I accidentally started online dating.
I know, right…how does one “accidentally” start online dating? Here’s how:
A couple of months ago I took a peek at Match.com.
More than a year had passed since my divorce was final, and the people who had suggested I take some time off were now suggesting that perhaps I might consider putting myself out there.
I didn’t get very far.
I began filling out a profile and got stymied on “body type.” I said curvy. I was told I was mistaken. That the correct answer was thin or fit.
I pushed it aside and entertained a long-distance love affair instead – pinning my heart to a man who lived 700 miles away, wasn’t quite divorced, and was even less emotionally available. Until he just couldn’t do it.
He never said that. He never said anything at all. He walked away without a word. And for the first time in my life, I did not demand an explanation. It was clear.
Well-intentioned friends suggested I consider JDate while I nursed my heart back to health. Once again, I began filling out a profile, as I had done with Match. And once again, I didn’t get very far.
The men I saw while trolling neither quickened my heart nor tugged at my loins. This likely says more about me and my availability than anything about them. Nonetheless, I stopped looking…even though Match and JDate continued to send me “potential” matches.
A few weeks went by and I thought I’d try again – this time, OKCupid. It seemed everyone I knew who had any online-dating success – including my ex-husband – met here. And, unlike Match and JDate, it was free.
I began filling out a profile, believing I would troll anonymously as I had on the other two sites. Within moments I started receiving pop-ups like, “Mr. OnlyHasEyesForYou viewed your profile.”
What profile? I hadn’t even completed filling one out. I panicked, but kept typing – adding photos and pithy prose describing what I am doing with my life and the six things I cannot live without, wondering if I had chosen the proper screen name.
That was two weeks ago.
I’ve received photographs of 20-somethings’ manscaped chests with a note asking if I fancy younger men. I’ve received cheesy, singles-bar lines like, “You are too hot to be on this site.” Recently, I received a note from a man in his 60s looking for companionship on his ranch in Arkansas. He isn’t looking for love, he said. If that comes, fine. But what he really wants company and a stay-at-home gal.
I have not responded.
I’ve discovered humor doesn’t always translate and what I think is clever might not be received that way.
And I’ve learned what looks and sounds good in email also does not always translate, as evidenced by a seriously strained phone call.
I responded by resorting to an old behavior – sharing unattractive information about myself, in hopes it will drive the other person away. While I am not proud to admit this, it worked. Neither he, nor I, followed up with one another.
I thought about writing a quick note, wishing him luck, but I didn’t. I’m not sure what proper etiquette is here. My ex tells me there is none. (He also told me to get ready for a bunch of dick photographs. Thankfully, to date, I have received none.)
my first, with one of the first men who wrote to me.
He appears smart, clever and articulate. His pacing feels in sync with my own.
We do not communicate every day.
We have just begun to share more personal aspects about our lives.
He has an adopted daughter who is African-American, and he cannot get her braids right. I am an adoptee too. My mother couldn’t get my braids right either, and my father never considered trying.
I’m talking to a couple of other men. Some seem a little too eager. And I wonder if that is my own fear or if it is the truth. Others seem a little more breezy – like myself. And that is the miracle of this. I feel breezy. I have not hooked into any of them. Or even the idea of any of them.
Turns out, online dating is an excellent exercise in detachment. People come. People go. Some respond. Others don’t. Some respond and then stop responding without a word.
Sometimes I respond. Sometimes I don’t. And sometimes I stop without a word. When it is clear there is no “there, there,” to quote Gertrude Stein.
Sadly, I’m not quite over Mr. 700 Miles. However, meeting all of these men reminds me the world is full of romantic possibilities. I’m fairly sure that this new knowing, unlike how I got there, is no accident.