Only the Lonely

Several months ago, a singles hotline service moved into the office space next door.

Admittedly, my coworkers and I shared a few giggles when their sign went up. We spent weeks speculating with our neighbors about whether it was actually for legit matchmaking, or just a classy escort service. (Our suspicions were further raised upon discovering that their office didn't open until mid-afternoon.)

I tried peering through their window several times in an attempt to figure out what kind of operation they were running. I had images of fat, chain-smoking, pimply-faced women lined up, moaning heavily into phones. But all I ever saw was a classy-looking waiting area with fresh flowers and an overstuffed leather couch.

Not satisfied, my coworkers and I decided we had to get to the bottom of things. So in a mature, but brilliant fashion, we prank called them.

Of course.

Several of us gathered in one office and dialed the number. It rang several times before an overly-chipper man answered. His perky, feminine voice almost caused us to lose our cool, but we forged ahead.

We pretended to be "Tiffany" who just wanted to find herself a "decent man". Chipper McChipperson informed us that we'd come to the RIGHT PLACE! He started his spiel about their dating service: they're a quality company that operates with discretion and ensures total safety.

"And how is that?" we asked.

Come to find out, not only do they run mandatory background checks on every applicant, but you also have to be cleared by your doctor as being "STD free" before a match can ensue. (We punched the mute button a split second before exploding in laughter.)

After regaining composure, we thanked the man and told him we'd consider booking an "in-person goal match meeting and video interview" at a later date.

Now, whenever I pass by their office and one of the hotline workers is outside smoking, I have to resist the urge to slink past without making eye contact. A small part of me feels like they KNOW that we called...even though my rational side tells me that's ridiculous.

So I paste on a bright smile and make friendly chatter.

Don't judge, but I'm secretly hoping to befriend one of them enough so that we can get drunk and watch all the weird interview tapes together. I'm pretty sure we'd stumble upon at least one of the creepy dudes who's hit on me in bars.

Or even my landlord.