If Rod Serling were to choreograph my dates, they might go like this

In recent weeks I’ve learned more about online dating than anyone should have to know. Most of that I’ve covered in previous columns.

This week, I want you to join me in another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind; a journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. There’s a signpost up ahead; your next stop – the Dating Zone…

The phone rings at 5:30 p.m. I glance up from my laptop; extract my phone from my jeans pocket. Caller ID doesn’t recognize the number. I push the answer button anyway.

“Hello?” I say.

“Hi, it’s me!” says a female voice, one I do not recognize.

“Oh, hey!” I say, pretending that I do recognize the voice and hoping the woman on the other end of the line will say something to tip me off as to her identity.

“What are you up to?” asks the voice.

“Um, just working,” I say.

“Oh, am I interrupting?” she says.

“No,” I lie. “I needed a break anyway. So what’s up?”

“I was just sitting around thinking,” she says, “that it’s about time we finally met in person.”

“Oh,” I say. I have been emailing back and forth with a half-dozen girls from the online dating site for the past couple weeks. The voice on the other end is one of these. But which?

“Are you free for dinner?” she asks.

“Um, sure,” I say, still without any idea who I’m talking to. “I’d love to.”

She recommends a restaurant I’ve never heard of, more than an hour’s drive from my house. I tell her that sounds fine. I keep her on the phone for a few more minutes and eventually, she says something that reveals her identity. She is Bernice.*

In her online profile, Bernice describes herself as “willowy” and “athletic.” Her photo is that of a cute, blue-eyed blonde with a winning smile. I am anxious to meet her.

The woman who stalks into the very ritzy Chez Pierre’s** 90 minutes later stands six-feet-two, weighs in at about 240 pounds, and bears a strong resemblance to Ernest Borgnine. Being a gentleman, I decide to make the best of it. Maybe we’ll at least be able to have a nice conversation.

The waiter takes our order. I ask for soup; Bernice orders lobster, scallops and steak. No, I am not kidding.

“So, tell me a little about yourself,” I say.

“Well, I’ve been divorced for about six months now,” Bernice begins. She then goes on to tell me about her ex-husband’s flaws. She continues to enumerate these flaws, around mouthfuls of very expensive food, for the next two hours. I’ve heard similar stories before, from a previous date.

I repeatedly catch myself looking around for a sharp knife, but having been raised Catholic, I fear negative repercussions in the afterlife should I commit suicide now.

The waiter stops by with the bill. I am so anxious to make my escape that I pay the $135 tab (no, I am again not kidding!) without complaint. I have just spent my entire month’s grocery budget on a bowl of soup.

Bernice wants to go to a movie. I claim an early meeting and say I have to get home. Bernice seems suspicious, but at this point I no longer care.

I drive away poorer, but wiser. Well, maybe not wiser, but definitely poorer.

* Not her real name.

* Not the restaurant’s real name.