The Dance

Evidently, in the world of eHarmony, an unassisted, independently composed e-mail is fraught with the potential for catastrophy, so they ask you to sign your life away before you can read it. They assume no responsibility for stalkers who may hunt you down on your employer's premises, or scrawl a nasty note on your car with a bar of Ivory Soap when things don't bloom and grow as expected, but they do want you to be forwarned that there are some very real risks to corresponding with a stranger, and take the liberty of enlightening you about protecting your privacy.

It is infuriating in its simplicity. It is like Dating 101 for the Impaired. It is all very cheery and they remain convinced that true love lies just around the corner, they just want you to pick a corner in a familiar, well-lit neighborhood before you go traipsing off all excited and dizzy with the possiblities.

I check that I am fully aware of the risks and dangers of talking to strangers (and hitchhiking, and running with scissors, and swimming within 20 minutes of having eaten, and putting a fork in an electrical socket). I am granted permission to proceed by the man behind the curtain.

I read Jack's email. He continues to sound very nice. Funny. Charming but not in a slick way. Appealing.

I write back. Use a little humor and charm myself.

It is admittedly weird. I know how pen pals must feel. Openly sharing with a perfect stranger.

We are both tap dancing around meeting. Jack wants to skip the phone call and go right for the date. He says since we both think there needs to be chemistry right out of the starting gate, we should dispense with the phone calls and just meet. See if my chemicals like his chemicals. Sounds gross.

No phone call? I am skeptical. He either sounds like Elmer Fudd on the phone or his voice never changed and he Peter Bradys when he speaks. But who am I kidding? I have been known to sound like I ate a box of tacks for breakfast. I have Estelle to thank for that, I am sure. So if we meet before we speak maybe there's a chance he'll be so overwhelmed with my rare beauty and not notice my voice could splinter wood. Fat chance.

We narrow our availability down to two days. I have way more than two days available but I don't want to seem like I have no social life to speak of. Eventually we pick one. I don't care. It's a week night. If I don't have a date I'll probably just mow my lawn.

We narrow it down to two locations. Both are pubs owned by the same guy and both are the same distance from my house. I just have never been to the second one. He'll have home turf advantage.

We establish a time. We're meeting at 6 pm, and I have deftly avoided having to tell him that I am not working.

Now for the outfit.

And the pedicure.

And the eyebrow wax.

And the secret code word that will tell Charlotte that if she does not call 911 at once, I will be featured on a milk carton.

Dating, new millenium style.