Blind Date

 

It was my mother who made me do it. “Look,” she said, “I've got the details for you. What can you lose?”

      Reluctantly I typed in my details onto the screen. The internet dating agency absorbed them hungrily, waiting for more as I gave it the secret, carefully hidden details of my life. In business I feared no one, but this? this was frightening. “What if someone sees it.” I asked.

      “That’s the idea.” Mother replied.

      “Well the least you can do is to let me fill in this form without you looking over my shoulder.” I ventured. “After all; it’s rather private.”

      I could sense her smiling, and the mutter she made as she moved away sounded suspiciously like, “So my little darling thinks there are things I don’t know about.” More audibly I heard, “As you like dear, but don’t let this moment go. You’ve been on your own too long since you lost your partner.”

      “Yes yes yes, I managed as I heard the door to my study gently close.

      “I know she wants what is best for me,” I thought as I composed the words. “but she can be very tiresome.”

 

      Good looking (according to my mother) 47 year old company director. Ex military, widower. House in the country, but no one to share it with; WLTM someone young to . . .

     

      I had read most of the entries on the page and had gradually deciphered the meanings of these strange codes, and the next hour was spent laying myself on the line, exposing myself in intimate detail to the cyber world, deftly playing up those parts about me that seemed to be to my advantage, while either ignoring, or severely playing down certain aspects of my character that were, shall we say, for my eyes only.

      Twenty two years as an army officer, and seven years in the boardroom had made me fully aware of the fine distinction between exaggeration and untruths, and also the difference between lies of fact and lies of omission. Nevertheless to lay it out for all the world to see, was daunting beyond belief, and despite all that experience it was difficult to tread so fine a line.

      “How are you getting on dear.” It was my mother of course, back in my hideaway. “Must dash or your father will be back before I am, and he will be ready for his supper. You know how hungry he gets after his golf. Yours is in the oven. Don’t forget to go down and switch it on.”

      As she spoke she had wandered over to the computer and was scrutinizing my words; looking into my very soul.

      “Are you sure that’s what you want to say?” she looked up. Was it shock or merely surprise I saw? “Where, what’s wrong.”

      “There.” her long slim finger pointed to the screen. “I don’t think everyone will want to know that.”

      “They want the truth don’t they, warts and all?” I said, somewhat defensively, “Anyway I’m not changing anything.”

      “Very well dear, but I can’t imagine who you’re going to end up with. Don’t forget your supper; I’ll lock the door behind me. By dear.”

      A peck on the cheek and she was gone.

      Quiet now, and with no likelihood of further interruptions I returned to the work at hand, reading again my details and rechecking that I had ticked the ‘Yes’ box’s and the ‘No’ box’s and that those which required a X had crosses inserted. No for smoker, Yes for social drinking. No for children and Yes for sexually active (I was tempted to add - though not for quite a while - but thought better of it) Yes for the outdoor life and No for jazz.

      Good looking (according to my mother) 47 year old company director. Ex military, widower. House in the country and good income, but no one to share it with; WLTM someone young to share my good fortune, and to enjoy life’s great adventure. (And so on for a few more lines), and at the end; the last question. Have you remembered to ‘scan in’ a recent photograph. Another Yes.

      It seemed perfectly straight forward, and there seemed to be nothing to explain the parental disapproval. One more quick read, a couple of clicks and it was gone. My fate was now in someone else’s hands, and all I had to do was to wait.

      I didn’t have to wait very long, and in the event I was quite surprised at the response, finishing up with half a dozen very attractive you ladies. Reading their resumes, and trying to make judgements was very difficult but eventually I made my choice, and courtesy of the internet a date was set to meet my new friend.

 

      That was a day I will never forget. I saw her at once, and had no doubt that it was she, and at once I knew that if her personality matched her looks, I had made the right choice.

      “Are you Sylvia?” I asked as I approached holding out my hand in greeting.

      She smiled. A lovely smile “Yes; who are you?”

      “Sam.”

      “Sam?”

      “Yes Sam, we are supposed to meet here.” I gestured upwards, “Under the clock.”

      “Sam?” she asked again, her expression blank, uncomprehending. Now I was feeling very uncomfortable at this curious greeting, while my new ‘friend’ was very quiet. Her broad smile, which a few moments ago had lightened her face was nowhere to be seen.

      “Yes, Sam. Samantha,” I said again almost pleading, “are you not expecting me.?”

      “Yes I am; but no............I think there has been a mistake. Yes I am waiting to meet Sam......but not Samantha. Sam, Samuel I think;  a man.” By now she was as distressed as me.

 

      Mother was waiting when I got back, and saw me crying.

      “Why you can’t find a nice man like every other woman.” she asked, her arms by her side, but rising slightly forward, moving slightly, animated, wanting to hold her daughter, but fearing rejection. “I did warn you but I blame myself; I felt sure you had seen the mistake as well as me. How could you have missed it?”

      “I don’t know mother, I just didn’t see it. I was so agitated with you looking over my shoulder all the time. I thought you were pointing to where it said - My mother thinks I am good looking -”

      “Well; which mother woudn’t? She paused. “ But I mean; you never married yet you described yourself not as a widow; but a widower for gord sake! - and you would insist on sending that picture of yourself in a trousered uniform. No wonder they all thought you were a man.”

      I was still crying when she walked out of the room. Five minutes later she was back. I felt her behind me as she gently kissed my cheek and two arms enfolded me with a soft squeeze. "It'll be better next time." she whispered. "Your dinner's in the oven."