Dating is Dead
You heard me.
I mean, why even bother? The idea of a date, e. g., going to a movie, dinner or a drag race with a woman has transmogrified into a scary Phillippe Petit-style task. Two people getting together, in search of good times, a few laughs, and perhaps a buss or two. The horror.
No, dating is now a life-and-death experience. It is fraught with seriousness, import and gravitas. And other heavy shit.
Here’s the myth that has destroyed dating:
Men think: She said she would go out with me. She must be really into me.
Women think: This guy asked me out. He wants me to go to bed with him and do unspeakable things.
You’re all wrong. Especially you guys.
Dating used to be a matter of two people getting to know each other. Now, it’s become a daunting task, a time for thrusting (not that kind) and parrying. The preamble to (gasp!) a relationship. Yikes.
Where men err: You’re looking for that total hottie. Even though a clean hoodie is dress-up for you, you’re in a Ponce de Leon search for that swimsuit model. The reality: Said hottie has various and sundry gents fawning over her every day. And these guys are not wearing camouflage.
Where women err: You are too quick to send a guy to Friend Prison. You’ll make up your mind before you get to know him. Okay, he’s fond of backward baseball hats, but you can change that. Face it: A Woman of Substance can change any man.
A few years back, I was invited to a posh affair. Free, luxe food and drink — a payback for some volunteer work. I was in need of some company. At a time before said function, I met a gal at a bar, and we started a chat. Throwing caution to the winds (I usually do much more research), I asked her to go to the party with me.
She: Well, I’d like to go, but it’s not a date.
Me: Okay. Listen, I’ll meet you there. You can leave anytime you like.
She: All right, I’ll go. But it’s not a date.
Me: Fine, it’s not a date.
Okay, I was desperate.
She looked glorious that night. She carried herself with aplomb, meeting, greeting and charming several local big cheeses. You know, the kind of people who wrap paper napkins around their drinks. We danced and laughed, copiously. We even went for a post-party drink. And more laughs. I said to her, “How are you enjoying this not-a-date?” To her credit, she laughed. We parted with a chaste kiss. I never called her again.
The Cure: A Meet-Up
First off, guys: Do some scouting. Where does she hang out? Do you know any of her friends. Women — in addition to 8,294 wonderful things — are tremendous gossipeuses. They can tell you valuable information. And maybe throw you off the track, thus saving you time, money and dashed hopes.
If you’re still undaunted, offer to meet her somewhere. Coffee. A drink. A chat. No, not at your place, you daft tosser. If she demures in the faintest way, that’s your cue to cast your bait elsewhere. The upside: You two can get to know each other better. You’re not painting her into a corner. The assignation might go well enough that you can venture into “D” territory. Or not. You find out she’s a vegan who belongs to a Wiccan cult and sees strange vapors crawling through mail slots.
Watch for a future GFD rambling: When to cut bait.
Caveat Amator: If you propose (okay, bad choice of words) a meet-up and hear the word, “Well — ,” plan your retreat. Studies show that 99.87% of statements from women who begin with this adverb are followed by something resembling one of Dante’s circles. Just saying.
I bid happy non-dating to all genders. Stay apart; become oil tankers that pass in the night. Men: Go watch the game. Women: Go shopping.