I have got a blind date on Friday night.
This disturbing turn of events is the result of my open declaration at work that I was quite content being single, combined with the over enthusiastic Match.com skills of my extremely happily married colleague, Sarah.
I was under the impression that phrases like independent, self sufficient and strong female role model described my lifestyle. Sarah seems to lean toward forlorn, pitiful and lonesome. I can’t figure out if I am offended or touched but I’m willing to bet that if you ask me that question again at about ten past eight on Friday night, I’ll be able to furnish you with a very detailed answer.
Complicating the situation is the fact that all Sarah will tell me about the guy is that he is a banker, is really tall and has his own hair. Further questioning yielded no results and she patiently explained, as if to a ten year old, that getting to know each other is the very purpose of the meet & greet. Apparently if she revealed any more information, it wouldn’t be worth me going at all.
Unless he spends his weekends wearing a cape and fighting crime I can’t imagine how the hobbies of a freakishly tall, middle aged, banker are supposed to make for lively dinner banter but since having standards is the reason I am single in the first place, perhaps it was only a matter of time before I was forced to abandon them entirely.
Rang Friend-Kate when I got home and asked her which would be the most convincing illness to develop at around 5pm on Friday. Friend-Kate wasn’t very sympathetic and gave me a pretty firm lecture about taking risks, expanding my horizons and moving out of my comfort zone.
Friend-Kate accused me of not listening to a word she was saying.
I think I am going to go with a ruptured appendix.