I don't think my friends like me very much.

If the women my friends set me up with on blind dates are any indicator (and I believe they are), my friends must absolutely loathe me and must find me to be a dull, idiotic person.

The nature of the blind date is already an awkward science as two perfectly nice human beings are thrown together in a usually ill-suited match brought about by the machinations of a well-meaning matchmaker.

These Yentes take great delight in pairing off their friends like knick-knacks on a mantelpiece.

I'm sure the friends of mine that do this to me have noble intentions of wanting to see me get out more and meet new people. Left to my own devices, I tend to live a quiet monastic life at home, minus the constant prayer sessions and substituting a Polo bath robe for the brown burlap cowl.

Now, every time I hear the words “blind date,” I go into a Vietnam veteran style flashback of the mother of all bad blind dates: my evening with Sarah, the “Pink Girl.”

To set the stage, this date was the byproduct of another blind date. One should always beware of such cross-pollination.

My friend Helena (whose name is changed to stop her from murdering me) had been set up on a blind date with a guy named Chad, and she didn't want to go by herself. She had the brilliant idea to make it a double date, and decided that I would be the perfect person for this plan.

“Have I done something to make you mad at me? Tell me what I can do to get you to not do this to me,” I said.

“You'll love her,” Helena said. “I think she's the perfect match for you.”

Phrases like “the perfect match” and “absolutely compatible” should be avoided like seafood in a landlocked country.

While Sarah was a lovely girl dressed in a simple pink cardigan and some well-fitting jeans, her face was caked so heavily with makeup that I assumed the Revlon Company was staying afloat by her patronage alone.

We were immediately given seating and immediately began the awkward small-talk portion of the evening.

While Helena and Chad chatted amiably about sports or some such nonsense, I asked Sarah what some of her favorite things were.

“Oh, well I'm absolutely in love with the color pink,” she gushed.

“Really? Do tell.”

“Well, every time I see the color pink, I can just feel this aura of happiness and emotionality just wash all over me. I mean, I can pass by and see a pink sweater in a store window, and I'll just stop for five minutes and stand there, just taking in the pinkness of the pink. I really just love the pinkness,” Sarah said, in a tone usually reserved for Disney princesses with various woodland creatures surrounding them.

Now, after a response like that, one generally has two options.

One can give a polite nod and adeptly change the subject. This is considered polite and cultured, and leaves one's date with a few shreds of dignity.

The other option is to begin to openly mock one's dining companion by demonstrating the absurdity of their statements and beliefs.

I have been an Option 2 man since Clinton was in the White House.

Sarah must have thought I was quietly reflecting on her life-changing statement because she soon asked “Did I just blow your mind?”

“Actually, no.” I said. “I just have never met someone who so totally understands the colorness of colors.”

She began to smile and nod as I continued.

“I mean, I feel the same way about the color blue. Every time I see it, I feel the compulsion to just start crying, full-on weeping because of the blueness of blue. I just feel this intense sadness and I have to cry the blue out of my mind and my aura.”

I had her directly in the palm of my hand now.

“I mean, I can't even wear blue. It just reminds me of the saddest things like puppies getting hit by cars, nursing homes, and genocide.”

She began to tear up as I gave her the slow, all-knowing nod.

During our little discussion, Helena had taken notice of the situation and had begun to shoot me a death stare that could have melted butter. I shot her back my patented “I can't believe you set me up on a date with this moron; if I'm going to have to sit through this nightmare, I'm going to at least make fun of her idiotic beliefs and tendencies” look.

(This is a very complicated look to be practiced only by those who have completed at least 37 hours of intense “Speaking by Looks” training. The eyebrow raises needed for this look alone force me to muster the same strength I would need to run a half mile.)

Helena went back to trying to woo Chad, and I went back to talking to Sarah in a kind and thoroughly irreverent manner for the rest of the evening.

We covered such hard-hitting and controversial topics like red, the number 7 and the letters C, K and H.

If I didn't know any better, I could have sworn my blind date had escaped from Sesame Street.

I don't speak to Helena much anymore. After the “Pink Girl” fiasco, she and Chad had several successful dates until he showed up on a registered sex offenders list. Felony charges involving lewd acts with a minor tend to put a damper on love connections.

As for me, I've continued to try to successfully avoid being set up on blind dates. I'm fairly good at coming up with minor excuses to bow out gracefully from those situations.

But, my mind does occasionally wander to Sarah every now and then, as I'll see the color pink somewhere. I always have to stop and reflect on the color pink now, if only to get a good laugh.

Perhaps she was on to something after all.

Cliff McCollum is managing editor of the Gulf Coast Newspaper Group. He can be reached at cmccollum@gulfcoastnewspapers.com