I got myself a date through a semi-sketchy online dating service, but I figured it was at the very least worth a shot. The dude didn’t look like a Zombie, which is my number one criteria for online dating, and didn’t look like he had a criminal history.

From here on out, I will refer to him as The Date so as not to confuse you.

 I got to the pre-determined meeting place first and secured a table. Once seated, like any good single girl should do, I called The Date and left a message wondering what he would like to order off the Happy Hour menu. There wasn’t an answer.

I began to suspect that maybe I was the victim of an Internet crime in which someone with malicious intent makes up a fake dating profile for the sole purpose of messing with the person. Just in case that happened, I held my head up high. I thought about the young girl who was a victim to that kind of crime, realized that I understood the risks, and decided that even if he didn’t show up, I would be ok because it was a beautiful day outside and I was sitting on a patio bar sipping a beer.

I wondered whether or not I should file charges if his profile had been created by one of my many nemeses, which was a remote, but distinct probability.

The Date showed up wearing a polyester polo and reeking of cologne and we started talking a bit. I thought the conversation was ok, but wasn’t sure what we thought about each other physically. Soon after, I realized two things: I was a really good listener, but he was a tad too verbose for my liking. Much of what he said was interesting, but he proved the point that it should be illegal for anyone under the age of seventy to tell twenty-minute stories.

I knew The Date wasn’t my type when I didn’t mind him ogling all of the flesh-baring jailbait teeny-boppers who were passing by on the sidewalk.

I started to wonder how I could painlessly end the date. Briefly, I considered slipping out through the side door and skipping down the street, but knew that my conscience would never allow it because The Date was truthfully a nice guy.

I escaped to the restroom during one of the few lulls in the conversation to phone a friend to get her opinion on how to end the date. She advised me that the correct answer was c.) Tell him I was tired and that it was nice to have met him.

I trudged back to the table trying to look as tired as I felt. I followed through on her plan, and he admitted that I did look tired, which I took as an unflattering comment. He asked when would be a better day for me to meet him and asked if I wanted to walk around a bit.

I knew it wasn’t going to go any further, so I went home alone. Although the date didn’t go well, I’m proud of myself for getting myself out there again.

DISCLAIMER: The Date fortunately did not look like the above-pictured man.