I did it. I went back in to the depths of online dating. I paid for three months, two months ago, and by gosh I am going to get three months of something that resembles an eighty-five percentile male match.
What I am getting is a big fat dose of material for writing, and a slap in the face from the realities of being 56, independant and hopeful. I am also getting schooled in taking a closer look at myself, my personsal story and whatever is behind door number three. There is no reason why door number three holds all the answers. I just like the number three.
Since my matchdotcom part deux, I have been on a couple of dates, viewed some potential profiles and had several potential conversations. Potential, meaning an introductory message was sent by someone who “liked”me, some witty banter was exchanged, and then nothing. Truth be told, I did not respond to several potential conversations.
Like this one:
Hi. You are pretty. Do you have a vegatable garden?
or this one.
I tried with you, I really did. Oh well.
I never met this man in my life. Never exhanged any kind of words with this man. Nothing.
I am five minutes away from you. Can you meet me here________?
I read your profile. I can meet for dinner tonight, or on Thursday, I am away for the weekend and then I can meet on Tuesday, Thursday or Friday. Are you available? Anwer me ASAP so I can put this in my schedule.’
I was reading your profile and you seem really artsy……I like artsy….what are you wearing right now?
Oh for fucks’s sake.
I did not respond to any of these conversation starters.
Match.com reminds me daily how many potential matches I am disregarding. I remind Match.com how many mismatches they are sending. One of us will cry uncle soon, or I will call the next two months a wash and walk away from this whole world of mindless small talk. I recently learned at five o’clock every day Match .com sends out a list of matches to men who like my type. Sort of like a “it’s five o’clock somewhere and here is your match.” It is reportedly done for men, who purchased a boost. I have never received a five o’clock list of men my type. Who knew? Here is what I do know based on my two months of online dating. Men want to know the following things:
Are you in shape? (even if they are not)
Do you believe in Jesus?
Do you eat seafood?
Do you wear thigh highs?
Boots or stockings?
Do you own a vibrator?
Am I too old for you?
Am I too young for you?
I am sitting here having a glass of wine? What are you wearing right now?
These pictures are recent( when clearly they are not)
Don’t waste my time.
Do you kiss on the first date?
If I want to.
I don’t have the answers.I am not sure when dating took a turn for the worst. This is abundantly clear to me: A great deal of online dating reads like a Sex in the City episode. Less the fabulous shoes. I have given up on just knowing- and love at first sight.There are too many variables these days. I fell in love once at first sight and it lasted nearly 19 years. My mother introduced us. Both my mother and that man have passed away, so the odds may not be in my favor. I have faith though. My friend Fran, from Long Island who prides herself on being a matchmaker – will have to find comfort in knowing she may have met her first unmatchable. We have been friends for over thirty years- and she is even losing faith in my matchable. It bothers her greatly that I am not dating regularly. In her thick New York accent she says to me all the time,usually on Sunday mornings as she is driving in to work, in her whispered tone of great concern.
What ah ya do-ing? You have gaht to get out thear. You can meet a nice man. Stop swip’in away awl that potential.
Okay Fran, Okay.
I struggle with the residue of my husbands death. Still. It is more in the recesses of my heart these days- but it creeps in when least expected. The morning after what I thought was a successful dinner date, (no, he did not kiss me),I woke up to a familiar tug at my heart strings.
I don’t want to be doing this, I screamed at the ceiling. I don’t want to be doing this!
You left. You had this amazing love in your life and you left. We loved you so much and you left. (Snot and tears running down on sketch pads and pastels.)Now I am sitting across from someone at dinner,having a glass of wine, telling my story and you are a part of that story, and I feel strange and I am trying to be brave. But this is weird.. Why did you leave? It is weird for someone else to reach across the table and hold my hand, or pull out my chair, or stand when I leave, or open the door or make arrangements and follow through. Or compliment me, be interested in me, when you were always the one I wanted to do this for the rest of my life. But you left. I know all the reasons why, and I love you and I loved you. But here we are. Here I am.
I cry for a while. I have not cried like this in a while. I have been thinking about this for a while, this starting over, this part of adult conversations, life stories and kisses goodnight. I kept crying.
I have a month left on my Match.com. I am shutting it down, making myself invisable. In the end I do not have it in me to play the game, follow the rules, and listen to mindless chatter,or make small talk via emails or texts. It was too shallow and ingenuious and I do not have it in me.
I am calling uncle, Match.com. You win at the losing game of online dating. I give. I am not willing to lower my expectations and banter back and forth. Take my money. Take it! Damn you and your algorithms.
About that vegtable garden though….