Rule 7: Don’t text or call your date more than once on the actual day of the date.
Rule 8: Ask your date a very minimum of ten questions about herself, thus making your date feel you’re interested in her.
Rule 9: Don’t EVER, EVER look at any other attractive women during the date.
Rule 10: Always smile and laugh, thereby creating a fun vibe between you and your date.
Georgie Johnson promised himself he’d be a non-singleton by age forty; he was a few months shy of that birthday, and long-term relationship success still eluded him.
His twenties and thirties were spent going on date after date after date, only two of them progressing to very short-term relationships, and zero one-night stands.
He was one of the few remaining singletons in his peer group. It didn’t bother him; everyone had their own path to follow.
His years of dating had handed him a few war wounds: a plate of spaghetti shoved in his face (they had far different political views), and one woman (who had very recently taken up self-defense classes) introduced her fist to his nose.
But Georgie called himself a “firm believer,” and people like him kept the faith alive that it would all work out in the end. He viewed life as a series of ups and downs—bumps and bruises—which everyone had to experience.
Georgie had avoided the co-worker dating path, had seen it end very unfavourably more than a few times, kind of like a nuclear bomb going off. The office setting became drastically uncomfortable after a fight or break-up. People liked to gossip. In his opinion, it was best to avoid the whole scene. It was his version of stress relief.
He tried the recreational sports leagues but that didn’t pan out. He had never been the competitive sort and some of the women…well…truthfully, they had nearly left him with emotional scarring. The intensity of some people, dear lord.
Cooking lessons had been another solid attempt, but it also ended in a dismal failure when he accidentally lit his pasta dish on fire. The instructor, in the politest way possible, asked—begged—him to never return.
He tried acting classes (he’d been told by a friend that some women love the thrill of character creation), but after four sessions it came to an abrupt end when he could only remember three lines of dialogue at any one time—it was brutal, and comical, attempting monologues.
In the end, he resorted to the world of OLD—online dating—in the hope that the online stratosphere would be the answer. Welcome to the firestorm, but not every time.
Georgie had lost track of how many OLD dates he had gone on. A dozen? Two dozen? Maybe it was closing in on three dozen. He hoped he hadn’t broken the fifty mark. If he had, it seemed a tad sad and pathetic. And if so, it meant he had become a serial dater who couldn’t seal the deal.
He was about to embark on another attempt—number . . . well, he’d lost count.
This time it was Samantha Booker, age thirty-five, a woman he’d crossed paths with through the magical online dating world of Match.com. After a few weeks of sending online messages back and forth, Georgie was beginning to see her as more of a pen pal than an in-person dating option. Finally, he just put it out there, messaging: Would you like to have dinner?
It provided Samantha with an easy out. She could simply reply, “No, I’m not interested,” or choose the “ghosting” tactic, suddenly ending all communication and vanishing into thin air. He found the ghosting treatment could sting but only for a brief period, and then the person was forgotten.
Georgie felt that asking a woman out was akin to answering a true or false question—you had a fifty per cent chance of sucking and getting it wrong. In dating, the FALSE answer meant you were slammed with the big rejection, and TRUE meant you had been given the green light. Samantha gave the green light.
And now the big moment was near, it was Friday and their night out approached. The date was simple—dinner at Betty’s Bistro. He didn’t like to plan elaborate first dates due to the fact it could be money spent on a dead end.
Earlier, Georgie had seriously considered calling Samantha’s cell to see if they were still on for this evening, but he abandoned the idea. Checking in violated Rule 7, making you seem desperate and needy, and a big no-no in the world of dating.
Georgie glanced at his iPhone on the bathroom vanity. It read 6:16 p.m. He checked himself in the mirror, making sure nothing was out of place—first impressions were extremely important, and one had to be appealing to the eyes.
His wardrobe of choice was simple but aesthetically pleasing: fitted black jeans with a navy blue, long-sleeve, collared shirt. He did his best not to overdress and give the impression of trying too hard.
Lastly, he checked his teeth for food debris decorating his off-whitish pearls. There’s nothing like saying “hello” with visual evidence of your last meal in your mouth. It made a man look like an ogre.
The digital display on his cell now read 6:19 p.m. Showtime!
Georgie arrived at Betty’s Bistro at 6:45 p.m. for his 8 p.m. date, well ahead of schedule, which was perfect. It kept him in line with Rule 4: “Don’t EVER be late.”
The hostess—a woman with a square physique who Georgie calculated had leg muscles double the size of his—led Georgie to a booth in a far corner of the restaurant. Georgie was positive her name wasn’t Betty, a name he felt was reserved for less physically intimidating women.
