(Mis)Adventures of Internet Dating, Part 2

Internet dating is a lot like shopping at Wal-Mart. Eighteen different brands of fishing poles? Check. Thirty different kinds of Hamburger Helper? Check. One container of Italian Marscapone cheese? Good luck! Certainly if you're going for quantity over quality, then look no further than the billions of personal ads littering the World Wide Web. Just to illustrate my point, I've copied and pasted a few shining examples below for your viewing pleasure. I've also included some of my own commentary, in pink. Enjoy!

"I like all shapes sizes and colors of women.luv to have a good time,I'm very laid bck kool to be around.and very sweet funny and very ready ........" (Read: I'm just looking to get laid. Now.)

"I work out 5 days a week I love shopping ..and goings to the movies....very out going young very witty man...I'm different in my thinking processes..im a man of many characteristics good and bad but over all a decent young man" (Wait. He works out AND he loves shopping? Different thinking processes? Pretty sure this one is batting for both teams.)

"I like meeting people and having interesting conversations. I enjoy playing music, meditation, exercise, helping people and petting my cats. My taste in music varies widely, but as a general rule I'm not a huge fan of easily digestible pop." (Honestly, I couldn't get past the "petting my cats" part.)

"I am a Real guy, w/ a REAL job, a REAL car, and very soon a REAL place of my own...I love down to earth people who can conversate (what?) about anything and can find good/fun in any situation. I plan to own my own business very soon and looking to share my free time with someone looking for fun." (I literally laughed out loud at this one. He should have just come out and said, "looking to share my free time with someone other than my mom.")


"OK IMMA MAKE THIS SHORT AND SWEET LOLZ.. I WORK MY ASS OFF, LIVE ON MY OWN, I LOVE FOOTBALL, BBQ'S, TACO TRUCKS, TXTING, BEER, .... MANY OTHER THINGS ... BUT REMEMBER I SAID IMMA MAKE THIS SHORT AND SWEET LOL .. I LIKE A REAL WOMAN.. ONE THAT'S CARING,SWEET,CUTE, HAS CURVES, *NOTE* NOT INTO SKINNY CHICKS.. GOTTA HAVE MEAT ON UR BONES :). ANY ?'S JUST ASK.. AND PLS NO FAKES.." (This one has it all. Text speak, all caps, a mention of taco trucks, and the infamous "real woman/no fakes" reference. By "no fakes" does he mean he doesn't go for silicone breast implants? Or perhaps he means he wouldn't be attracted to a woman with a prosthetic limb? Or is he just against female robots?)

Alright, as much as I enjoy poking fun at complete strangers, I shall now move on to more of my personal internet dating mishaps. I should probably preface this next section with a bit of a disclaimer. After the first few dates (see Part 1), my view of internet dating started to evolve into a kind of desperate "surely more dates is better" mentality.  I was booking myself for an outing just about every night of the week. (How could I possibly be sad and depressed when I was so busy?) My expectations were changing rapidly, too. I began to broaden my idea of "good looking" to include the more all-encompassing "visually tolerable." My list of "must haves" was starting to resemble an ever shortening list of "as long as he's nots." My original hope of finding true love was morphing into a much more superficial desire for something fun to do on a weeknight. (Then again, perhaps I should have just gotten cable instead?) Well that, and my loneliness seemed to urge me, like a little devil sitting on my shoulder, to wholeheartedly pursue Mr. Right Now. I could almost hear the little horned bastard in my ear: "I don't see the right man anywhere, missy. However, I do see several fun-for-now-free-dinner-keep-you-warm-tonight-gone-tomorrow men lined up outside your door!" It was a sad state of affairs, really. I wouldn't exactly say I'm proud of this time in my life, but it has since proven its value, hindsight being 20/20 and all that. So now that you've been appropriately warned, let's get to the good stuff.


