Just as I think I have been stood up, a lone chap arrives, clad in a lime-green anorak, looking anxious and slighter in stature than I was expecting. The barman points me out, and Home Boy steps up and greets me confidently with a kiss on the cheek. He's a bit on the skinny side, but not bad at all.
Anyone who has tried it knows it can be a unique form of un-fun. You start with a shiny optimism which you later recall with hollow mirth, as you become hardened to the God-awful chore of yet another "date" of jaw-dropping hideousness, later to provide grist to the entertainment mill for convulsed friends.
Do you have info to share with HuffPost reporters? Here’s how.
Salon.com recently posted an excerpt from my new book, 'Highs in the Low Fifties: How I Stumbled Through the Joys of Single Living.' It comes from the end of the book and describes the last date I went on before realizing that the manhunt was getting me nowhere. It was with a guy who started the evening by telling me that he was jobless, homeless, penniless and living with his mom.