romance, never mind the high of new love. These days, dating is nothing but a sport of procure, dodge, and discard. You have to know how to traffic lightly in disappointment. You have to be able to be both deft and cruel. It has become a kind of social warfare, and for my demographic of baby boomers, the comic narrative of our time. The worse the date is, the better the story value for later.
The weekend after Dad has thrust his personal ads at me, I end up with three dates in one night. Bumper crop on a nice evening in May. I am meeting date number one for a drink at the trendy Bottino in Chelsea. I rush in late. He’s looking at his watch, grim. And cute. Very cute. Soft honey brown hair that I loved in his online profile. And he is better built than I envisioned. Love the blue eyes and white button-down shirt. He doesn’t dress to draw attention to himself, like I do. He knows he doesn’t have to.
“Hi! So sorry I’m late! Been waiting long?”
“Fifteen minutes,” he says.
“I’m so sorry. I’m Bob.”
“John.”
We shake hands. I like him immediately. But even after a drink, I can’t tell if he likes me (later I find out—because I never hear from him again). But hey, no time to dwell tonight. After a half hour I have to say good-bye so I can get uptown to date number two, a setup who is supposed to look like Pete Sampras. And he does. But not in a good way. I down a double Scotch. I’m free to behave poorly now. “Don’t you just love Madison Avenue?” I spout as we pass terriers on leashes and trophy wives on diet pills. “I just find the people are so much better looking up here!” In Central Park, a line of cherry trees is blossoming so extravagantly that I shriek like a girl, “Better than the couture shows in Paris!” Then I have a sneezing fit that leaves me red-eyed, runny-nosed, and spewing obscenities at the trees, as if it were their fault for being in bloom.
A half hour later it’s dinnertime, and I stumble back downtown (heart palpitating from my cocktail of Scotch and Sudafed) to meet bachelor number three. He looks promising there at the sushi bar. Love the rust-colored hair. I walk up to him with real hope in my heart. But wait a minute. I’m not sure, but I think I see love handles beneath that sweater. Just because I have them doesn’t mean anyone else can. No chemistry, no interest. In less than an hour, the date is over, and I’m out the door with nothing to show for all my trouble tonight.
It was just another night that yielded nothing but lower back pain, indigestion, a little pang of loneliness, and then, eventually, as I stomp home with the overly purposeful footsteps of a man who’s had too much to drink, a renewed commitment to being a thriving single person in the most sophisticated city in the world. Of course, it was a little easier being a thriving single person when all my friends were single, too. Now that so many of them are getting hitched and having children, I don’t have as many playmates as I used to. People I know are actually finding meaning and love in their lives.
“How was the date?” Marisa asks later that night.
“You mean dates,” I say. “I don’t know why I bother.”
“Yes, you do, Bob. You want to be in love, don’t you?”
She doesn’t wait for my reply. Her husband is calling on her other line.