Enter Jason. Assistant basketball coach for a prominent professional team in the area, college graduate, and had even spent a few years teaching math at a private all-boys school. His resume was impressive, to say the least. In his pictures, he appeared tall, confident, and had an approachable, easy smile, with (get this) straight teeth. He wasn't drop-dead gorgeous or anything, but I was hooked when I saw the nice smile in his online photographs. After a few emails sent back and forth (where he proved he had sufficient spelling ability), we decided to meet at Bonefish Grill for dinner. He was punctual and polite, and I breathed a silent sigh of relief that he was the same guy I remember seeing in his pictures. Although he was a bit more gangly than I had anticipated, (his long arms and mannerisms reminded me a bit of a marionette doll, for some reason) I shrugged it off when he waited for me to be seated before he sat down himself. A gentleman? This guy's got potential. Sixty seconds into the date, and I'm thinking, "What's his last name again? It better not be something weird or hard to spell." He sat down across from me, smiled, and we exchanged a few pleasantries before the waitress came over to take our orders. The small talk was appropriately balanced between him talking and me talking, but the more he spoke, the more I became fixated on his mouth. There was a funny, barely perceptible almost-whistle to his speech, and I realized within a few minutes that his jaw was set back more than I had noticed before, giving him an enormous overbite. That, and his top row of teeth (although straight) were downright massive. Damnit! This was going so well.

The waitress took our orders and the small talk continued, although a little more awkwardly now. I shifted the conversation in his direction, asking him questions about his experiences in the classroom, wanting to keep him talking so I could thoroughly analyze exactly how devastating this overbite was going to be for me tonight. In his defense, he hid it well, and had apparently learned at a young age to alter his speech in such a way as to downplay its severity. He was rambling on about coaching basketball at this point, and was telling a story of how he rescued one of his players from a crazy night of binge drinking the night before a big game. I remember thinking there was something I found familiar about his face, but I couldn't put my finger on what it was.

When our food arrived at the table, I was thoroughly on the fence with this guy. I had actually been considering giving him a chance. That is, until we started eating. Well, I should clarify. Until I started eating, and he started... gorging himself like a wild animal who hadn't eaten in months. Our entire conversation came to a complete halt when he picked up his fork. With both elbows up on the table, he instantly transformed into some sort of hungry, zombie caveman. He was actually trying to talk again, apparently undaunted by the mouthfuls of food he was tossing around underneath his giant overbite. I sat there for a moment, in shock, then looked around. Surely someone else was seeing this ridiculousness. Little bits of food were dropping like bombs out of his mouth onto the table. (And was that a spit bubble I just saw?) I suddenly imagined myself jumping up, ripping the tablecloth and plates and food off the table in one violent apelike move, beating my fists on my chest, then huddling over the mess and shoveling food into my mouth with my bare hands. Instead, I stared down blankly at my own forkful of pasta and giggled to myself, "I can't compete with this."

When the waitress returned later to take our plates (mine was practically untouched), I was mesmerized by the ring of crumbs and unidentifiable soggy bits of post-chew left on the tablecloth. My stomach turned. When he offered to pay for dinner, I didn't argue as much as I normally would, and then suddenly remembered why his face seemed so familiar. He reminded me of Mister Ed! You know, the talking horse. I wish I could tell you more of what he talked about that night, because he did a lot of talking. What I can tell you is that I remember hoping that the little green piece of spinach stuck in his front teeth (I had actually stared at it so long that I contemplated giving it a name) stayed there all night so he could go home, look in the mirror, smile, and then suddenly realize why I would never be calling him again. And as much as I appreciated his chivalry in paying for my dinner, I learned my third very valuable internet dating lesson that night: Free dinners always come at a price. Tonight's price? My appetite.

Why Fedoras are Awesome

(A Tribute to the Two Most Amazing Men in My Life)

1. My dad rocked a fedora in the 70's.
2. My dad is my hero.
3. My brother presently rocks a fedora (and a kickass mustache).
4. My brother is the coolest guy I know.
5. My dad and my brother are, and will forever be, my favorite men in the whole world. They have shown me what unconditional love looks like, and will forever be two shining examples of truly great men. They have taught me many things, including how to laugh (and how to make others laugh), and how to never compromise one's own originality. They never cease to amaze me with their talents and abilities. (Even though I never really learned to rock and roll, or surf, or play sports, or shoot guns, they have loved me and put up with me anyway!)

