(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!