The 'D-Bomb': Why does the word 'Date' hit me like a four-letter word?

In an age of instant gratification, our generation grew up microwaving Ramen noodles. We went from three channels on TV to more than 300 and these days, there is an app for just about everything.

We have become a group of spoiled Veruca Salts demanding a bigger, better, faster goose-that-lays-golden-eggs in various sizes, shapes and colors. We want it and we want it now. This has veined its way into relationships as well. When things do not process at light speed we end up dumping them and moving on.

And that brings me to the dreaded "D" word: D.A.T.E.

To me, it means “Dressy Awkward Torturous Evening. “

Just the connotation alone brings forth visions of getting dressed up, putting on your best behavior, sitting across from someone and interrogating each other for the next two to four hours. If I wanted to do that, I'd phone in a bomb threat to the White House.

And typically it results in, at the end of the night, some sort of awkward moment, usually at your front door or car, where one of two things happen:

a) You wind up dodging lips that zoom in like an F-14 fighter jet with an agenda, or

b) You’re left wondering if you're going to hear from the person again in that awkward, "should I call, should I not call?" vortex of uncertainty.

Hmmm … no thanks.

Blind dating adds another exponential level to the mix. As my best friend says, "What exactly is it that my friends think I would like about this person? Do they think I just got out of the joint? I'm all for low-hanging fruit, but this one has been rolling on the ground for a while."

Having just emerged back into the "dating" world myself, after nearly ten years of marriage, it was an interesting feat to say the least.

And for the most part, I stuck to my guns. Being a staunch advocate of the 'friends first' policy, I implemented careful strategies to make "non-dates," even so much as refusing to go out with a guy that insisted on calling it a D.A.T.E.

I insisted on meeting out in a mutual, regularly attended environment (typically in my Urban litterbox within a few blocks from home) where I could exercise the "bail if need be" option. Observing interaction amongst the 'potential' friends in Jane Goodall fashion ... a top priority being having the best friend on "save-me" speed-dial.

Now, it is not that I oppose the interaction. I simply prefer it not resemble a McCarthy hearing.

That being said, I think I'll date my remote control.