Bootleg Love: Blind dating in the Bubble

We all know it: Princeton has a strange social dynamic. We are all at least peripherally acquainted with the idea that we’re living in an alternate universe of hook-ups, a four-year scramble of overthinking and under-feeling, where commitment comes before going out on dates — if you somehow manage to procure yourself a relationship in this convoluted, newfangled system of courtship. So when the editors of Street suggested that I go on a blind date and write about it for the paper, I agreed to do it mainly because it was a novel proposition. In the last 18 years of my life, I have only been on one date with someone I wasn’t already dating, and I haven’t been on a single date in my — albeit short — time here at Princeton.

But last Friday, after I came back from my blind date and pulled out a piece of paper to start this article, I realized that I am in no way equipped to write about dating because I have no idea how it’s supposed to work. In fact, my knowledge about dates mainly comes from watching Ted Mosby go on thousands of them on “How I Met Your Mother.” I know how Ted would write this article, but what about me? Is there anything fresh to say about a social norm that is not socially normal on this campus?

My Street-issued date knocked on my door promptly at 6 p.m., while I was still hopping around trying to put my socks on, so I resorted to making my first impression a ladylike “Gimme oooone second!!” I was running late because putting together an outfit had proven to be trickier than expected. I have dressing for the Street down to a formula, but a date? It took me more tries than usual to put together something that was classier than a Thursday night and dressier than a Monday morning. I opened the door with both socks on and smiled at the sight of my date: He was someone my parents would want picking me up on Friday night. Handsome, and, most importantly, Indian. (I made a mental note to ask my editors if they had done this on purpose. Was this a conspiracy with my parents — an arranged date? I pushed these thoughts quickly out of my head.) [Editors’ Note: It was not. Any resemblance to parental hopes or racial stereotypes, real or imagined, is purely coincidental.]

I invited him into my room and we exchanged initial pleasantries, starting off by discussing where we wanted to eat. From what I know about dates, the guy is supposed to pick out a restaurant beforehand, but I enjoyed the process of picking a restaurant together. It gave us the chance to discover a shared nostalgia for our mothers’ food — obviously, we decided on Indian.

Our conversation quickly warmed up as we walked across campus and toward Nassau Street. It was kind of like an intensified Frosh Week encounter: Where are you from? Do you have siblings? What’s your major? And, unlike in the real world, by virtue of going to school together we had a ton of mutual friends and plenty of material to talk about: the outbreak of gastroenteritis on campus, Intersession plans, writing for the ‘Prince,’ Bicker, etc.

A first date is a three-hour-long first impression. I found myself regretting straying from generically pleasant comments, especially when he asked me if I liked going to school close to home. I impulsively blurted out the truth — a resounding no. The second after I responded, I realized that I had thrown him off with my bluntness and started backpedaling quickly, talking about some of the benefits and trying to sugarcoat my strong feelings on the subject. I realized that actual, unadulterated opinions are not appropriate first-date conversation, but to be honest, first-date conversation is boring. My date was shyer than I was, so he didn’t have any equally candid moments. It was a perfectly friendly conversation, but I’ve heard that a really successful first date feels special.

My date paid for the check without even looking at the total sum, which was vaguely impressive, and he signed the receipt deliberately, printing his signature in beautiful script. I liked that. On our walk back it started snowing and we speed-walked in the cold. I imagine Ted Mosby takes his time walking back in the snow with his date, but TV shows don’t necessarily account for freezing temperatures. We ended up back at Whitman faster than I anticipated, and around 9 p.m. we were standing outside my door.

The goodbye after a date is an infamous moment. Ours was casual but heartfelt. I hugged him, thanked him for the night and then took two stairs at a time back to my floor. And that was that — my first Princeton date. It wasn’t magical, but it was really, really nice.

I think I’m supposed to feel wistful about the lost tradition of dating, but I’m not. Dates are pleasant, but I may actually prefer the art of carefully cultivating and materializing a crush over an expanse of time. It’s a tactic that our generation has practiced diligently since middle school, and it involves an anticipation and fulfillment that I’ve grown fond of. You get to know someone best after hours of spending time with them, and going on a date right off the bat is an expensive, inefficient way of doing that. Maybe the method du jour, “hanging out,” is less sophisticated, but it works in this strange alternate universe that is Princeton. We have four years to not live in the real world and get away with these bootleg strategies for love — so why not indulge?