Sure there are some risks (you never know if he’s an axe murder), sure there are some stigmas (don’t only desperate people go on match.com?), but I confess, there are many things I find appealing about online dating.
In hiding behind our usernames, online dating grants us a certain amount of anonymity... or so I thought
I can curate my photos, highlight my humor, hide my flaws, and change my story to target my preferred flavor du jour: sugar daddy or kindred spirit, caretaker or one night stand, lover or soulmate. Besides the fact that I get to handpick potential matches from an already narrowed pool of viable candidates, I broaden my search beyond my favorite haunts, my best friends, and my friends’ friends, all while keeping a certain degree of anonymity. After all, online daters hide behind usernames that in most cases, rarely reference any part of our real names.
I quickly learned, so much for anonymity… and so much for widening my dating horizons.
My profile had only been up for a few hours when an IM popped up in the corner of my screen: “I won’t tell if you won’t tell.”
It was an old friend who once , but who I had since lost touch with. We both agreed the 92% Match prediction was ridiculous — remember that one time we sorta went on a date? — and bid each other good luck. A week later, he was “in a relationship” with a girl he’d met on the site. I thought this boded well for my future in online dating. If he could find someone, surely, I could.
And then my stand partner in All-County orchestra, 3 guys I went to high school with, a former college floormate, a former college teammate, my best friend’s ex-boyfriend, and best of all, a former college TA had all appeared as high-rated matches and subsequently, all either checked in on my profile or messaged me.
In some cases, we recognized each other and lived to laugh about it, but then there’s my poor TA. We had been through more than a class together and one-on-one discussion sessions over coffee were probably more frequent than they should have been. It had been 2 years since I’d last seen him — we’d both had haircuts — and he didn’t realize it was me when he sent his “hey there.” When I replied with an “is this [insert name] here? How’s the dissertation going?” I could see him blush across the wi-fi.
I recently had my first internet-matched date with someone I’ve never previously met (a rare find, it seems, for me). On the screen, he read and looked good, though he used far too many exclamation points for a 30-something male. I had no proof he wasn’t an axe-murder besides his claim to be Canadian, but I was willing to take my chances. I survived, I’m still here and he wants a second date. Great! Now, if only I knew his real name.
Every year, I I try not to blame Hallmark for the excessive quantities of pink hearts floating around retail stores come February. I try not to label St. Valentine’s Day a holiday institutionalized by older married women in order to make younger single women feel inadequate. I try not to reduce February 14th to an excuse to eat excessive quantities of dark chocolate and caramel.
I "accidentally" knock Sweethearts off the shelf and "accidentally" step on them. I try not to, but I can't help it.
Most years I fail — I eat thousands of calories worth of heart-shaped truffles, I shoot bitter stares at older couples, and I “accidentally” knock bags of Sweethearts off the drug store shelf and “accidentally” step on them.
I blame Katie and a boy named Tony for my general animosity towards the holiday.
In the 6th grade, a single carnation-gram arrived on my homeroom desk with a note “Love, your secret admirer.” I was appropriately tickled pink. I moved from social studies to earth science on a cloud — what joy! At dismissal, Katie confessed she had bough carnation-grams for all our girl friends. My little 11 year old balloon was burst.
Many, many, many years later, Tony would burst yet another heart-shaped bubble.
When Tony suggested we spend Valentine's Day together, this is what I envisioned... not a bar on All You Can Eat Wings! night
Of all our friends, we were the only two still single, and I confess that I was somewhat “in love” with him. When he suggested that we spend Valentine’s Day together, I took it as a sign he wanted to be more than friends. We agreed on casual, but when we ended up in a sports bar on “All You Can Eat Wing Night,” I wished I had worn my sports bra instead of the lacy push-up restricting the blood supply to my extremities. Midway through the evening, my toes were numb and a chunk of some frat-boy’s wayward vomit landed on my pink satin motorcycle jacket.
As Tony walked me home, we conversed by screaming, our ears still not adjusted to normal noise levels. We stopped on the stoop of my building and moved close together, our eyes full of intention and confusion. I don’t know how much time passed, but I’m sure we reached a world record for longest awkward pause. I eventually broke the stand-off with a kiss on the cheek and a g’night.