A Short List of Other Reasons Why Fedoras are Awesome:
1. The word fedora first appeared as the title of a play in 1882. The heroine, Princess Fedora, donned a hat similar to what is now known as a fedora hat. The fedora became a female fashion that lasted into the early part of the 20th century, and then eventually became a male fashion later.
2. Humphrey Bogart... Casablanca.
3. Dick Tracy
4. Freddy Krueger
5. Michael Jackson
6. The Blues Brothers
7. INDIANA JONES

Need I say more??

(Mis)Adventures of Internet Dating, Part 1

"One in five relationships start online." That's the part they tell you on Match.com's website. What they don't tell you is the one relationship they are referring to is more than likely short-lived and good for only one thing (okay, maybe two, but I'll get to that later): giving friends and coworkers a hearty, doubled-over, laugh-so-hard-they-cry source of entertainment. If you didn't have anything to talk about over the office lunch break before, sign yourself up for some internet dating, and Bingo! You'll suddenly be the talk of the lunch table. (Just like when you were in high school, except this time you don't mind that they are laughing at you.)

I've been told countless times that I should write a book about my various internet dating disasters, but since I'm not quite confident enough or motivated enough for the book thing, I thought this blog would be a sufficient substitute. A little light-hearted, self-depricating humor seems appropriate at this point, too, especially after the gravity of my first post. So, here goes.

It all started about two months after I first moved to Memphis. It didn't take me long to realize that working in an environment populated by 99.8% women for 40+ hours a week, followed by spending the remainder of my hours alone in a tiny one-bedroom apartment with my dog, was not exactly conducive to meeting men. I had just broken up (again) with my hometown love, and was in desperate need of... some distraction. So internet dating seemed like a completely sensible, innocuous option. I could pick from thousands of local singles, and talk to only those I was truly interested in,  all from the comfort of my living room couch. Besides, it would give me something else to do on weekends besides eating my weight in cupcakes and watching all three seasons of Veronica Mars on Netflix.

My first encounter was with a guy I'll call Peter. At first glance, his profile was impressive. He was intelligent, well-spoken, and educated. An archaeologist, in fact. He had a very academic look about him, and even sported a sharp looking fedora in his pictures. I was immediately reminded of my childhood crush on Indiana Jones, and contacted him about grabbing a beer together sometime. That week we met at a bar across from U of M, and I learned my first valuable internet dating lesson: Always ask for additional pictures. In real life, Peter was indeed intelligent and well-spoken. However, he wore the fedora in every picture to hide his male pattern baldness, and hadn't smiled openly in any of this pictures because of his horribly (and I mean HORRIBLY) crooked teeth. As if that wasn't bad enough, he spent almost the entire date talking about the values of a communist society, and within two days was blowing up my phone and Facebook asking if I could come save him from killing himself. Yes, I said killing himself. Turns out he was still devastated by a recent breakup and would drink himself into oblivion, then talk about hurting himself to end his heartache. And so ended my interactions with Peter.

Next up was Mike. Again, much like Peter, his profile was well-written and intelligent. He had a graduate degree, glasses, and seemed well-adjusted and up on current events. (Can you tell I was going for the bookish, intellectual type?) I was most impressed with him because of his creative date idea. He had invited me to a costumed swing dance party a few weekends before Halloween. It was to be hosted at the University and would be complete with a live Big Band era musical group. Having done a little swing dancing in high school, I was immediately intrigued. Luckily I didn't have to wear a costume, but Mike warned me ahead of time that he would be donning one, although strangely he wouldn't tell me what it was.

That night, I arrive at the Student Center and stand awkwardly in a roomful of costumed strangers for a few moments, hoping for one of them to come toward me and introduce himself as Mike. I scan the room anxiously. There is a vampire with a beer-belly over there (I decide in that moment that I will run out of this party straightaway if that turns out to be my date), an aging, zoot suit mobster with flaming red hair across the way, and over there a homeless man eating hors d'oeuvres... No, that's not a costume. I'm pretty sure that's a genuinely homeless man enjoying the food and central air conditioning. Finally, a man in a giant Daffy Duck costume waddles over to me, sticks out his hand, and says through a giant yellow bill, "Leah?"

