My mates Christy, Mossy and Kaz at the 1998 Desperate and Dateless Ball. Midori Illusions shakers in hand, of course. Photo: Supplied.
I can tell you exactly what I’ll be doing this Saturday night, on Valentine’s Day.
I’ll be sitting in bed, eating a family pack of Toobs and watching true crime series Evil Lives Here as I swipe left (again) on the same handful of men who are (a) located in Canberra, (b) six-foot plus, (c) employed and (d) single. They’re few and far between.
I used to love Valentine’s Day.
Not when I was on ‘romantic’ dates with my exes – Lawd, no – but back when I was last single, in the late 1990s.
Because back then – believe it or not – around Valentine’s Day every year, Canberra was home to one of the biggest singles events in the country. It drew thousands of us out of our suburban bedrooms, into formal attire, and toward the glamorous lights of the city in search of love.
It was called The Desperate and Dateless Ball. And it was awesome.
As the name suggests, the ball attracted those of us who were willing to own up to being single/alone on Valentine’s Day in the hopes we’d find ‘the one’ on the most romantic night of the year.
The annual Desperate and Dateless (D&D) Ball was a fundraiser for the Red Cross, and it was months in the making. You’d call a radio hotline to register your interest, be matched with a date, and be sent their name and phone number via a letter in the mail.
Your heart would be pounding as you opened the letter containing the details of your ‘match’ for the ball. Image: Supplied.
You’d then call a stranger you only knew as ‘Paul from Wanniassa’ from your home phone to arrange to meet up ahead of the ball. He would be your date for the night.
There was no Googling, Facebook stalking or attempting a cheeky online police check. You just turned up at the place you’d agreed to meet ahead of the ball itself (more than likely Waffles Piano Bar on Northbourne Avenue, next to the Private Bin) and literally hope for the best.
Sometimes Paul would be a gorgeous, hilarious sparkie and you’d spend the night at the event sharing Midori Illusions shakers and snogging. But the beauty of the D&D Ball was that if you didn’t fancy Paul, you were literally in a function room packed with 650 other single men. It was heaven.
I’d give up a lifetime supply of Toobs if it meant I could have one more night at a D&D.
I don’t want to be on my phone this Valentine’s Day, judging potential partners by their use (or otherwise) of correct punctuation in their profile. Or zooming in on their Metallica tee to see if it’s vintage or freshly printed by Cotton On.
I want to slyly dance up to a group of real live men on the dance floor, assess their shoes, their smiles and their dance styles, and then ‘accidentally’ fall drunkenly into the one I like.
I don’t want to start a conversation by typing ‘Heeyyyyyy’ and praying, as the typing bubbles appear, that he’ll reply with something funny. (He never does.)
I want to scream-tell a man in a tuxedo what I do for a living as Mambo No. 5 or Return of the Mack blares in the background. And then lean in close for his response – so close I can deeply inhale the scent of CK One while I’m there.
I want to drink Sub Zeros with a dash of red cordial and Sambuca shots in between. And even if I don’t find love, I’ll have had the thrill of flirting, the rush of someone yelling “Oi, blue dress!” across a crowded function room, and the sweet satisfaction of knowing I shaved my legs for a reason.
I want to feel alive again on Valentine’s Day.
Who’s brave enough to bring back the Desperate and Dateless Ball for me?
