A Bad Date Story to Rule Them All

Hey, everyone! Remember yesterday?

You may already be sick of our incessant posting about the Valentine’s holiday, but lest you think we’re all saps, here’s a good example of true dating woes. It’s a story that will make you feel lucky in love, whether you spent yesterday evening out at a fancy meal with your sweetheart, or if you stayed home curled up on the couch with a blanket, some wine, a ten-pound bag of Hershey’s kisses, and a marathon of Say Yes to the Dress! It’s the title story from our book that tells the tales of many horrifying dates–My Blind Date Went Blind!–and yes, it’s absolutely true!

My Blind Date Went Blind!
The case was never solved
Audrey T., then 22

It was the late ’60s, and I was in graduate school at Columbia. Somebody on my floor in International House fixed me up–one of those things where he asked if I would go to dinner with his out-of-town friend as a favor. The friend wanted a date to take to a nice restaurant on Saturday night.

I was fresh out of an all-girls college and pretty much game for anything, so I said yes.

Saturday night rolled around, and Warren came to pick me up. He had a round, freckled face with sandy reddish hair. Not terribly tall and definitely not my type. I wasn’t repulsed, but nor was I thrilled.

We took a cab to the restaurant, a well-known Italian place in Times Square. It was packed.

We had pasta and unmemorable conversation. I do remember—and this is relevant—that though we had wine with dinner, neither of us were drunk or stoned or anything.

And then suddenly, just after dessert arrived, he went pale. His freckles were standing out and sweat beaded on his forehead. His eyes squinted and he swung his head back and forth.  He said, looking terrified, “I can’t see.”

“What do you mean you can’t see?!”

He kept repeating “I can’t see.” He wiped his face with his napkin. Then he stood up and turned slowly. He’d already been to the bathroom and remembered vaguely where it was.

He wove  among lots of tables,  groping backs of chairs and other diners as he shuffled across the room. He asked three waiters where the bathroom was and finally stumbled through the door, knocking over an empty chair just before he got there. The restaurant seemed to have fallen silent.

I sat there stunned, looking around as if someone out there might know what was going on. They looked at me like I was supposed to know.  About ten minutes later, Warren emerged and slowly made his way back to the table, still squinting (and oblivious to the puzzled faces all around) but not as incapacitated.

As he sat down, I said, “We’d better leave,” and signaled the waiter.

The check came. Warren fumbled with his wallet, clearly couldn’t see the denomination of the bills, so I went ahead and paid. I don’t remember the amount, but I was a student, and this was one of those real New York restaurants–the kind of place you’d go to when your parents came to town.  Annoyance overwhelmed  my sense of empathy for a moment, I’ll admit.

I took Warren out on my arm, hailing a cab and giving the address of his hotel. (I’d become the man on this date!) The ride was quite silent–there are only so many times you can ask if a person is okay! I walked him to his hotel and handed him off to a bellhop. I asked for his hotel number to check up on him, but when I called the next day he had already checked out.

Someone told me soon thereafter about a condition called hysterical blindness. I suppose that’s what it was. I asked the friend who set us up about Warren, and he hadn’t heard a word about it. Warren could see fine as far as he knew.