I remember the first time I thought about ordering a date. A decade ago, the prevalent mindset was that there must be something seriously wrong with someone who would resort to electronic remedies to locate love. That pretty much described me. I had been single for two years and as far as I could tell, the supply of men was shut up tighter than the city of Jericho.
"I'll take
the Christian low-fat combo
and super-sized the bank account,
please."
Outside of work, my daily haunts included La Petite Academy and Wal-Mart. Even though the selection of bachelors at La Petite was enormous, most of the boys were still being bottle-fed. So in desperation, I brushed up on my Bambi-eyed routine and hung out in the automotive section at Wal-Mart, asking cute guys for advice on which oil grade to select. The first guy I approached had fantastic hair, fabulous shoes and most importantly—no ring. How was I supposed to know he was married and his wife was looking at light bulbs on the next row? Her cart came squealing around the corner so fast she accidentally knocked over the end cap display of wood-grained toilet seats. I calmly strolled off, waited for the clean up on Aisle 10 and promptly came back for my second victim.
I was just about to casually smile at my next unsuspecting prey when the exasperated associate at the counter who had just reconstructed lavatory lane pointed to the “No Solicitation” sign. “I guess I’ll just have to find another Wal-Mart.” I muttered as I sauntered off with my cart full of 5W-30 Pennzoil.
It was about this time that I noticed Julie at work. This perky little anorexic thing had a lunch date nearly every day. Of course it probably had a lot to do with the fact that she was young, blonde and perfect.
“Julie, where are you meeting all these guys?”
“I joined a Christian dating service,” she gushed. “You should try it. It’s very affordable and they even have men your age, too.”
How thoughtful.
Turned out, Julie’s definition of affordable amounted to $159 for a monthly membership fee.
“Try The Gazette,” whispered my eavesdropping co-worker. “You can place an ad for only $29.95.”
What have I got to lose? I thought as I dialed the number.
“I’m sure you will be very happy with the results.” The rep assured me. “Most professionals today are too busy to meet other singles.”
It was probably just a canned speech designed to help me justify my departure from normal dating venues, but she did have a point.
Good-bye Wal-Mart and La Petite. I’m moving on! Male order delivery took on a whole new meaning to me that day.
I couldn’t wait until The Single’s Gazette came out. Although its target market was a trendy young crowd who frequented cigar lounges and sushi bars, I had installed spyware: The “official initial” for Christian in SWCF was sure to block any malicious tarot card enthusiasts.
Well, apparently, the “C” was extremely effective. I didn’t get one call. Meanwhile, the men waiting in line for Julie had to take a number. That’s when I heard a radio commercial advertising the Twister Love Line. They say it’s darkest before the dawn.
Before computer dating services evolved, telephone dating services were a marvel of technological advancement. By selecting one, two, or three on my telephone keypad, I could indicate my preference for a variety of features. This was a regular Build-a-Date workshop. I ordered a Christian low-fat combo and super-sized the bank account.
I couldn’t get home fast enough the next day. I dialed the Twister Love Line and entered my pin number. The cheery voice announced that I had “two new dates.”
Halleluiah, it’s raining men!
After I listened to each potential date give his personal sales pitch in a prerecorded voice introduction, I was advised that if I was interested, I could leave a call- back number. Unfortunately, the bios sounded more enticing than the intros. A month went by and still no catch of the day. I was growing weary in well doing and was just about to delete the entire campaign when finally I got a bite. He was 6’2”, with blond hair and blue eyes. My only reservation was that his favorite hobby was ice skating.
Was I expected to participate? Sure, waltzing on the ice sounded romantic, but for someone with about as much grace as a hippo on a high wire, anything involving balance on a razor thin blade could be nothing short of humiliating. At this point, however, all remaining logic had evaporated and I left a message. “John” called a few days later. Naturally, he insisted that we meet at Iceland for an afternoon skating session.
As I entered the rink on Saturday, I thought I must have completely lost it. The teen scene was complete with the Spice Girls jamming over the jukebox.
What had I gotten myself into? I thought. This is so high school. Was I really meeting a guy at the rink? Is this the only place I can find a date? I felt more awkward than a cat in a swimming pool, but I scanned the crowd trying to appear like I belonged. Hmm, was that him over there? I gave a slight smile and nod in case it was John.
“And now it’s time for couple’s skate,” blasted the voice over the intercom.
The mystery man started his approach. As he drew closer, I felt as frozen as the ice on the rink. Oh, my gosh. Please, no!
His exuberant smile flashed a missing front tooth and his unbuttoned coat revealed a never-ending sea of denim. The loose fitting jeans that I had assumed were Lucky brand were actually overalls.
John had described himself as being “semi”-fashion conscious and he certainly didn’t say anything about being dentally challenged. By now I was internally scolding myself. You know better than to trust a guy’s description of himself. They always exaggerate! What were you thinking? How did he get matched with me? I selected Caucasian, not Redneck.
All of a sudden, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
Relieved at the opportunity to purposely avoid the “oncoming traffic”, I whirled around.
My gaze locked with the chisel-cheeked, blue-eyed wonder towering before me. "Is your name Christy?"
“Yes…,” I stammered, trying to conceal my delight. “Are you...John?”
His eyes twinkled as he nodded his head and extended his hand to shake mine.
Bingo. My male order delivery had finally arrived. Maybe there is a FedEx in heaven after all. And hopefully, they packed the bubble wrap. I may need some padding for my behind.