Dating in the new millennium. (Or….Why I Predict the Human Race Will Disappear Within Three Generations)
So. There I was, sitting with my daughter in the restaurant, chatting. I mentioned something about something incidental and, like sometimes happens, the girl behind the bar chimed in. And that was okay.
I’d talked to her many times before. After all, I’ve only been going to her restaurant since it opened. I’ve always enjoyed her perky personality and sometimes-razor wit. She’s one of those intoxicating types of people that tend to lift the spirits of everyone around them. Thus it was we struck up a conversation about art. She’s a painter, I learn, and has an art show at a local coffeehouse. We make plans to go see said art show today, after which I will cook dinner. (She’s Vegan and thus cannot eat at many restaurants.)
Today, as per her request, I came by the restaurant on my lunch hour. She proceeds to give me instructions to her apartment and tells me what time I should pick her up. Once all of the details are arranged, and just as I’m leaving, one of the older waiters chimes in with a “I can’t believe you just gave someone your address!”
We’ll forego the mention of how easy it would be to find her address via, say, the internet, if I so chose. Forego it in favor of pointing out the absurdity of his fear. I mean do people really expect a serial killer or a stalker to show up at their place of employement and actually go through the motions of asking them out, talking to them, making plans, and bringing a kid along as a diversion? What about the secrecy stalking would require? Isn’t the thrill of stalking in the very essence of doing so while the stalkee doesn’t know the stalker is there? And what if I was a serial killer? How many stupid serial killers have you heard of? Nevermind that it is never the ones you *think* are the serial killers but always instead is the guy or girl who “just seemed so normal!”
Alas, MacGuiver there scared the girl away. We are set now for coffee ‘sometime later in the week’ — at which there will be a chaperone in the form of her younger coworker. (And where, please tell me, is the sense in that? A younger coworker would what, exactly? Fight off the machine gun fire? Distract so her friend could make a quick getaway?)
It just all points to the absurdity of dating in today’s world. How are two people supposed to get to know one another if they are afraid to go to a restaurant or a coffeeshop or to have dinner? I’m not so old that when I was coming up, a good first date was dinner at a restaurant. If you knew the person already, dinner at home was more than appropriate.
Oh well. I choose celibacy. All hail me! I proclaim myself Pope Pontifex Superfluous Maximus, minister to singletons everywhere.
(PS: Sorry for the long time away from the blog. I’ll explain why in a post tomorrow. For now, though, off to hear a choir sing.)