A few minutes later a waiter came by and asked if he would like anything to drink. Georgie requested a glass of water and informed the waiter he was expecting company. With the glass of water and ice delivered, Georgie made sure to take tiny sips, limiting his liquid intake and not breaking Rule 5: “Watch liquid consumption.” Ingest too much liquid and you risk spending a large portion of the date commiserating with a urinal.
Georgie observed his current environment. He did a quick headcount: less than twenty patrons. That was positive since more people increased the possibility of distractions during the date. He took notice of the noise level: it was relatively quiet. This was also a positive. A greater noise decibel can make it a struggle to hear your date. Straining to hear your date can be exhausting over time.
He took another sip of water and checked his phone. He reached into his pants pocket for the case with his reading glasses, but it wasn’t there. He must have left his reading glasses at home. Or did he? He couldn’t remember.
On his iPhone, Georgie struggled to read the text thread between him and Samantha, and could only make out bits and pieces. His heart skipped a beat, and he had a massive “Oh dang!” moment. There were two Betty’s Bistro locations in the city! Somehow, Georgie got his wires crossed and showed up at the wrong Betty’s Bistro. The one where he should be was on the other side of the city.
“Holy moly, dear lordy!” Georgie erupted, loud enough to make a couple of patrons look his way. He yanked himself out of the booth, sending his glass of water crashing to the floor. That was the least of Georgie’s problems. From the stress, he let loose a heck of a very audible anal eruption as he made his way out of the restaurant. His digestive system and bowels, unfortunately, become a little too loose during moments of stress.
He jumped into his 2015 Honda Civic, blue with flame decals on the hood, making every second matter. He started up the car and peeled out of the parking lot, leaving a couple of skid marks behind. He reminded himself of Rule 1: “Minimize pre-date anxiety.” He wasn’t doing well on that one now. He took large breaths. The breathing technique helped calm his fraying nerves, not a hundred per cent but it would have to do.
Seeing the minutes pass, Georgie forced himself to not be heavy-footed with the gas pedal. That could lead to speeding, which could lead to being pulled over, which could lead to dealing with law enforcement, which could lead to breaking Rule 6: “Avoid run-ins with the police.”
He kept up with deep breathing the entire drive. He needed it.
He made good time, arriving with minutes to spare before the official 8:00 p.m. meeting time. When he pulled into the parking lot of the correct Betty’s Bistro, as if to celebrate, he let go another arse-bomb. The fresh air that filled his lungs when he opened the door was a godsend. He got a seat inside and ordered another glass of water, still limiting himself to strategic sips. It paid to play it smart.
Nearing the age of forty, after countless dates, one would think the “dating nervous jitters” would be no more. Not so. They were always present on the first date. He assumed it was from having to present an image of your best self, or a reasonable facsimile, to land a second date, something he had great difficulty with over the years.
Georgie checked his phone, with slightly blurry vision, and saw the time was 8:01 p.m. The digital number display changes to 8:02 p.m. Hmmm, this isn’t a positive sign. She’s late. Doesn’t she know the rule book?
He really, really would like to send Samantha a text but restrained himself. The rule book must be followed. He can’t look desperate and needy. That would be a complete turn-off.
Finally, at 8:05 p.m., a woman, who looked to be in her thirties, with shoulder-length brown hair, entered the restaurant. Because Georgie sat near the entrance, he easily saw her and made eye contact.
Georgie tried to remember Samantha’s dating profile and the five pictures she’d posted. This must be her. It was the way you found your online dates, by the person walking in with the expectant look on their face. She saw it too. She was coming his way. Yes, it was her.
Georgie slipped out of the booth, rose to his feet and extended his right arm. The woman acknowledged the gesture and took his hand. Georgie made sure not to grip her hand too tight; an injured hand would be a terrible way to start a date. Neither did he want to hold her hand too loosely. A limp hand didn’t exactly scream masculinity. The formal greeting was completed.
“Sit down,” Georgie said.
She gave him a weird look. Georgie quickly realized why. He had forgotten to say the magic word: “please.” He reminded himself to calm down and kill his anxiety. It’s just a date, a simple date. He corrected himself: “Please, have a seat.” She cracked a tiny smile. The smile helped Georgie relax.
They sat down at the same time.
Now, it was time for the conversation part of the evening. Georgie remembered another rule—Rule 8: “Ask your date a very minimum of ten questions about herself, thus making your date feel you’re interested in her.” He started off simple, not risking coming on too strong. “How was your drive here?”
“It was fine, thank you. How was yours?”
