I tried to emotionally “game” the Chris Gethard Show Lonely Cowards edition, and destiny punished me.  As awkward as the night was for some of the people on stage, it’s possible that the show going on in my head was worse.

I wasn’t sure what names I should submit for my Crush List.  My “type” is women who are smart and funny, so my rough draft submission was embarrassingly long — 50+ women from the improv world with whom I’d be legitimately honored to go out on a date.

I quickly realized I couldn’t send in a list that long.  In the event that I was actually matched up with someone, surely they’d be insulted by the apparent lack of discrimination.  Not to mention the intensely concentrated sense of rejection I’d feel if all 50+ women failed to choose me.  Ego suicide.

I toyed with various concepts for subsets of the list, and finally came up with something (seemingly) brilliant: Just the women that, for a variety of awkward reasons, I knew I’d never actually pursue in real life.

If one of them happened to choose me, fantastic!  So much easier to navigate around the awkwardness, knowing that we were both interested.  And if none of them chose me, not a huge deal — I surely never would have asked them out, anyway.  Plenty of fish in the sea, etc.

I didn’t end up hearing from the Gethard Show crew beforehand, so I assumed that none of my picks had worked out.  Oh well.

Then I got to the ticket window at UCB.

The intern on duty, whom I’d recently met at a one-day workshop, greeted me by name.  When I tried to pay she said, “No, Morgan.  You’re on Gethard’s list.”  She showed me a sheet of paper with six or seven names on it, and explained that I’d been flagged for free admission.  I gratefully accepted my comp, and went outside to stand in line.

Against all odds, I’d been matched up with someone.  I ran through the extra-awkward crushes in my head, amazed that any single one of them would be interested in me.  My face felt hot and flushed, and I was nervous in a new and novel way.  Life was good.

Looking around the theater from my seat, I could see that at least four or five of the women from my list were in attendance.  In a few minutes I’d be up on stage with one of them, our mutual crushes revealed to the world.  It would be an intense moment, but potentially wonderful.  I was ready.

Eventually it came time for the Crush List segment of the show.  We were told that only 4 matches had been made — so amazing that my improbable pairing was one of them!

One by one, the matches were called out.  One of the couples included Morgan Evans, a nice guy who is a comparatively new addition to the improv scene.  I’d jokingly berated him before about choosing “Morgan” as a handle on the UCB bulletin board, fearing that people would get us confused.

I wish I could say that I figured everything out the moment Morgan’s name was announced.  I can’t, I didn’t.  Even after the final couple was identified, I still pitifully clung to my delusion.  “Hey, maybe MORE THAN ONE of my picks chose me back!  Maybe there’s going to be a special segment where I have to choose between them!  How embarrassing and flattering!”

As the next (and final) segment began, reality sunk in.  I wasn’t mad at the intern — it was nice of her to remember my first name after only meeting me once, and “Phillips” and “Evans” are bland enough last names that the mistake is totally understandable.

Of course, if she’d been paying attention then she’d know that I am completely unlovable, and don’t deserve a shot at happiness.

Joke!  Ha ha!

Ha.

At least I got in for free.  That totally makes up for it.  Yes.