For the second time, I am subscribed to Match.com. It has been an interesting experience and one which I see evolving into an opportunity for some great material for stand-up more than a love connection, but I still have one week left. Anything is possible.
During the first round, I was living in New Hampshire, in the woods none-the-less, and having a hard time meeting men around my age. There was no shortage of twenty-somethings vying for my attention but that Demi-Ashton thing has an expiration date, in my opinion. Or maybe it was just that I wanted someone who could understand The Partridge Family being my first album…or what an album was for that matter. Sadly, men mostly wanted to take me hunting or fishing, neither of which is my idea of a dream date. Or they would see that I had a Ducati and insisted I’d have a much better time on the back of their bike with my arms wrapped tightly around them. Heh! They didn’t get me at all. The only fruit of my endeavor was a lovely gift bag of One Buck Chuck and a loaf of bread from a man who cycles. Not one kiss was granted.
Most recently, I joined because I was new in town and wanted to meet some people. It gets difficult once you are out of school or don’t have a work place where you interact with an assortment of folks to know what it is you want. Or at least it is for me. I have figured out what I don’t want however. Ready? I don’t want you if you hate your “Ex” and talk about her (s) constantly; I don’t want to be a therapist to your bad-boy inclinations that you should have reconciled by 30; I don’t want to ride on the back of your Harley while you cruise in shorts and flip flops…mostly because I think you are an idiot for not wearing boots and leathers; and no, I do not want to put a strap-on on and fuck you in the ass. Not ever. Yes, I was asked that one by a man on our first and only date.
The getting-to-know-you process has become arduous and exhausting. And I am ready to be done with it. In fact, I am going on my last date today. It’s just coffee. (He is nervous that I won’t look like my photos because women lie; I’m nervous that he is better in my head than real life because men lie.) He seems like a swell fellow though. Most likely nothing will come of it, but it will be nice to end on a good note. The whole “Will you fuck me in the ass?” one was a tad discordant and ended flat.
But speaking of lying…how do you know how much to share? What is the authentic you? What if you are 50 but your lilting laugh causes people to mistake you for 40? What if you have a child who is in jail? What if you don’t have a degree but you are incredibly well-educated? What if you have several degrees but, like my son’s dean, you don’t know what the 16th Amendment is or that it forced everyone into slavery, regardless of color? What if you hate football, except for the Ducks because they have costume changes? (Yeah, that’s me.)
Match and other on-line dating venues make it so bloody awkward. You are supposed to list your preferences and ideals to enlist the best opportunity for a match and yet those on it never respect anything but the photo. And then men complain that the women never look like their photo. Men typically are much shorter than they portend, by the way. I have had the best time telling men before meeting them that I don’t really look like my photos. They always sound so nervous. “What do you mean? they ask tenuously sometimes, and other times with heated indignation. And I respond, “Well, I’ve gained weight.” It is hysterical the way they unravel. Sometimes I explain that I was too tiny in the first place and gained weight in preparation for a surgery that I fortunately did not have to have and then discovered that, with the weight gain came my boobs again. And I gotta admit, waking up and reaching down and feeling my once-again big tits is pretty awesome. And then they meet me and say, “You’re right, you don’t look like your photos. You are stunning!” Well, gee, glad you liked me for me???
So yeah, sometimes I’m stunning; sometimes, I am not. Sometimes I like to exhaust myself skiing, or doing some other sport that threatens to cause me injury; sometimes I like hanging out in my pj’s writing…for days in a row, only brushing my teeth and checking to make sure I cannot smell myself. Sometimes I eat meat and sometimes I do juice fasts. Sometimes I go to church; sometimes I just read and pray on my own. The point is, I am way more complicated and dynamic than what can be shared in a few lines. And my problem is that what I have found is that most other people on there are not. One-dimensional, boring, undereducated where critical thinking is concerned, not traveled…their lives are lived in a very small box. And then there are the others, who like me, have big lives and don’t really know how to be any other way. So I cannot entirely blame Match for its limitations. And I am very grateful for the fodder it has provided. Who knows what will be hatched of it? Who would have thought that a flood would bring me my darling Etoile who will forever me imprinted upon me with an intense love and affection? One never knows…
However, if I am going to be my authentic self and trust and believe in the reality of Happy Accidents, Magic Moments, Soul Mates, and Love-at-first-sight, I am going to have to withdraw from these forced situations and rest in the confidence that someday I will meet the man who makes me catch my breath and for whom I will settle down from my gypsy life to happily bask in the glow of our sickening affection for one another that causes my children to both roll their eyes and secretly hope that they are blessed to someday have the same. Just like my Petite Etoile who landed in my lap, so will true love, I am sure. Until then, the worse that can happen is I get shit on a bit which is exactly what was happening in the photo. Teaching the little darling to fly and she poops right on me. Shit happens. So does love.