Dances, Personal Ads: Invitation to Disaster
“What is the best way to meet eligible single people?” people ask.
Forget singles’ dances and personal ads, I respond.
Mine is not a popular opinion, but one from which I refuse to budge.
Oh sure, I have heard about people who have met and married through such measures; however, I have never known any of them.
Let’s look at singles’ dances.
First, I don’t do lines. I didn’t even stand in line for newly released blockbusters-to-be like “The Hunt for Red October.” Second, the mere thought of a name tag--”HI! I’m Evan”--disturbs me as much as it blemishes my silks.
But that isn’t the worst part.
Singles’ dances are so obvious. Everybody knows that everybody else is there for the same purpose. “But that’s good!” you say.
Bad, I say.
Being on display makes me feel like a performing seal. Devotees insist that these dances are an effective way to meet people who are serious about relationships, and much better than bars.
Why? I ask.
Liquor is served at these events, they have music. These dances seem like just another version of singles’ bars to me.
The only difference is that the amount of polyester per square inch is about 10,000 times greater at a singles’ dance than in a standard bar.
A few months ago, I toured the singles’ dance scene as research for this column. There is a dance or group for virtually every hobby or interest. There are dances for skiers, for joggers, camera buffs, people who like to be in the buff.
Recycling? Environmentalists could take lessons from these people. If you meet Jack or Jill at the Singles-Dance-Exclusively-For-Whale-Watchers on Friday night, chances are good that you will see him or her again the next night at the Singles-Who-Bowl-Left-Handed-dance. Personally, I am waiting for the annual Singles-Who-Ride-Unicycles-in-Tutus dance.
The opening lines are gems too. “Didn’t I see you at the ‘Overcoming-Indecision-and-Possibly-Finding-Love-seminar?’ ” Or another personal favorite, “Boy, you can really pack away those pizza rolls!”
Personal ads are the same story.
Everyone sounds so perfect. “Glenn Close look-alike seeks her Michael Douglas.” Everyone is slender and fit and earns oodles of moolah.
These characters no doubt come from the same mystical place where the Pepperidge Farm man, the Pillsbury Dough Boy and Mrs. Butterworth reside.
My brush with the personals happened a decade ago, but the experience will be forever emblazoned in my memory. The ad read: “Handsome, successful psychologist, Ph.D., published author with lovely hilltop home in Hollywood Hills, seeks bright, attractive woman between 30-40 with great sense of humor for enduring relationship, marriage.”
He telephoned immediately upon receiving my response. We talked for two hours. He was charming, erudite; this was a love connection. He was affiliated with a major university; I telephoned him at his office to confirm that fact. We set a date.
His car was in the shop so I agreed to pick him up for dinner. His “lovely hilltop home” turned out to be a ramshackle apartment perched precariously on a mound of dirt facing the grimiest part of the San Fernando Valley.
He invited me in. (A word of caution: Never trust a man who says he looks like Charles Bronson) and offered me a glass of wine from a screw-top jug that he served in a jelly glass. His place was junk-infested--old blankets thrown over a sofa that was beyond repair; old magazines and newspapers piled from floor to ceiling; packing boxes stacked everywhere.
“Forgive the mess. I moved not too long ago,” he said.
“Really. When did you move?” I queried.
He scratched his head as he considered the question carefully. “Gee, I guess it has been about two years now.”
Choking down my wine, I began ticking off a list of reasons that would support an unscheduled departure. Just as I was about to utter my exit line, a pretty woman barged through the front door.
She began cursing us in a language completely unfamiliar. Turning her attention to me, she began hurling accusations, while unloading kitchen cabinets. “I don’t even know this man, I swear!” I pleaded.
When she emptied the knife drawer and directed her screamfest to him, I edged my way to the front door and beat a hasty retreat.
Like nearly everything else, if it seems too good to be true, it is.
The next time that gorgeous person in the Jaguar alongside you looks over and smiles, or you’re elbow-to-elbow on an elevator with one, remember: They aren’t real; they’re androids.