Sliding backwards into bad-date hell

I thought practice was supposed to make perfect? Isn't that what the famous "they" always say? But I've been dating for years, almost decades, and I don't seem to be getting much better at it. In fact, I may be on a sliding scale going in the opposite direction.

There was the guy who lied about his age, the guy who lied about his wife, the guy who forgot his wallet. Twice. And the guy who I suspect may not have actually been a guy.

And a bad date isn't always the guy's fault, let's be honest here. I've been the pip in the middle of the date a few times myself.

There was the time I cooked for a guy, which should have been the first indicator that it wasn't going to go well. When we sat down to eat, I opened up the foil of a newly shop-bought garlic bread, and only discovered after taking a big bite that it was dotted with spots of mould. We were dining by candlelight, you see, which while certainly romantic, has its drawbacks when it comes to visibility. How charming and lovely she is, he must have thought as he tore out of the house as though his hair was on fire.

And let's not forget the time I somehow managed to call a guy by the wrong name for the duration of our date. He was too embarrassed to correct me the first time I made the mistake, and I guess the longer it went on, the more awkward and impossible it became for him to set me straight. He filled me in on my error via SMS after that first (and last) date.

Feeling complete loser's guilt, I did a bit of crowd sourcing on Twitter and was grateful to discover that I'm not the only plonker in the village (misery loves company). The bad dates out there are rife.

A friend of a friend was set up on a blind date shortly after her divorce came through. Halfway through dinner she had to race him to the emergency room because he suddenly got ill. She thought it was a major stomach bug, but it later turned out he was actually overdosing on heroin. Now there's a keeper! And I thought I had bad taste in men. Later he invited her out for a milkshake. I didn't ask, but I assume she declined.

According to author Malcolm Gladwell, it takes 10000 hours to get really good at something. That equates to doing it for 20 hours a week for 10 years, straight. And while I feel like I've dated a lot in my time, I certainly haven't done it for 20 hours a week for the past 10 years. So perhaps I'm being too hard on myself, and maybe I just need a little more practice.

Groan. Really? Do I have to?

The problem is that dates are mostly hard and nerve-racking. They're the social equivalent of a job interview, where you're going for the position of Sex Associate, or Joint Domestic CEO. So you put on your nicest clothes, and try to present your very best-behaved self. You check you don't have spinach stuck in your teeth, answer all the questions carefully, and try not to fidget.

Then afterwards you wait for the call to find out if you got a second interview or not. All the while wondering whether it's actually the kind of company you really want to work for in the long term.

I suspect my dating report would read much like my school reports always did: "Paige really needs to try harder and must be careful not to make so many careless mistakes. I am sure with more effort and concentration, she will see some improvement."