A few years ago I got the cockamamie idea I should sign up for one of those on-line dating sites. I had the notion I was meeting the wrong types of men on remote islands in The Bahamas, and I needed to up my dating game with “normal,” “age appropriate,” men who held actual jobs.
Have I told you I am abysmal at multiple choice tests? I am cursed with the ability to find something partially correct (and partially wrong) in every answer. The profile had categories like: COMMITMENT and options to check off from CASUAL DATING to MARRIAGE. First, what does “casual dating” mean? Walking hand in hand on a moonlit beach wearing resort wear? A hayride vs. a black-tie charity ball? A monthly booty call? ALL THE ABOVE? My upper lip started sweating…
And what about asking someone right off the bat if they want to get married? I mean, eventually. But if I checked that box wouldn’t I seem desperate and if I didn’t wouldn’t I seem frivolous and a waste of time? Because all the guys’ profiles indicated they were busy – so busy and so not into bars, they couldn’t meet women the old fashioned way.
There was a section on habits. Do you smoke? No. Do you drink? YES. The options were: NEVER, RARELY, ONCE A WEEK, or DAILY. There was no option to indicate ALL THE TIME or PROBLEM DRINKER, because all the busy guys wearing suits and being marriageable would not send you an annoying emoticon to indicate they were “flirting” if they thought you were a drunk.
I cheated on the essay. I just copied from other women’s profiles; they all said the same thing anyway. I indicated I had a “good sense of humor” and I lied about how amazing I was at “listening” and I think I said something about enjoying “oceanfront cantering on horseback” and “bonfire watching” and then I posted the only photo I could find where I wasn’t holding a wine glass.
I think I got like three “flirts” in total. I just don’t look good on paper. And my heart wasn’t in it and I’m sure the busy business guys had their secretaries vet the profiles for “potential crazies” and I somehow ended up on the cutting room floor…
I had one “date”. He lived in Orlando and drove the 102.3 miles to meet me in St. Augustine, where we were to stroll (hand in hand?) through the old city and have lunch. He was almost to ground zero when I chickened out. I was already in the bag and he seemed too eager (texting smiley faces and exclamation laden quips like “almost there!” and “I can’t wait!”), and I just lost steam.
This was our final text convo:
Me: OMG! I was all excited to see you and I went to my car to come to St Augustine and someone slashed all my tires! (The first rule of lying is – keep it simple. I should have said I have a flat tire…)
Him: Are you kidding me? Do you actually expect me to believe this COINCIDENCE???
Me: (The tangled web we weave…) I have this stalker ex and he’s been doing things like boiling my pet rabbit, and HE must have done it…
Him: Are you coming or not? (No smiley face…)
Him: In all my years this is the worst thing that has ever happened to me. This is the shabbiest I have ever felt (lucky him) How DARE you? (now who’s sounding like a crazy?)
In hind sight, this is pretty funny. It’s not like the guy hitchhiked or anything…but I was a hot mess in those days, and my guess is, if there was a way for my “date” to give a zero-star rating about me, or post one of those emoticons that look like they’re puking, he would have. I am probably red-flagged and banned from dating sites for all times.
It’s okay. For me it is all about the chemistry anyway, and you can’t get that by filling out multiple choice questionnaires…