I wonder how I’d look with one of those ‘monk’ haircuts?

If my dates get any stranger, I am going to join a monastery. I don’t know if the brothers will take me in and I readily admit I may have a tough time with that whole “vow of silence” thing, but I’m giving it serious consideration anyway.

In the monastery the crazy women would not be able to find me, or so I hope. Because out here in the real world, they seem to be the only women who do find me!

But before we go any further, let me reiterate for those who’ve never read one of my columns before: I hate dating! Hate it hate it hate it hate it.

Unfortunately, I love women. Or rather, I love being in a relationship with one woman. The Catch-22 of it is, in order to have a woman, one must first find a woman, and the only way I know to do that is dating.

Women must be wooed; flowers must be purchased, dinners bought, car doors opened, poetry written. I don’t mind any of these things. I enjoy them, actually, once I’ve found a candidate interested in being my Significant Other.

It’s the finding of that candidate that wears me down and gets me thinking thoughts of monk-dom.

I’m thinking these somewhat grim and defeatist thoughts today because of a recent liaison with a girl I met through a dating service. She was cute, well-educated and of an age that I wouldn’t feel I was dating either my mother or daughter.

According to her “profile,” she enjoyed camping, quiet walks on the beach, the music of the Beatles, and a “healthy lifestyle.” That last one worried me. I mean, I live a fairly healthy lifestyle, but I don’t enjoy it! I’d much rather eat deep fried foods, watch TV all day, and bathe only occasionally.

At any rate, she suggested we get together for drinks at what I assumed was a nightclub not far from her home. It was not a nightclub, but one of those whole-foods-carrot-juice-health-nut joints that serve only produce grown organically in sunny fields tended exclusively by leprechauns and unicorns.

But I’m a sport. I figured I could hold my nose and drink whatever they put in front of me.

Two minutes after we were seated, my BlackBerry—which I had forgotten to switch off—beeped to notify me of an incoming email.

“What was that?” my date asked.

“Just my phone,” I replied as I silenced the ringer and returned the device to my pocket. I don’t take calls, emails or anything else when I’m in a social situation.

“Oh…My…God!” said my date. “You have a cell phone in here?”

Turns out (according to my date, who went on about it at length) cell phones, PDAs, computers, ATM machines, barbecue grills, electrical wiring, microwave ovens, televisions and video game consoles all inundate us daily with cancer-causing radiation.

She made me put my cell phone out in the car before we could finish our wheat grass juice, or whatever the heck it was. (It tasted like lawn.)

The date was mercifully short. She was as glad to get away from my irradiated lifestyle as I was to get away from her wheat grass juice and tofu.

I wonder what they’re serving in the monastery tonight. A lot of those monks make great wine.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.