"Thank you for thinking of me, but it's not shayach."
"But he said he had a good time!" the shadchan responds in shock.
Of course he did. I was adorable. I was pleasant. I was charming. Even though I was exhausted, because he had been holding me hostage in the dead of night. I thought if I was nice to my kidnapper I would see my parents again.
Why is "he had a good time" considered an argument for me to subject myself to another evening of torture?
" . . . so then, would you believe it, he gets lost, and then blames me!" I conclude relating to my relative the nightmarish date. We both laugh.
"Then the shadchan tells me he wants to go out again—" Her eyes widen in surprise.
"But that means he must have had a good time!"
My mouth hangs open as I try to grasp her logic. I've just told her about one of the worst outings I've ever had, but she's focusing on the wrong person here.
I manage to regain my voice, mumbling defensively, "Yeah, but my next day was shot, I got home so late and . . ."
"But he had a good time," she emphasizes again.
Hello? Earth to Back-Stabber? What about ME?
So if a guy doesn't have a good time when he goes out with me, and I do, that means I behaved heinously and must be cray-cray; but if he had a good time, and I didn't—well, that's it. All that matters is if he had a good time.
I'm no feminist, but hoo-ee, sexism is still alive and kicking. From other women, yet.