The thing is, the guy was wearing sweatbands.

A matching pair -- one on each wrist. You know, the terry-cloth kind. The sort of thing tennis players wore in the '70s. Or maybe they still do. Who knows? But these weren't white with a light blue stripe -- not that that would've been any better. Also, he's not a tennis player. Also, we were out for dinner. Pretty sure even the tennis players remove the sweatbands off the court.

Nope, these were black and red, each one emblazoned with a skull and crossbones. The kind of thing Avril Lavigne would wear onstage. Only hers would be black and pink, sparkly with a spray of rhinestones. The seven-year-olds in the audience would be wearing matching sets after their mom shelled out $30 for them at the concession stand outside. And they'd wave them proudly in the air as Avril belted out "Hey! Hey! You! You! I don't like your boyfriend!"

But here's the thing. My date was wearing them. And he's not seven.

My sister had just warned me about this, too. Not about the sweatbands, but about dating the younger guys. She'd been in town for a wedding, and we were in the car the day after, having just spent the afternoon in a north-Toronto mall, doing our part to boost the economy.

"Can't you just date someone your own age for once?" she pleaded with me.

I rolled my eyes at her. Now, why in the world would I want to do that?

Although all kidding aside (even though I'm only sort of kidding about kidding), she is wrong. Because a good chunk of the three trillion guys I've gone out with in my lifetime have been my age. And what I've come to learn is that age is relative. I've dated plenty of guys in their 30s who didn't have it nearly as together as some of the guys in their 20s. Plus, younger guys tend to be more inclined to just be -- no hang-ups about roles or who needs to control what and all this sort of thing.

This guy, however, was not one of them. Not that he had control issues or anything. I wouldn't really know, to tell the truth. This was our first official date.

But the thing is, the guy was wearing sweatbands. Have I mentioned that? And it was all I could see.

The boy could talk, though. We'd now been out for an hour and a half, and I got in maybe three words -- a real feat for me. Especially when beer's involved, which it was. Thank god. Now, you see? Ever wonder why the cliched cartoon character of the single woman is always holding a martini glass? Because she's been on so many freaking bad dates, that's why.

So we're sitting there in the pub, and he's talking about his many tattoos, and I'm thinking about the $65 I just shelled out for that Betsey Johnson bra from that store up the street. I'd decided to splurge on it before I saw the sweatbands. Before I'd ordered the quesadilla with sour cream. Before I began checking my watch, wondering if I could get back to that shop to return it before they closed.

It was bad luck to buy the bra just before the date, anyway. I knew that even as I slid my credit card across the counter. But it was so cute. And I thought that even if this didn't work out, even if this guy never glimpses my new purchase, I can always apply the Field of Dreams Rule: If you build it, they will come.

In other words, if I prop them right up, wrap them up in a pretty package and tie them up with bows, someone, somewhere will get a tingly sensation at the back of their brains to go to where the bows are. And hopefully, he won't be wearing sweatbands. Although with my luck, he will be wearing white athletic socks with brown or black shoes.

So we were sitting there, and I'm thinking about my meter (now that I'm all paranoid about getting parking tickets) and I'm debating between picking up a cannoli or frozen yogurt on my way home. And then he mentions he thinks he might be an alien, so I decide to get both.

I get that he was kidding and everything. I do. And this guy was very cute. So way younger than the age marked on his birth certificate. And I'm sure he'll make a 20-year-old punky girl very, very happy.

I'm certain she'll have a matching pair of sweatbands.

snadler@thespec.com