By R. Chase
I have to admit, I have a weakness for dating. The act itself can be slightly addicting. I can only compare it to those ubiquitous lotto scratch-off tickets, displayed so grotesquely in the Speedway checkout line, calling out to me with their endless possibilities of fabulous riches, while I inevitably walk away mildly disappointed with less money in my pocket.
The few thrills of excitement are mostly by attrition, winning the occasional $10 or $20 jackpot that barely makes up for my extensive gambling losses and dirty fingernails from scratching off that nasty silver stuff on the tickets. I am unable, however, to logically calculate all those poor odds in my head and make the rational decision to pass them up when I’m buying snacks at the gas station.
Dating is a lot like those scratch-off tickets to me, and the promise of a fabulous night with a beautiful woman who invites me up for “coffee” with her and her Russian model roommate will forever numb me to the very bland reality of having a ho-hum time and getting a peck on the cheek with the promise of actual lip-to-lip contact after another $100 meal has been deducted from my dwindling bank account.
Romantics will take heart in knowing that meeting the woman of my dreams and falling madly in love with her (or her hot Russian model roommate) would gladly have me retiring from the dating scene forever! It’s not all about sex and games, after all. Ultimately I am dating so I won’t ever have to date again.
Lotto scratch-off tickets, however, do not carry the liabilities of dating and the endless bad possible outcomes, such as having a woman set your car on fire at 2 a.m. with a blowtorch, or waking up naked in a tub of ice with a kidney missing and a brutal hangover. Since I only have two kidneys and I’m still paying off my car loan, I pay serious attention to the darker possibilities.
You have to be careful about who you’re taking on a date, where you take her and who you introduce her to. It’s a dangerous world full of desperate crazy people, and one moment of indiscretion can make you wish you had never laid eyes on that cute girl at Heine Brothers who stabbed you in the leg with a steak knife. But if a desperate crazy woman has never tried to kill you with a printer-fax-copier-scanner in the middle of the night, then you’re just not living on the edge, man. And what fun would that be?
I have returned to my roots, my hometown, after 14 years on the West Coast. I have grown up. So has Louisville. It’s a sophisticated town, and I’m a career-minded successful single man in my late 30s with no children, one long-ago failed marriage and a cat named Grundy who can entertain himself when I travel.
I’m not saying I’m exactly a catch, ladies, I’m just saying I know how to act like one. The worst thing that could happen is being broke and unsatisfied with only one kidney, a scar on my thigh and some serious blowtorch damage to my leather interior. And who hasn’t been there once or twice? Let’s get down to business.