Bachelor #57

Believe it or not, the part I hate the most about dating isn't the really bad dates. Those are painful to be sure, but easy. Thanks, but no thanks. Make a clean break and never look back.

But what I hate the most are the dates about which both the best and the worst I can say is "OK." Bachelor #57 was OK. Nothing more, nothing less. I can't mock him for his height (6"1), his bad grammar, (although I'm pretty sure he said "real-a-ter" instead of "realtor") his poor grooming (hair only where appropriate) or his laughable wardrobe choices (although in retrospect his clothing was so bland and safe I can't actually recall it). On the other hand, he was nice, but not particularly funny. He was easy enough to talk to, but not especially interesting. He was in good shape and decent looking, but I can't say I found myself attracted.

The problem is, he's a perfectly nice guy. Isn't it awful? Can you think of anything worse? OK, I'm sure there are lots of women -- rational, intelligent women destined to live happily married lives -- who would be thrilled to meet a decent, nice, fit, gainfully employed (though I wouldn't go all the way to successful), reasonably attractive man who made no secret about his level of interest. But not me. I am bored to tears by nice. I hate simple, plain, OK. I want biting wit. I want clever banter. I want subtle but undeniable flirtation. I know it's unrealistic to be wowed on a first date, but how about intrigued? Even a little bit? Is mildly intrigued really too much to ask? The only thing I felt with Bachelor #57 was an overwhelming indifference. Go out again? OK. Sure. Why not. Whatever. Never see you again? OK. Sure. That's fine too.

And this, in a nutshell, is why I will be blogging about bad dates from the old age home.

Next.