“Fine.” That was quick. He was down to nine questions, but then so was she. Georgie made a hard decision not to tell her how he had nearly gassed himself when he pulled into the parking lot. Confessions about flatulence on a first date could dampen the romance. The second or third date, when both parties knew each other better, sure. But not the first. “It was fine. I listened to music,” he said. He gave her an enthusiastic grin, hoping to make her feel at ease. “Do you like music?”
“I love music. I’m a huge fan of—"
“Let me guess. Taylor Swift,” he mansplained. “I understand. She’s everywhere right now, and you’re a woman in your thirties, a large demographic of her fan base.” So far, he’d asked two questions and answered one of them. He needed to get in a few more. “What’s your favourite song of hers?”
She gave him a peculiar look. “I…don’t have one. I don’t listen to her.”
Georgie remembered Rule 10: “Always smile and laugh, thereby creating a fun vibe between you and your date.” His lips curled upward into the largest grin he could muster, putting his clean teeth on display. He followed it up by unleashing a wail of laughter, hoping it didn’t sound too fake. What he was laughing about, he had no idea, and neither did she.
The woman shifted her body, pushing herself deeper into the rear cushion of the booth.
Georgie cut the laughter as fast as it had started. “That’s funny. Most women in their thirties listen to Taylor.”
“That’s very much a blanket statement. Do you listen to her?”
It didn’t take Georgie long to answer. He couldn’t think of a single Taylor song. “No.” He spit out another question. “Do you like sports?”
“I watch hockey once in a while. You?”
“I don’t play or watch sports, but I’ll listen to football games.”
“Listen?”
“On the radio, I listen.” He went for question four. “Do your kids watch sports?”
“My kids? I don’t have kids.”
“I mean your students. A lot of high schoolers like sports. What sports do they watch?” Good, he’d just asked question six of ten. An attractive woman in a red dress hugging her figure was coming towards their table. Georgie quickly remembered Rule 9: “Don’t EVER, EVER look at other attractive women during the date.” Why? You risk offending your current date. Georgie dropped his eyes to the table, holding them there against their will as “red dress” walked by. Only when she was past did Georgie lookup.
His date looked very confused. “I don’t have students. I’m not a teacher. Your name is Ethan, correct?”
Well, this was a new one. Georgie stared at her dumbfounded. “Ethan?”
The woman shifted in her seat uncomfortably.“Yes, Ethan. Please, tell me you’re Ethan.”
“I can be Ethan,” said Georgie. He had never role-played on a date before, but there was a first time for everything. He went for question number seven. “Do you want me to be Ethan?”
“You’re not Ethan, are you?”
“No, but I can be.” And here came question number eight. This was going fast. “Is he a doctor? If he is, I can try to sound really intelligent. Like I can try to talk about cardiac arrest or something.”
The woman’s mouth dropped. A few seconds of silence passed. “I need to use the washroom,” she said. She slid out of the booth as fast as she could, taking her purse with her.
Georgie called out to her. “Remember to wash your hands! Public washrooms are germ-infested!” He ignored the strange looks of people sitting at the table on his left.
Georgie patiently waited for his date to return, but when he looked out the window to his right he saw her climb into a black Ford Escape, fire it up, and bolt out of the parking lot.
“What in the gosh dang…” Seeing her leave, Georgie was ninety-five per cent sure his date wasn’t returning; that still left a five percent possibility she might.
He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw a text come through. He squinted hard. It looked to be from Samantha—the real Samantha.
Without his reading glasses, the text was a struggle to read, but Georgie managed. Where are you? I’m at Betty’s Bistro. If you’re not here in ten minutes, I’m gone!
“What the heck,” he mumbled to himself. He took a moment to wade through all the confusion. It hit him like a slap across the face. There was a third Betty’s Bistro on the west side of the city.
Georgie put his phone down on the table, gracefully accepting defeat. There was no way he could be there in ten minutes. The drive was a good thirty, and that was with no traffic issues.
I’ll be darned, Georgie thought. What were the chances that two strangers were supposed to meet for a date at the same place—well, what Georgie thought was the right location—at the same time? If he’d only had his reading glasses he could’ve read the text properly at the first Betty’s Bristro location and all would’ve been fine. Welcome to life.
He would have to add another entry to the rule book—Rule 11: “Make sure you meet and sit down with the correct person!”
A waiter came by. Georgie ordered a Diet Coke and told the waiter to keep them coming. He wasn’t worried about drinking too much now. He relaxed in his seat and expelled a long sigh. Oh well, there were “plenty of fish in the sea,” as the saying went. He wouldn’t turn forty for another three months. There was still time. He logged back into his Match.com dating profile and began scrolling, doing his best without his reading glasses.
