Years ago, when internet dating was still considered the realm of the “creepy and desperate,” I myself was desperate enough to join Match.com. This was before most people knew how to upload photos and before most people knew to ask for photos. There were only a handful of sites and Match.com was the most well-known, thus this was the site I selected for my trial run with internet dating. I hoped to find a date but what I found was more like a karmic lesson.
I was very excited to try internet dating. What possibilities. There was unlimited window shopping without commitment. I could literally look at hundreds of profiles and read all about people who could possibly be “the one.” How cool was this? And, knowing how difficult it is to write an interesting profile, I loved to logon and see how these guys wrote under pressure.
One profile in particular did catch my eye. Although “Steve” did not have a picture (which I now know was for a good reason), he seemed really interesting. He was an engineer, well-traveled, liked to ride motorcycles and seemed pretty laid back. I asked him for a picture and when he told me his scanner was down, I was naïve enough to believe him.
Steve and I agreed to meet at a Pizzeria Uno’s. As I sat at the bar watching the customers file in, I wondered if I would like him and what he looked like. I got momentarily excited when I saw a gorgeous, young guy walk through the door and toward me. He noticed me too, looking me up and down before walking right past me to a table where he was greeted by a young woman with a baby. I was so busy watching the hot guy, that I didn’t notice Steve until he was upon me.
I heard his breathing before I saw him. That is never a good sign. I turned my head toward the heavy breathing. A man with a full beard, not unlike a Taliban beard, short and heavy, not only in his breathing but in his stature, stood beside me. Great; I should have asked for a picture.
I mentally shook off the fact that this guy was not all that I dreamed of and just hoped he would not be a nightmare. I smiled welcomingly and invited him to sit on the stool beside me. He hopped up on to the stool to my right, leaning his cane (which I just then noticed) up against the bar next to him. Steve smiled big and said, “I hope you don’t mind that I’m sitting on this side of you but my left ear is my good one. My right ear is only operating at 30%.” I raised my eyebrows. “Really? What happened?” I asked. “Gulf War,” he responded. “In fact,” he told me, “my right hand has only 60% use, my right knee cap was shattered in a motorcycle accident and I have Gulf War Syndrome.”
I was, of course, horrified for him. The poor guy! And, I couldn’t help but think that this is what I deserved for not being more discerning in my on-line interview process. I was also very curious. “What exactly is Gulf War Syndrome? I mean what are the effects?” He was nice enough to answer even though he must have known that the answer would seal the fate on this ill-fated date. “I get uncontrollably itchy as though bugs are crawling all over my skin.” What?! Gross. I thought, “the poor guy.”
At the end of the date, we walked out to the cars and said our goodbyes. I thanked him for an interesting time and wished him well. I really thought that this man (who in my mind was relegated to “Mr. Itchy Scratchy”) would never cross my mind again. How wrong I was.
Flash to a year later. I am in Geneva, Switzerland and have just had the week of my life and probably one of the best dates of my life. Let’s just say it involved Thai food and breaking into a private beach club at midnight to reenact the pivotal scene from “From Here to Eternity.” Lake Geneva was fantastic but unfortunately, I developed a raging ear infection from the lake water.
I went to the local hospital where they prescribed amoxicillin. Apparently neither the doctor nor I realized that I was allergic. I went through the full course without incident only to find myself waking up, the day after I had stopped taking the drug, scratching my chest.
Now I was in London visiting my friend Fiona. In response to my single state, she had set me up on a blind date with the most eligible man she knew. His name was Hugh and he was a Scottish Olympic downhill skier. Fiona promised me that although he wasn’t very tall, he was drop dead gorgeous.
Fiona was going through a divorce at the time and was living her life vicariously through me. She hoped I was going to have a really scandalous date – in the best way possible of course.
The morning of the blind date I woke up at Fiona’s house, scratching my chest. I got up went to the bathroom only to observe that I had a rash that was not only on my chest but it was creeping up my neck and down to my belly. Immediately I went to Fiona and showed her my rash. “Well obviously we’ll have to cancel on Hugh” I told her. “We can’t,” she said, “I don’t have his number…besides it really isn’t that bad and the bar will be dark. He’ll never see the rash.” I sighed in resignation and hoped that she was right.
As the day wore on, so did the rash. It got to such a bad state that we went to a local pharmacy and asked the pharmacist what cream would help. “My dear,” he said, “There is no rash cream that is going to help you with that.” In a last ditch effort to hide the rash, we bought a lovely neck scarf. That might have been okay normally but it was June and looked a bit ridiculous. Still, Fiona insisted that I go on the date. Her sister Wendy assured me that red wine is a natural antioxidant and that if I drank enough of it, the rash would go away.
I got to Tiger Tiger bar early to scout out a dark place to sit, drink some red wine and wait for Hugh. I noticed when Hugh arrived and Fiona was right; he was really good looking. Hugh took a turn around the bar and did not see me… probably because I was sitting in the dark. Finally, when he looked in my direction, I waved a hello to him. He raised his eyebrows in surprise and came over to meet me.
The date with Hugh was not very memorable for the most part. He was “nice.” He was seemingly understanding of my raging rash and was even gallant enough to invite me to a Wimbledon party he was attending that evening. I knew he wasn’t interested though as he made me pay for all of my drinks and flirted with other women in front of me.
Meanwhile, my rash was getting worse by the moment, creeping up to my face and down my legs. Not helping matters much, I was getting increasingly drunk on red wine. When were those antioxidants going to kick in? I was so uncomfortable and drunk that I found myself rubbing up against anything and anyone to scratch my itch. If I hadn’t been drunk, it would have been embarrassing. Finally though, I conceded that I’d had enough. I needed to get to a hospital.
I found Hugh and alerted him to the fact that I would be leaving and going to the hospital. “Why?” He asked. “What’s wrong?” I know he was a blind date but he couldn’t be that blind. “I normally don’t look like this Hugh. Normally I’m rash free. I think I’m allergic to something and I need to be treated.”
At the hospital, I waited in the triage line with great trepidation. I had heard about socialized medicine and I wondered how long it would be until I was treated. A patient in front of me asked the triage nurse how long the wait was and she told him that it would be “forty five hours.” What?! “Forty five hours!” I exclaimed. “You must be kidding!” The nurse looked confused, “No dear… that would be four to five hours.” That was much better.
I checked in and sat amongst the other Tuesday night ER denizens. I looked around. The guy next to me had a nail through his foot and a guy across from me had a slash across his forehead (he told us his girlfriend had stabbed him). I felt fortunate. Itchy but fortunate.
Because I had an allergy, I was fast tracked and was admitted in less than two hours. I found myself laid out on a gurney with a Benadryl IV attached to my right arm. The nurse wheeled me to a curtained area where I lay waiting to see a doctor.
As I laid there listening to some poor guy getting resuscitated in the room next to me, I had moment of clarity and started to laugh. I really deserved this. I had judged some poor guy on the fact that he had an itch condition, and here I was a year later, on a first date (again) and I was the one who was uncontrollably itchy and being passed over for it. I was the deserving victim of the karma from Mr. Itchy Scratchy and boy was karma an itch.
Me in Switzerland that summer
