First Dates Are a Special Kind of Hell

I’m convinced hell exists within the geographic boundaries of a first date.

Does anyone on this planet actually feel comfortable during them? I’ve seen people relax during TSA pat-downs more than during a first dinner with a stranger.

For me, the ritual always begins the same way: a stomach full of anxious butterflies, outfit changes that escalate from “effortless chic” to “I should probably just stay home,” and then a quiet march to a restaurant where I sit across from a man I barely know and pretend this is normal human behavior.

Back when I was actively dating, there was no digital world. No swiping. No algorithm performing emotional background checks. If you wanted to meet someone, you had to physically enter society like a Victorian explorer and hope not to be emotionally shipwrecked.

I used to think romance meant coffee shops, grocery store produce aisles, or friends setting me up with “a great guy from work,” which is always code for, “We have very low confidence in this, but good luck.”

When those noble methods failed, my search took a turn into the absurd.

Desperation, after all, comes in many forms.

I actually started attending Jewish and Catholic singles dances — despite being a devout atheist. My reasoning was simple: if God wasn’t going to help me find a partner, maybe a church basement or synagogue social hall would at least provide snacks and low expectations.

But whether the introduction happened at a neighborhood happy hour, a well-meaning setup, or a religious mixer, the destination was always the same: sitting across from a stranger while slowly drowning in polite conversation.

You know the script. The dreaded first-date interview that insists it is not, in fact, an interview.

“What are your hobbies? What kind of food do you like? What do you do for fun?”

We toss out these deeply uninspired questions like emotional fishing lines, hoping something alive will bite while pretending we’re having a wonderful time.

Don’t get me wrong — I love being in a relationship.

Getting there, however, feels like an endurance sport with appetizers.

And I’ll admit something about myself: I’m quick to judge. Which means many men never make it past the first date. Some don’t even make it past the first five minutes of me deciding whether I can tolerate their chewing patterns.

One man I spoke to at a bar was eating nuts. Every time he talked, a fragment launched from his mouth like a tiny edible projectile. I found myself subtly dodging mid-conversation, like I was trapped in a low-budget action film called Guardians of the Awkwardness.

I excused myself to the restroom and simply… relocated my entire future away from him.

Technically not a date. More of a public-service reminder that attraction is fragile.

But the official dates weren’t much better.

Once, I went out with a man who believed valet rules were more like valet suggestions. He tried to force his car into a reserved space while the attendant physically attempted to stop him.

In the process, my date rolled over the poor man’s foot.

The valet hit the hood of the car.

My date responded by pulling out a tire iron.

Yes, the police came.

Yes, he called me for a second date afterward.

And no, I did not attend what would have been Date Two: The Sequel Nobody Asked For.

Then there was the case of plumber’s butt.

People told me I was too picky, so I agreed to date someone I wouldn’t normally choose. He took me bowling, which already felt like a neutral decision at best.

His pants were extremely optimistic.

Every time he threw a ball, his waistband surrendered a little more of its dignity. By the third frame, I had learned more about him than I ever intended.

He did not get a second date.

I did, however, gain a new appreciation for properly fitted belts.

Then there was the exception to my judgmental rule — mainly because he was unbelievably charming. Magnetic. Effortless. The kind of man who makes you forget you ever had standards, which is often the first warning sign.

He was so charming, in fact, that I ignored things like his enthusiastic eye-tracking of every waitress who walked by. At one point I actually had to snap my fingers in front of his face like he was a malfunctioning Victorian gentleman.

Instead of leaving — as I had wisely done with others — I stayed.

I dated him.

I made excuses.

I participated in the ancient tradition of confusing charm with character until reality eventually filed an appeal and won.

Fast forward to today. I’m in my late sixties, I have two wonderful children, and I am officially closed for business in the romance department.

But here’s the funniest part:

I get hit on more now than I ever did during my actual dating years.

Apparently, the Menopause Gods decided I was owed compensation. My hormones went rogue, and my body responded like it was trying to win an entirely different competition — most notably by promoting me from a 32B to a 34DD without so much as a committee meeting.

Do I hide them?

Absolutely not.

I dress for full attention.

And yes, I get it.

But I am done.

I’ve done my time. I’ve survived tire irons, flying nuts, wandering eyes, and enough red flags to furnish a small parade.

I came out the other side not looking for romance, but for peace.

And I am blissfully, beautifully single.

Frankly, no amount of male enthusiasm — cardiac or otherwise — is changing that anytime soon.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.