Today is Valentine”s Day.  We’re surrounded by love songs, conversation hearts and privy to mobile uploads of romantic dinners and sappy words of love on Facebook and Twitter.

But let’s be honest. Before you found the love of your life, you had to endure a lot of frogs. Although a day doesn’t go by where my husband and I don’t say the words “I love you’ to each other, it’s always good to put things in perspective.

Back in my single days I met a self-professed matchmaker. She was the neighbor of a friend and, after repeated offers of introducing me to my perfect match, I gave in. She did not charge for her services. The only requirement was that she would be invited to the wedding.

The man she extolled sounded promising. He was a lawyer who frequently appeared on talk shows like Phil Donahue (The “Oprah” of his day)  to share his expert opinion on the trial du jour.

Ms. Matchmaker described him as tall, good-looking, fit, funny, successful, charismatic and owner of his apartment in Manhattan.

When Ted called we had that lightly disguised blind date pre-interview to determine if we would detest each other. Since the conversation went well we made plans for dinner. Much to my delight, he suggested one of my favorite restaurants in New York – a little New Orleans-style cafe in Chelsea.

Ted asked if I would mind meeting him at the restaurant since it was in his neighborhood. I did mind, because I believed that a mensch looking for a shidduch  should call for a woman at her door for the first date.  However, this was New York in the ’80′s so I said, “Of course I don’t mind. ”

The night of The Date, he called again to ask if I would meet him at his apartment instead. I bristled at that idea. I didn’t know him or Ms. Matchmaker who vouched for his upstanding reputation. These were the days before the Internet and “googling” him was not an option. Reluctantly, I agreed. I would meet him at his apartment, but I would not go inside. For all I knew, he was a crazed murderer / serial rapist. I was feeling less and less optimistic about The Date.

When I arrived at his door, he asked me to step inside while he got his coat. I did so, with my back against the open door so I could run into the corridor when he pulled out the huge butcher knife that he, no doubt, had hidden in his hall closet.

What came out was not a knife, but about 100 empty soda bottles, tumbling in every direction. He kicked a few out of the way and, as we walked the 20 blocks to the restaurant (not what I would call in his “neighborhood”)  he explained that each bottle was worth a nickle. It wasn’t as if he was concerned about recycling or the environment, he just wanted his nickle back. “It’s not their nickle, “ he said defensively, “It was a deposit. It’s my money. They owe it to me. It’s mine.” Uh oh.

I had dressed to impress, not for comfort, so by the time we walked into the restaurant I was freezing and my high-heeled encased feet were throbbing but I had worked up an appetite on the walk. I knew from experience that the food was good and, on weekends, the restaurant had a jazz quartet.  If nothing else, I’d enjoy my shrimp etouffee and a little music.

As we checked our coats, Ted said that he ate at the restaurant often since the owner was a client of his. I thought it odd that he didn’t receive a warm welcome as the restaurant’s counsel or as a frequent customer. We were seated abruptly and menus were unceremoniously shoved into our hands. Although I would have enjoyed a glass of wine, Ted discouraged me. He explained that the owner owed him money for his legal services, so he ate there for free but alcoholic beverages were not part of the “deal.”

I was ready to bail but after the cab fare, a Doctor Zhivago-esque walk and sacrificing an evening with friends (who were accustomed to paying for their meals) I hung in there. Maybe the evening would turn around.

What might surprise you, Gentle Reader, is that Ted was attempting to impress me.  Apparently, he was having a great date. Settled in with our entrees (appetizers were also discouraged ) Ted felt comfortable enough to show me the humor and charisma that had so charmed Ms. Matchmaker.  He told me that he was an amateur comic and did impressions. Since I felt like crying at this point, I encouraged him to share some with me.

His first impression was of Herbert Hoover. The second was of J.D. Salinger. Gentle Reader, you know that nothing will impress a lady more than impressions of pre-television era dead presidents and known recluses.

Dinner finally ended. If it was possible to stun me further, he did so. He signed for the meal and loudly announced (to the chagrin of neighboring diners) that the amount would be deducted from the past due bill for his legal services. Apparently our server must have owed him money too, because he didn’t leave a tip. And the coat check girl must have been a client who defaulted on her legal fees as well.

I slunk out of the restaurant, knowing I would no longer dare to show my face there again. Once outside, I raised my arm and, in a rare stroke of luck, a cab pulled over immediately. Despite  the etiquette my parents had instilled in me, I was completely unable to utter the words “Thank you” to my date.  I could only shake my head in horror as Ted stood smiling on the sidewalk shouting after my retreating cab, “This was fun. Let’s do it again.”

On the ride uptown, I sat back and breathed a sigh of relief. The cabbie glanced in the rear view mirror. “Happy that’s over?” he asked. For the next 15 minutes, I regaled him with the story of The Worst Blind Date Ever. I told him I should have left at the first sign. The cabbie explained that he had quit his Wall Street job because he hated each and every day. Yes, he made significantly less money now but, at least for the present, he was happy, driving around and talking with people. “Sometimes, “ he said, “You just have to listen to what your heart is telling you to do.”

As bad as my Blind Date was, my evening ended on a spectacular note.