My bra had broken a rib, my jacket reeked of regurgitated chicken wings, and my “date” and I had loss our sense of hearing — it was the most romantic Valentine’s Day I had ever had.
I’m sure one day I’ll be over my February the 14th phobia and once again become lover of Valentine’s Day. But I doubt carnations and men named Tony will have anything to do with my recovery.
The wintry weather forecast made me feel like a kid again -- snow day? yes, please!
The wintry weather forecast for Tuesday night made me feel like a giddy school girl again. Snow day!? Yes, please! I awoke Wednesday morning knowing that the roads still needed clearing and sovwas slow to advance into the day. Sure, there were things to be done (like laundry and job applications), but why do something productive when the entire tri-state area had braced itself for snowpocalypse and was thus resigned to being unproductive?
Ignoring the stack of cover letters in progress, I began the cathartic snow day activity of clearing out my gmail inbox. Where did those 2,241 messages come from anyways?
As I worked my way backwards, it was somewhere around email 1,950 that I was punched in the heart. Sitting there between backups of old grad school papers was a lost exchange with “The One I Let Get Away.” The emails were 2 years old and I wasn’t sure if I should delete them on sight or open and read. They had survived several previous inbox purges — there must have been something in the 9 messages worth holding on to.
“Hey there kiddo! Long time no see (could it be that I’m possibly starting to miss you?)” I wrote in the opening email that invited him to join me in my grad school graduation celebrations.
“HEY!!! Well, I know that I definitely miss you!”
I may be a sucker for Snoopy, but I'm no longer a sucker for an "I miss you."
Now I remembered why I saved the emails. “I definitely miss you” was a profound display of sentiment from a guy who was the polar opposite of sentimental.
The first time he told me he missed me was the first time I realized I was in love with him. He had called one summer night because he needed to talk through a rough patch. An hour passed and after we said our good-byes, he threw it in:
“I really miss you, you know.”
“I love you, you know.” But it was too late — we were already disconnected, and I realize now, disconnected in more ways than one.
A few months ago, after years of bouncing around in no man’s land, I finally came to terms with the fact that “I miss you” and “I love you” are not the same thing, even for the most philophobic of men. An awkward Friday night punctuated weeks of silence and sent me home ready to cut the few threads still holding together our threadbare relationship. It took 5 years for the story of us to run its course, but it took less than an hour to delete most traces of him from my every day life. In clicks and swipes I erased old text messages, buried photos of the two of us in the back of already dusty photo albums, removed his number from my phone, and sent old emails to the trash box.
But just as once shared songs have a habit of popping up on the radio or itunes, other specters of relationships-past can loom behind any corner. Some fade as quickly as they appear, others linger, showing their ghostly face every so often in the back of our memory. Luckily, these emails were an easy kill.
Conversation deleted… but not before I hit “print” and tucked the pages away in the back of a notebook. One day, “They Told Me to Find a Rich Husband” might be a book. When that day comes, you can bet The One I Let Get Away will get his own chapter and I’m going to want all the fodder I can get my hands on.
45 minutes after meeting each other, they were off in the corner of the lounge lip-locked. A few days later, text messages inquires attempted to arrange a proper date — neither had the time and the exchanges ceased. A week passed and she awoke to a Facebook friend request, a miracle considering she never game him her last name. As she clicked “accept,” it occurred to her that they might have done things totally out of order…
Back when I was a bright-eyed student enrolled in Art History 101, I was given an assignment to write a short paper on a painting housed in New York’s Frick Collection. I settled on a series of 18th century baroque panels by the French artist Jean-Honore Fragonard entitled “The Progress of Love.” Floral-ridden and chocolate-box-esque, the 4 tableaux track love from its uncertain beginnings to a happy ending. Beginning with “The Pursuit” the artist takes us through “The Meeting,” “The Lover Crowned,” and “Love Letters.”
It’s been a long time since I thought about these paintings, but as I compared dating notes with a few girl friends who recently acquired/deactivated boyfriends, I decided the scenes set among the frilly, baroque gardens of earthly delights needed a 21st century make over…
The Pursuit (the attempt at seduction):
She's out with her girl friends, but that doesn't stop him from making his approach.
