 
|
|||||||||||||
              
|
Life Support: Sweet charity Volunteer singles group provides opportunities and rewards
Thursday, February 17, 2000 By Christian Toto
My mother taught me two lessons growing up -- never cross the street without looking and never, ever give to charities. While Mom was a saint in the categories that counted most, her mistrust of volunteerism in any guise never wavered.
So when I heard about a singles-oriented volunteer group in my city, I didn't immediately sign up, even though Ms. Right had yet to brighten my doorway. Or visit my area code.
The organization promised the exact opposite of the bar scene, a comfortable setting where single people could do some good while getting to know one another. Up until this point, I had never attended any event specifically for singles. I envisioned them as places where misfits sporting press-on nails and bad toupees hoped to stumble into love.
But the group's intriguing concept -- combined with a weekly planner bedecked with cobwebs -- made me decide to give it a try.
I signed on for my first volunteer gig as my Mom's disapproving words echoed in my head -- "Don't do it, honey, they're all crooks!"
The group's lineup of activities held promise. I could help pluck litter from a nearby stream, assist in an AIDS-related cycling event or paint scenery for a fledgling theatrical troupe. I chose the stream project, thinking the fresh air would do me good. Plus, if the event was as frightening as I feared, I could slip away with the currents.
I arrived at an underwhelming brook that looked distressingly clean. Had a gaggle of contented couples beat us to the punch? But I wasn't there solely to do good, but to update my li'l black book. Or at least make a second entry within its pristine pages.
A few of my fellow volunteers looked like rejects from E!'s "Fashion Emergency" program. One guy sported a shrunken flannel shirt. Another wore a sharply pressed pair of chinos that suffered an irreparable stain five minutes into our assignment. But the others were folks more or less like me who wanted to avoid the nightclub scene and didn't mind getting dirty in the process. I labored side-by-side with television producers, lawyers, computer programmers -- hardly the social lepers I had expected. They, like me, had hit the doldrums in their romantic quests and felt compelled to take another tack.
Still, the kibitzing left a bit to be desired. Many volunteers had an easier time navigating the gurgling brook than the chilly waters of social interaction. One woman fired a barrage of personal questions my way until I informed her I would need my lawyer present to proceed any further.
I didn't meet anyone special that afternoon, but I was intrigued enough by the process to give it another shot.
The perks in volunteer matchmaking began to reveal themselves. An unsuccessful night careening from bar to bar would rob me of a few greenbacks, to say nothing of my dignity. But a volunteer gig doesn't cost a dime and usually leaves behind a freshly planted line of shrubs or a dilapidated home with a bright new coat of paint.
One event didn't involve enough work to keep us all busy, which allowed me to engage an appealing single mom with firm biceps, which she eagerly displayed.
I had time to hear about her two young daughters, her yoga classes and her affinity for bluegrass music. I quickly put down my shovel, bit my tongue when she said she played the banjo and asked her to lunch -- after we washed our hands, of course.
As luck would have it, "Rachel" came with more emotional baggage than Cody and Cassidy Gifford combined. The romance sparked, sputtered, then fizzled.
But the volunteer group had, in a sense, worked. Just because I didn't meet The One didn't mean it hadn't provided me with another way to meet women.
In the end, the group's interactions bear an uncanny resemblance to other forms of modern dating. Numbers are exchanged, information is swapped and many people leave with a false sense of hope. And permanent grass stains.
But if it doesn't lead me to my true love, at least it's gone a step toward deprogramming me from Mom's misguided charity mantra.
Christian Toto is a freelance writer living in Alexandria, Va. He can be reached via e-mail at ctoto@aol.com.
|
||||||||||||
