If you’re single you’ve probably considered going on a blind date. But where to find someone? That’s where my new favorite mobile dating app Tinder comes in. So far I’ve been on six Tinder dates—obviously all “blind.” This got me thinking…are there similarities amongst every blind date?
Yes, of course. Here are my observations, obviously from the female perspective.
Every blind date starts out the same: walking in to find Mr. Wonderful (hint: he’s probably posted up at the bar, praying you’re not the 400-pounder who just walked in). This is the weirdest part about a blind date—spotting the guy. It’s like seeing a celebrity in person. He is either smaller or bigger than you pictured, and immediately you realize you expected him to be in the same outfit he’s wearing in his picture—similar to how a cartoon character never changes clothes. Like, what the hell? Where is your blue-checkered Brooks Brothers button down?
Blind date certainty: you will both laugh nervously and insist you have never done something so crazy, as if going on a blind date is the social equivalent of blowing your life savings on prostitutes and airplane-sized bottles of Midori. 99% of the time this is BS. It is simply a tactic we use to save face that our desperation has lead us to skipping “The Bachelor” to socialize with a complete and utter stranger.
You’ve now come to the point where you have to choose a drink. I have a theory on this—guys, the only acceptable drinks are beer or a non-craft cocktail. Under no circumstances should you order something involving egg whites or requiring bodybuilder-grade strength from the bartender to concoct. Girls, order anything but white wine. Or, order the wine, but guys, heed my warning: there is a strong correlation between females who order white wine on dates and VERY BORING sex. These are the same girls who, down the line, will bankrupt you by habitually ordering a Starbucks drink with a name longer than Kim Jong Il’s funeral procession.
Around this time your date will notice the menu and ask if you’re hungry. Oh, God. Is there anything worse than choosing something off a menu on a first date? Good date spots seem to always feature a plethora of stuff white people like-items like “Artisanal Pulled Pork Nachos” and “Organic Fried Pickles.” Both people want these tasty items, but neither will suggest ordering them for fear of looking like a slovenly pig. Far safer to order something no one wants but is easy to eat, like a plate of air with a lemon wedge.
Eventually the bartender will sense you are about to fall off your stool from boredom or drunkenness and bring the bill. If the guy you are with is worth a damn he will immediately grab it, saving you the awkward “fake purse grab.” If he allows you to split the bill, or worse, pay for the entire thing, plan on never seeing him again or prepare for a life of feminist misery in which you are expected to breastfeed your children and fight off a rapist while heading a Fortune 500 company. Your husband will be at home, not knowing how to fix anything in your house.
The end of the date has come and you can now retire to your boudoir. Oh, wait. Not so fast. Time for the worst part of the date: the goodbye. Personally, I see nothing wrong with a goodnight kiss, followed by a solo trip to McDonald’s because OMG YOU ARE SO FREAKING HUNGRY!