So I tried to go on a blind date on Saturday.

This is less extraordinary than it would be for most women—my new years resolution last year was to go on a blind date a week. I didn’t quite make it to 52 (I sort of dated some of the blind date boys for a few weeks here and there) but wasn’t that far behind either. Nonetheless, I’m not exactly a novice when it comes to blind dates.

That said, never, never have I been stood up on a blind date. That is, never until Saturday had I been stood up on a blind date.

I showed up at the pre-arranged time looking sassy but professional, fun but also a little business. We had agreed to meet at a tiny little bar by my house, a little dive-y and dark, and always full of drunk men.

Walking in, I didn’t see anyone that even vaguely matched the picture he had sent on. I scoped for a minute (remember, tiny bar) and then sat down at the bar and ordered a greyhound. As soon as I did, the bartender asked if I was Kathrine or something, and I said, yeah, sorta, and he asked if I was meeting someone, and I said, I think so, and he said, Umm, no he called and asked me to give you his number. He’s not coming.

At this point I forget my sweet, blind date, small bar voice and exclaim ‘Am I getting stood up on a blind date?!?!’

Well, every dude in the place promptly turned around and started asking questions. How we got set up. How dare he. Can I buy you a drink. What’s your name. Can I buy you a drink as well.

I ended up leaving the bar feeling far lovely than any single man could have made me feel. It was divine.