This man is head to toe duck. One of those rental costumes that you're afraid to ask how many others have worn (and never washed) before. "Yes," I say hesitantly. "Glad you came! I'm Mike," he says loudly. I wait for a moment, expecting him to remove the gargantuan duck head before I speak again. There is an awkward pause. I am still staring at the duck face. He continues, "You look great! Are you ready to dance?" His voice is muffled by the duck head, and I can't even make out an outline of his face through the black mesh of the giant duck eyes. I suddenly picture a horrifically disfigured elephant man hiding underneath the duck costume, then picture myself screaming and begging him to put the duck head back on. All I manage to say is, "Yeah... did you say there was a refresher lesson first?" He answers, "Yep. How has your weekend been so far?"

I stand there dumbfounded. I feel beyond ridiculous talking to the giant duck head. Why isn't he taking that damned thing off already?? We must have talked for fifteen achingly long minutes before he finally took it off his head. Thankfully, when he did take it off, I didn't run screaming. Underneath he was just as he had appeared in his online photographs, except for being a bit sweaty... undoubtedly from voluntarily trapping himself in the thick, slightly dingy looking rental costume. He was not an unattractive man (but not particularly attractive, either), and he had a kind smile. Unfortunately he made me dance with him the whole night while he wore the giant duck head. And worse than that, he was a terrible dancer. He had no sense of rhythm whatsoever, and his giant yellow duck feet kept stepping on mine the entire time.

By the end of the party I was so tired of holding the giant fuzzy duck mittens covering his hands, and my neck ached from keeping my head slightly back so his giant yellow duck bill wouldn't hit me in the face. The few times we sat down to relax or grab a drink, he was horribly awkward and quiet. I'm pretty sure Daffy Duck himself would have had better social skills than this guy. Oh, and did I mention that he smelled like rotting cauliflower? I couldn't decide if it was actually his dripping sweat that made him smell that way, or the dripping sweat mixed with the stale, matted, and mildewy duck fur. If strike one was the duck head (and lack of social grace), and strike two was the horrible dancing skills, then strike three was definitely the BO. Overall, he was just not my type. Yes, I can appreciate an intellectual man. So long as this man is not so cerebral that he can't carry on a decent conversation. And so long as he doesn't smell like last week's produce accidentally left in the back seat of a car in the middle of July. Regardless, I had learned my second very valuable internet dating lesson: If it walks like a duck, and talks like a duck, it must be... a duck.

Stay tuned for more misadventures in Part 2... Coming soon!
 

Standstill

It is barely September. I am already mourning the loss of summer. All the sweet, salty, sandy memories of the sea, and of family, friends, and my last love haunt me at night. I sit in the dark silence of my apartment, alone, and try with all my might to hear the ocean waves tumbling rhythmically onshore. Instead, I hear the drone of Interstate 40 outside my window. In the daylight, I try to settle back into my life here in Memphis, and cling desperately to the little joys of teaching, to the furry energy of my puppies, and to the faces of new friends I barely know.

At this moment, there is a pressure behind my eyes, from tears years old, but tears I have cried a thousand times before. They feel hot as they sting my eyes, and I hate them already. I know them all too well. A familiar argument starts up again inside me. The one between my head and my heart. It has been so long now, this fighting, and both my head and my heart are bitter about the lack of resolution, yet neither has been able to compromise. Meanwhile, I am left tired. A growing sense of self-loathing won't leave me alone.

My head screams at my heart, for the millionth time, "But if you would just be IN LOVE with him, then we could be happy! You keep begging and pleading to be happy, but you can't embrace the man who loves you more than anyone on this earth??? We could be married with a beautiful family by now, the white picket fence... EVERYTHING YOU WANT!! All the pain and loneliness of searching would be over if you would just BE IN LOVE WITH HIM."

My heart, exhausted from the fight, whispers simply, "But I am not in love with him. I have tried. But I am not."

