Single in Philly: Are You There, Waffles? It’s Me, Christy

From matchmakers to, I set out to chronicle what dating in Philly is like these days. So how did my heart get involved, too?

The next day, Haley, the Great Date Now replacement matchmaker, confirms what I suspected the minute my date jumped in a cab while still en route to my front door: It wasn’t a Great Date for either of us.

There’s very little time to wonder what went wrong, because the next night there’s another date, with Great Date match number two. At this point, after a particularly long day at work, I’m drained. I want nothing more than a bowl of cereal and some Sopranos reruns. I ache for the nights I used to spend with the man who already knew and liked me, where I’d be barefoot, sharing a steak in his kitchen. Right before I turn out the lights and clomp down the stairs in my heels, I jot a note to myself in my notepad: Remember to write about how dating can be so lonely.


THE SECOND GREAT Date date, it turns out, is handsome, mannered and well-spoken, and dinner — and the drinks that follow — is comfortable, and fun. Afterward, he walks me to my door, where we say we’ll do it again sometime. I’m still tired, but I mean it, and I think he does too. (Foxhole Haley, bless her, affirms this when I check in.) The following night, I’m supposed to meet the writer for our rescheduled Monk’s date, but that morning, I open my e-mail to find a note from him:

C- Look I hate to do this but I am going to have to cancel for tonight. Besides the fact that I have had bouts with Migraines all week, I’m thinking I am just not ready to date at this point. I know it’s disappointing now but in the long run it will be best. Good luck to you.

“Are you kidding me?” I scream at my computer. The good news is that I don’t actually care about the writer. I never met him. Still, the swell of resentment — about the assumption I was disappointed, about being blown off twice, about someone trying to end something that hadn’t even begun — fills my throat, and my cheeks flush the way they always do when I’m upset. Clearly, the shield is lying in shards on the floor, and clearly, this is nothing like eating tortillas and chorizo for a week straight. This is my actual life, with actual situations involving actual interactions, and it’s making me wonder how the hell people ever find each other.

Over the weekend, with no dates scheduled, I’m free to catch up on everything I’ve been too busy to do — call the speed-dating guys, e-mail the handful of Match.guys to whom I owe e-mails, follow up with the good Great Date Now guy. I end up doing none of these things, though, because I’m sick of the computer and the sun is out. I sit in the park and call my mom, who listens to my stories, laughs where she’s supposed to, and asks that I please keep an open mind (at least about the nice ones) but also remember not to leave my drink at the table alone (even with the nice ones).