An observer of the game of love
by Kate Zimmerman

WHEN it comes to dating, I think of myself the way most Canadians think about war. I prefer not to get embroiled in it but am pleased to play observer from a vast distance. And later on, I'll come in to do the sweeping up. You might suspect that hearing about the budding romances of friends would stir something wistful in my crusty old married heart, the way a romantic comedy gets the eyes tearing up and the nose dripping. But, strange to say, the more I observe those out in the dating world, the happier I am to be hitched.

I admit that they are having a lot more fun than I am. The flattering attentions of someone who actually wants to take you dancing, just because he has not yet learned to remark snidely that you "dance to the beat of a different drummer," are nothing to be sneered at. I know what's what in the world of singletons - after all, I do watch The O.C. I'm aware that dressing up in a designer gown to go to a ball with a hunk who will afterward jump with you into a swimming pool can be exciting, if a waste of a pair of shoes. And after the first few hundred times, I wonder whether it starts to feel routine.

I do recall that having somebody actually care what you looked like was a highlight. In other ways, though, times have changed, as times will, and dating is decidedly different. There's a lot less game-playing, it seems. For instance, in 2005, you don't have to keep haunting the cafeteria where you first noticed your prey and "accidentally" dropping pats of butter in front of him in a path-like formation to you. (By the way, this also works if you want to lure a skunk out of your garage.) Nowadays, people are a tad more direct. Making broad hints via a colluding friend about your availability on prom (or WrestleMania 21) night is no longer necessary, either. You can just "mistakenly" send your blank online calendar for that month to his e-mail address and say with fake shame, "I hope you didn't read it. Did you?" If that fails, you can ask the guy out yourself.

You don't even have to troll for dates in public, if you're the retiring type - or genuinely retired. Instead, you can call up the summary that a person has provided of him- or herself on the Internet and then say "yay" or "nay" with the push of a button. I gather that after you meet your "super-fit, super-fascinating SWM," or "brilliant bodacious bombshell" for the obligatory first date in the neutral environment of a Starbuck's, you get together with your friends to laugh about how little he or she resembled that resumé. I get detailed reports from my friends who can't stand the bar scene and so choose their dates via the web. None of their stories beats one from a single French pal who was mystified when the suave, statuesque slab of 40-year-old beefcake whose photo she had spotted with joy online turned out to be a short, bald, ordinary-looking 65-ish gent. He, in turn, was puzzled by her disappointment. He thought, perhaps, to captivate her with his charm, which I think was on the order of "Voulez-vous couchez avec moi?" "Not this or any other soir," was my buddy's response.

Another chum spent her entire first Internet-inspired date with a stranger watching him yak on the phone as he tied up a business deal. After an hour or so of drinking her latte with only her own increasingly grumpy thoughts for company, she bid the man a curt adieu. If he was trying to impress her with his business acumen, he was barking up the wrong cell-phone. It was his romantic smarts she was checking out, and he rated a big fat zero. From what I understand, the concept of making, then getting ready for, and then going on, a date with a stranger whom you will instantly realize is never going to ignite sparks in you eventually loses its appeal.

Could it be that the old-fashioned way, where the attraction comes first, then the curriculum vitae, wasn't so dumb after all? But that's so old school, few people remember how it worked. So what happens when someone my age (older than 40, younger than 90), fed up with the whiff of "leftovers" that seems to personify Internet dating, actually spies someone she likes in person? Bafflement ensues.

That very thing occurred the other night when a single female mate and I were out for a meal together and spotted an extremely attractive man who was working at a food-related event. He was handsome and chatty and, apparently, good at what he did. No wedding ring, always a plus when a cougar's on the prowl. He was also a good decade younger than my friend, which made us wonder what tricks she should pull out of her hat since of course snagging him was of the essence. In her favour was the fact that she is herself in the food industry and often gets invited to decadent soirees.  She doesn't have to pay for these, and likes to bring tagalongs. If she could offer the seductive allure of a free meal at the same time as she dangled the promise of other pleasures, we reasoned, who could resist?

To warm things up, I suggested, "Maybe you could slip him a couple of raw oysters as a tip." I pictured her shaking hands with the fellow and pressing a couple of moist bivalves into his palm.  "Or, you know, invite him to a lemon gin tasting. He's got to know what that means." She felt this was the right approach. "How long do I have to wait before I mention that I'm taking pole-dancing lessons?" she wondered.

There were quite a few similar jokes exchanged, as we pretended to be members of the Sex and the City demographic. Neither of us was fooling anyone. At long last, we came up with the solution: a little light banter with the fellow, the discovery of something in common, followed by a casual invitation to him to join her in pursuing that common interest. It was a perfect plan. It's a wonder that no one had ever thought of it before.

Writing > Humour