My head insists on presenting a litany of arguments to my heart at this point. Even though we have all heard these arguments a thousand times. "1)He is so in love with you. 2)He dreams of making cute little babies with you. 3)He would treat you like a princess for the rest of your life. 4)He is committed, and would be forever committed, to honoring you as his wife. 5)He wants to make you so happy. 6).... 7).... 8)...."

My heart and I sigh at this point. We are both so weary. It has been three years. The shame in this fact sobers my head for a moment, and I realize there is a gray cloud gripping my heart. What kind of damage have I done to myself over this time? Being stuck on this carousel, damning myself to make the same mistakes over and over again, has no doubt taken its toll.

Letting go of him terrifies me. I have tried numerous times. Each with various and obviously limited amounts of success. It seems that there is always a critical moment when I cannot continue. Not one more step forward can I take, and I go running back to him, to his familiarity, to his comforting embrace. I do not know how to operate without him in my life. It seems the love I have for him is painfully not enough to make me feel comfortable with the idea of "forever," but equally and painfully enough so that envisioning life without him is like ripping off a limb. This purgatory of in-betweenness is maddening.

Last Tuesday night, surrounded by a group of strong, supportive women, I stumbled upon a little bit of truth that blew through my soul like a cold, crisp winter breeze. It started with a little bag filled with stones.  "Ask a question. Anything you want. And pick a stone." So I did.

"What's going on with my love life?" I asked. The little stone that emerged from the bag had a single straight line carved into it. Isa. Meaning standstill, withdrawal, ice. Laughter escaped my mouth before I had the chance to think. "How very fitting," I heard myself say.

The explanation for Isa:

"The winter of the spiritual life is upon you. You may find yourself entangled in a situation to whose implications you are, in effect, blind. You may feel powerless to do anything except submit, surrender, even sacrifice some long-cherished desire. Be patient, for this is the period of gestation that precedes a rebirth. 

Positive accomplishment is unlikely now. There is a freeze on useful activity, all your plans are on hold. You may be experiencing an unaccustomed drain on your energy and wonder why: A chill wind is reaching you over the iceflows of old, outmoded habits.

Trying to hold on can result in shallowness of feeling, a sense of being out of touch with life. Seek to discover what it is you are holding onto that perpetuates this condition, and let go. Shed, release, cleanse away the old; doing so will bring on the thaw.

Usually Isa requires a sacrifice of the personal, the "I." At such a time, you cannot hope to rely on help or friendly support. And yet there is no reason for anxiety. Submit and be still, for what you are experiencing is not necessarily the result of your actions or habits, but rather arises from conditions about which you can do nothing. What has been full must empty, what has increased must decrease. This is the way of Heaven and Earth. To surrender is to display courage and wisdom.

And yet there is another face to Standstill. Just as winter is a time for going within, drawing Isa can announce a time of restoration and renewal at the deepest level. In your solitude, exercise caution and do not stubbornly persist in doing your will. Remain mindful that the seed of the new is present in the shell of the old, the seed of unrealized potential, the seed of the good. Trust your own process, and watch for signs of spring."

As I read the explanation, a strange sense of familiarity and relief spread over me, and tears poured down my face. My soul began to breathe again, it seemed. This little stone, Isa, has now become both my meditation, and my challenge. I want to walk forward into my winter, with a sense of calm, and "trust my own process." The hope of spring gives me a reason for the cold struggle, and helps me forgive myself for all the mistakes I make along the way. I must let go (my god how fear grips me in just having to type those words!) and cling to the notion that the best is truly yet to come.

As I stand in the doorway of my winter, holding tightly to my new found resolution, I am quickly reminded: Oh yeah, I am a control freak. Letting go comes about as easily and as naturally to me as playing softball does. (Picture an awkward, athletically-challenged preteen doing pirouettes in right field.) Indeed, this letting go is, and will continue to be, a daily struggle for me. Especially when with it comes the fear of so many things, namely (more) pain and heartache. Tonight's solace (because I can only handle things like this one day, one night, one hour, and sometimes only one moment, at a time): a quote by Paulo Coelho, which comforts a bit of the anxiety that bubbles in my heart.

"Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams, because every second of the search is a second's encounter with God and with eternity."