Really, one could create an entire blog devoted solely to this topic. I'm sure there are some out there. Here's mine.
So like a dog to its vomit, when the well of dating runs dry (and when is it not dry?), I go back to the internet. The internet that brings us the finer things in life such as karaoke youtube-style and that one unicorn guy from Brooklyn. Why wouldn't the internet, the giver of such grand things, be a well-suited and magical place to meet people, even a dateable people? Good question, me. The hypothesis gains credibility when you consider that I can name three couples right off the top of my head, happily married, who met on the internet. And if I thought about it, I could probably name more, some married, some dating. (But I won't name names. Don't you guys worry!)
So if this is the case: people do meet their significant and dateable others on the interwebs (as my brother-in-law calls it), why is it such a shameful thing to say, "Oh, yeah. Me and the wife, we met online!" The fact is, it is shameful. It is creepy. And it is unnatural. Let me tell you why.
As I have dived back into the seedy world of online dating, I have discovered some things. One, I spend more time looking at my own profile than really caring about the other profiles of eligible men out there. I like looking at my pictures. I smile and inwardly giggle at the cleverness of my personality in my introduction. "Gosh, I'm adorable," I think. But as I think this, I click on my inbox and find that it's still devoid of messages. Devoid for weeks, mind you. So then I want to change the subheading on my profile to: "Hey, I'm cute dammit! And if you're too retarded to see, screw you, buddy!"
And this is on a good day.
Most of time, if there is a message in the inbox, it's from a "laid-back guy" who "loves the outdoors" and who will probably kill and maim you after he attempts to chat you up via video-chat where he reveals himself as the next TLC reality star in "The 700-Pound Serial Killer." If this is not entirely accurate, then the message is from someone who knew your great-grandfather in "The Great War" and finds you "cute as a button" and who will also kill and maim you and possibly eat your flesh. (Yes, I do realize I've changed to second-person, but I'm only trying to distance myself from this harsh and sobering reality. Get over it.)
If, by some miracle of God, in my inbox there appears a message from someone who, by all accounts appears to be "normal," I will write him back with something witty and clever and something I will spend entirely too much time on crafting. Even if all he writes is something completely inane or more boring than taxes, "Hey, what's up?" I will respond. I will spend whole minutes debating on whether to go with the smiley emoticon or the winky emoticon.
If this strategy works, and the "normal" online male responds with some equally clever banter, we may volley back and forth a few emails. And every night when I come home I will have this ridiculous bubble of expectation in my stomach: "I wonder if he wrote back? Did he? What did he say? Oh, he probably didn't write back. Don't be such a Desperate Doris. What if he likes me? Will this be the email that takes us to the next step?? The phone call???"
Of course these thought patterns are ridiculous. We all know how it ends. You either meet and he turns out to be a weirdo freak after all, or you don't meet. Usually for me, it's the don't meet. Want to know why? Of course you do.
After so many emails, I can't take it anymore. "Let's be like actual people who actually have conversations," I think to myself. This emailing is ridiculous. If I want a pen pal, I'll find a lonely inmate in Siberia who only speaks halting English or a poor Puerto Rican kid whose dream is to play soccer in America (not knowing this will only put him one rung above fast-food managers here). No more emailing. I want a damn date. That's why they call them dating websites, people. To date. D-A-T-E. Not the raisiny thing that tastes like flour. Going out. On a DATE. So I'll start by implying such things in our emailing volley. When he doesn't pick it up (which is a given), I inevitably resort to drastic measures.
Now, I don't think giving men my number is drastic. It's not. If I ever happened to meet someone in the real world who was not a serial killer and with whom I had some things in common, I wouldn't think twice about handing over my digits. I will never, ever hand over my digits if the man seems the least bit insincere. I'm not going to force myself on anybody, 'cause pathetic much? Come on.
Now, that said, at the point in the email correspondence that screams, "Go big or go home," I will type in my digits. My finger will hover uncertainly over the mouse which is aimed to click "Send." Finally, I will say to myself, "Screw it. If he's not man enough to ask you out on a real date, you never needed him anyway," and I will send him my phone number, naked and vulnerable little numbers.
GAH! We all know what happens after this: nothing. Can someone tell me what the hell this is all about? I'd like some logical conclusion: My number causes instantaneous blindness, or typing so much has caused irreparable carpal tunnel (did I even spell that right?). All I'm saying is that all you "men" out there on the internet are cowards. That's right, cowards. If you can't even show the least bit of initiative toward a cyber-relationship, what hope do you have of a real one? For crying in the night.
So, I've learned my lesson. Again. I'm leaving internet dating. If that means leaving dating period, so be it. I'm packing my metaphorical bags, and I'm traveling solo. Because my profile is adorable. And so is the person behind it. Even if I'm the only who thinks so. So there.
