Blind meeting the blind

Once proves a less-than-perfect first-date night

I don’t do blind dates. And not because I’m a prude or have high standards, but because they've always struck me as mutually agreed upon last resorts.

But newly single and freshly burned, I went into Mirvish Theatre’s mass blind date event at Once with trepidation and mild optimism. First dates are unpleasant enough, but knowing you’ll be receiving a thorough once-over as much as you’ll be giving one can make you feel more like a rotating pie on a dessert rack than usual.

Having foregone my jacket in a bid to appear blasé, I shivered in line next to 1,199 desperate men and women queued outside on a chilly Wednesday night. There aren’t many things one wouldn’t do for a free ticket to a Tony Award-winning musical, so I pasted on a faux smile and traipsed inside where I was handed a ticket with my date’s name and a name tag of my own. I debated whether he would attempt to pronounce my name, much less get it right, as I walked to my seat.

Centre, third row, great seats. And — oh! My date. There we are. Right. Hmmm. Nope. But okay. Alright. Fine. Blond with choppy bangs, his glasses, purple corduroy pants and fastened-to-the-top-button-down. A half hour early, he had been waiting with a thick book in his lap. I had a Rory Gilmore on my hands.

I blurted how awkward this was. He mumbled and offered his hand. I shook it. He asked his first question, “Do you like to read?”, the way one might propose marriage — in veiled eagerness and mystified hope. Yes, I love to read. He told me about his depressing novel and his love for Terry Pratchett. I raved about my love for bleak fiction and my distaste for Terry Pratchett.

The one significant criterion in the Mirvish match system had been favourite musicals. His was Les Misérables, mine was The Book of Mormon. A long pause ensued until the musical began.

I found myself quickly investing in the romance of the leads, who much like us, meet at the start of the show. I could understand why this was the musical that warranted a mass blind date. But seeing both bubbly and morose matches around me, and one such woman left jilted in front of me, I could hardly see us all collapsing into some kind of emotional orgy.

But Once is actually quite a funny show, and so I was yanked back into the reality of the night when I noticed my date’s laugh was more of a hiccup — though he “hiccupped” at all the right moments.

The first act wrapped with “Falling Slowly” lovingly wedged inside my head, and a 30-minute intermission began. My brain groaned. I scanned the room at other dates; were they falling in love? What were the odds one would be married by the end of the year, like everyone on my Facebook feed?

But I remained jovial and conversation flowed. He shared “fun trivia”: did you know most staircases are constructed with an odd number of steps to ensure human synchronicity? I began to operate with the quintessential “I’m totally listening” mode — furtive nods, mmhmms, oh reallys, maybe even an inquisitive “You don’t say?” Waiting to reach the bar killed 25 minutes.

He nursed his white wine throughout the second act, while I downed my Guinness before the curtains drew. The second half was melancholic, and I began to feel wistful. Watching the leads fall in love and refuse to succumb to it only added to my frustration. After the initial meet, the tension and trepidation of a blind date are akin to any first date — either immediately regret-

A standing ovation in an emotionally claustrophobic theatre

table or instantly chemical. This was the former.

The musical concluded to a standing ovation in the now emotionally claustrophobic theatre. As my date and I walked out to the lobby for the cast reception, it became evident that many couples had left, either getting lucky or lost. I made a beeline for the bathroom; it’s times like these a smoking habit is useful, as it warrants a socially acceptable escape.

When I returned, he mercifully hinted at heading home, visibly uncomfortable at the prospect of the dreaded “mix and mingle.” So we headed to Dundas Station with the cordiality one might have with a new neighbour. Once had not quite worked its magic beyond the edges of the stage.

With a surprisingly firm hug, I turned to leave when he asked if I’d like to go out again. I found myself saying yes, not because I wanted to, but because I am a people pleaser to a fault. Negative 10 points on my end.

He gave me his number and I promised to text. But as things go, I never did; he never did get my name right.