The details are blurry, but I am pretty sure that it was somewhere in the midst of a tumultuous quarter life crisis when I agreed to a blind date arranged by my mother. I’d like to say that I was under the influence of drugs or alcohol when I said yes, but I’m pretty sure I was only under a heavy cloud of worthlessness and self-loathing, the end result of a total breakdown which stemmed from the reality of my pathetic life. It was a confusing time, a sad time, a time when I wanted nothing more than to be married with children like everyone else my age. Instead I lived in a one-bedroom apartment and slept with a drooling golden retriever every night. I didn’t even know how to cook.
The only thing I knew about this guy, besides that my mother was so sure I’d fall instantly in love with him, was that he was the police officer grandson of a friend of my mother’s who liked to gamble on slot machines…in Texas…where gambling is illegal. I was told that Brian, that’s the guy’s name, and his grandma were close, so either he turned a blind eye to her gambling forays or else she was the sneakiest 70-something that I’d never met.
So the night of the blind date arrives and even though I am still in my funk, I am a little excited to be getting out of the house and away from the dating sites, the personal ads, the love line infomercials. I even pick up the half a dozen or so empty cartons of ice cream and the three empty bottles of wine so Brian doesn’t get the impression that I’m a binge eating alcoholic.
Which I am, but he should wait until at least the second date to find that out. I laugh inside at my own little joke. The doorbell rings and I think to myself, “Let the games begin.”