The post-university dating scene is a treacherous one. I find myself longing for the days of all-nighters at the library, if only for the plethora of good-looking Econ and Engineering majors occupying the basement cubicles. Post-convocation, we are faced with different dating etiquette, successes and utter fiascoes. While a 9-5 may come with sublime stability and a regular pay cheque, it is also accompanied by stagnant routine, especially if your commute involves a residential bus ride with your father’s friends, who consider the Blackberry on their belts to be the ultimate accessory. Better yet, when you spot a hottie who resembles deliciously preppy Nate from GG, you realize he is in school uniform because he is still in high school. I officially gave up on finding love on a real train when a briefcase-carrying trekkie in a waiter’s uniform told me my hair resembled that of Silk Spectre from The Watchmen, but that I should wear more latex. It’s a little Risky Business for the office, Kirk, but I’ll keep it in mind, thanks. 

So if public transport’s out, office affairs are strictly off-limits and I now feel the need to ID half the gentlemen who approach me in bars, what’s a girl to do? House parties are few and far between and there are no longer endless conferences, student councils or charity fashion shows in which to rub shoulders with a cohort of viable bachelors. When is the appropriate time to bring in a pinch hitter (aka surrender to the most awkward of first dates), the blind date? For someone who may know the elementary school and name of a suitor’s high school prom plus-one, all before a second date, the concept of being thrust into a round of 20 questions sans preparation is terrifying, if not akin to heading into the wild with nothing more than an LBD. True, it is a good way to break a pattern. Say you are known to select passive aggressive brunets or intellectually inferior blonds, and are looking for a superior breed of man: Chances are your friends know this and can steer you in a better direction c/o one of their own friends. You also have a lower chance of going home with a Patrick Bateman type who enjoys slicing skulls over chicken parmesan. But my stubborn “my bed or sleep alone” streak immediately flares up at the thought of someone else playing God over my dating life, despite the fact that I’m really just scared that I will bore him or will be trapped as he addresses me by the boots I am wearing or asks “Do you know how many girls throw themselves at me?”…Bottom line: enlist a friend whose taste you trust and approve of; plan an escape route à la Charlotte in SDTC (“I wouldn’t normally answer my phone but what if something bad has happened…”) and remind yourself that the beat will go on, no matter how deadbeat the dude is. Who knows, maybe you can catch that preppy minor from the bus before his curfew. But if the po-po knock on your door, don’t say I didn’t warn you …