My date with the Jewish doctor loomed ominously. He seemed nice but I wasn’t especially attracted to him. I was resignedly wrapping up my three month stint on match.com. I’d stupidly agreed to a dinner date and a concert, in NYC. With the 40 minute drive to and from, I was going to be trapped, minimally, for the next 6-7 hours with this guy. The drive and dinner proceeded uneventfully. His friends were perfectly nice if unremarkable. The concert was painfully awkward, famous-but-now-old geezers croakily attempting to belt the songs from their glory days. I looked around at the other couple and my date incredulously; they were enjoying themselves. I excused myself repeatedly to escape to the bathroom, where I texted another guy I’d been talking to on match. He and I were already closely connected though we hadn’t yet met in person. Toward the end of the concert, my oblivious date creepily stroked my arm, smiling lovingly. I barely survived the endless drive home, forty cringeworthy minutes. I desperately mumbled excuses about not being over a previous ex. On arrival at my house, I quickly scuttled out of the car, dodging a goodnight kiss. Epilogue: I’m now married to texting-in-the-bathroom guy.