Although my dating days have been over for more than I care to admit, and the general stage that the romantic scene is showcased upon has undergone massive upgrades in terms of the “how” and “what”, the memories of those days continue to live strong and fresh in my mind. Or at least, they were recently re-invigorated from the dark recesses of my mind while I watched, with much amusement, the rituals of dating re-enacted by a young couple at a local coffee house.

The actors and the props are different now – e-mails, cell phones, Internet, and text messaging have replaced old fashioned letters, late night marathon phone calls, diner hang outs and skate rinks, and flowers sent via couriers – but play is still enacted with pretty much the same script we had during our glory days. The young girl and blossoming lady in front of me were both drinking coffee, presenting their best individual impersonations of being laid back and cool to each other. To my best guess, he was channelling the standard James Dean devil-may-care angst, mixed with the aloof coolness of Happy Days’ Fonzie. She, on the other hand, was doing her best impersonation of Gidget’s casual interest and strong modern woman charms, while hinting at the demure and devilish charisma of Betty Page. It was, in the least, a fascinating sight to behold … these two young people replaying the same archetypes we emulated at their age.

Admittedly, I was not much of a Romeo or a Casanova while I participated in the dating ritual … I had no “go-to-moves” or polished lines that made the ladies swoon and fall at my feet. Despite that fact, I did manage to have my share of good dates, as well as disastrously hilarious ones, as I meandered my way through young adulthood. The most memorable date I had was one that happened only in my mind. Before I get too far ahead of myself here, there was a real girl, a real dinner, and a real concert that I was part of … there was a real car, a real long walk, a LOT of talking, and a romantic drink. It just turned out that I was the only one who believed that it was a date!

I was enamoured with this beautiful curly-haired girl named Andrea who worked at the dress shop directly across the street from the camera shop I spent my summers working in. She was quick to point out to anyone that her name was pronounced AHn-drey-ah … not aNNE-dree-ah. I was in love. And much like the befuddled Charlie Brown and his obsessive love for the red-headed girl, I spent most days quietly, if not invisibly, pining for this semantic goddess.

To cut this painfully long story short, one hot July day, I gathered enough courage to invite her to go to dinner and an evening concert featuring Canadian jazz singer Holly Cole. I had conducted enough covert conversations during the course of the early summer to have figured out that she was a big fan of this songstress, and used it as the perfect foil to ask her out. As an aspiring singer herself, she was more than happy to go, and I merrily anticipated each day as the date approached.

Although many wise women have informed me later on in life that I should have made it clear to her that it was indeed a date, I felt to excited that she agreed to the date that I did not want to burst my own ego bubble by overstating what may have been obvious to her. Just how dumb did I want, or need to look, right? In retrospect, those two weeks leading up to the eventful evening were the most romantic and thrilling moments of my young and inexperienced dating life! After all, as I lived inside my head, I pictured the date and the events to unfold over and over again, relishing the excitement, the infatuation, the love, and the romance to come. For those two weeks, I was in love … with being in love. I floated on cloud nine, unable to wipe the grin from my face.

The tickets to Holly Cole were purchased, dinner reservations made (complete with wine), the park on which the walk was to happen was scouted for possible issues, and the car was washed, polished and made fresh. The simple but stylish shirt and pants were pressed. All contingencies were prepared. All in all, the “date” (I continue to use air quotes with fingers when telling this story in person) was nothing shy of perfect as it unfolded that faithful evening. I was Casanova, Romeo, James Dean, and Fonzie rolled into one. I felt perfect. Until the walk to the door at the end of the evening. I walked her to her front door, up the flight of steps leading up into the front porch. Up until that point, I was on cloud nine. I said I had a great time, and she echoed the sentiment. “Great” time, not good … “great”. And then she did it. The most confusing thing I had ever seen and experienced at the end of any date – ever.

To this day, what she did remains a mystery to me and to much of those whom I regale this story to. At the end of the perfect date to which a great time was had by those involved (once again, apparently I was the only one on this date!) … she raised her right hand in the air, smiled sheepishly and said “High five!” Pardon my language; But WHAT THE HELL is that supposed to mean??? At the end of a date, in that context, what the living riddles of the Sphynx does THAT mean? A good night and a kiss, sure. A slap on the face conveys the message clearly. It was fun, it was interesting, I had a horrible time, I have mace in my purse, even running frantically through the front door and leaving a girl-shaped outline as she bust through the wood would send a clear message.

But a high five? Did she just score a three pointer at the buzzer? Were we in a sporting arena that I had somehow taken no notice of, and missed the winning goal? A high-freakin’-five at the end of MY date. Again, I was the only one on the date, remember? She apparently was comfortably spending the evening with a woman friend.

In the end, I was too embarrassed to continue talking to her and avoided her and the other side of the street when I worked at the camera shop. I lost face, and eventually lost touch. But the high five girl, as she is now referred to, continues to amuse and amaze me. And although I have dated again since that disastrous experience, and have had successful ones where both I and the girl were in agreement that it was indeed a date … I smile with much amusement at the memory, and the young couple sitting in front of me at the coffee shop. There he is, there she is, both playing it cool and calm … trying to show little interest but just enough sexual tension to convey the point. Much like a couple of ducks in the pond behind the house, they are calmly floating above the water, dancing the dance, while mercilessly paddling their webbed feet with everything they’ve got under the surface.

I almost walked over and asked if they were on a date just to help the moment along … but I figured he needed to be able to tell a good story some time in the future once his dating days are over, so I just smiled and waved.

Just smile and wave. …