In Fragonard’s day, when masquerade balls were probably the 18th century’s closest approximation of OkCupid, The Pursuit really only happened in the flesh. Today, technology grants us endless ways to approach (stalk?) our future lovers, but at the end of the day, we still prefer a good chase in the real world…
Much Like Fragonard’s leading lady, today’s heroine is out with her girl friends when He makes his approach. He catches her off guard — the last thing she had on her mind tonight was getting lucky. He nonchalantly slips in next to her at the bar and leads with a corny pickup line because he figures it’ll make her laugh. It does. The usual questions are asked and answered. He offers to buy her a refill. She accepts. There’s an occasional arm touch or shoulder tap. Her friends drag her away – they have places to go! She won’t give out her number. But shouts back her name, spelling it out for him. If you want to find me, you’ll find me, she tells him. Lucky for him, he has a good memory. He tracks her down on Facebook. A friend request. Accepted.
She’s out again with her friends, a drink down the hatch when they convince her to message him and find out what he’s doing that night. The doors are wide open. Messages fly back and forth for the next few days. He’s busy. She’s busy. He’s busy. She’s busy. Radio silence. A week passes, then finally he tries again. They agree to a proper date…
The Meeting (the moonlit assignation)
The Moonlit assignation, or the First Date
First dates don’t happen on weekends anymore. Weekends are reserved for real friends. Weekends allow you to behave out of character. Weekends have consequences.
They agree to meet on Tuesday night, after work, for drinks and dinner. She has a 9AM meeting Wednesday morning with a big client — the perfect built-in out for when things start to go rough. He’s decided she’s worth impressing and takes her some place upscale but understated. By now, they’ve both forgotten what the other person actually looks like in real life, and are surprised to find they’re attracted to each other.
He’s nervous and spills her drink. The ice is broken, literally and figuratively, and the subsequent conversation is lively. Before they know it, the maitre d’hotel is kicking them out — it’s closing time. He wants to kiss her. She’s sorry it’s a Tuesday, hugs him instead (what restraint!) and they agree to meet again.
Love Letters (the continuation of a happy union)
after the meeting comes the love letters... or love texts
In Fragonard’s series, this actually comes last — the happy couple send letters to reinforce their eternal love for one another. Today, I’m not sure how many people exchange handwritten love letters any more. However, the exchange of love notes in 2010/11 take on many forms, thanks to BBM and text messages. Fingers shoot across miniature keyboards in rapid-fire, concise exchanges. “Wanna come over?” “what r u wearing” “;)” NC-17 camera phone images strengthen the lust, while the occasional “i miss u” or “dinner 2nite?” tug at the heart strings.
The Lover Crowned(they finally get it on)
When she was 18, her mother gave her a copy of “The Rules.” Recently, she’d been watching “Millionaire Matchmaker.” Both advocate waiting until a relationship turns monogamous before sleeping with the guy. She always felt this approach got her into more trouble than it was worth, but she’s been trying to stick with it. They’re a few weeks into things and out to dinner when he asks her if she’d like to join him at his sister’s wedding next week. Gulp!
“So..um…what’s up with us?” she asks, knowing that she’s about the meet his whole extended family. Is she “a friend” or “the girlfriend?”
The verdict? She’s the girlfriend…
They go back to his place. Clothes fly off — in the morning, there’s shirts in the kitchen, pants in the living rooms and trails of random garments hanging off the furniture. Thank goodness it’s a Sunday morning.
Finally, she gets to close the book on The Rules.
Next stop? The Swing?
Fragonard's "The Swing"... I don't think this one needs an update 😉
…the villagers were stirring, kids, significant others, and in-laws in tow. There was a feast to prepare and a table to set, flights to be made and cars for roadtrips to be packed.
I’d never seen it before — a supermarket suffering from a hand basket and shopping cart shortage. People stood dumbfounded. Where did they all go?! Where am I supposed to put by butternut squash? Some wives were stalking departing shoppers, helping them unload their groceries in hopes of scoring a vessel for their groceries. Others were in foot races, running to grab the first cart returned to the corral.
Meanwhile, husbands sat in the driver seats of minivans praying a parking spot would come vacant, pretending they didn’t know “that woman” who was about to bat another over the head with her Michael Kors handbag.
A timeless Thanksgiving tradition -- over crowded grocery stores and shopping cart ralleys
Inside, the aisles were packed, but the shoppers unphased. Everyone was on a mission. The line for the organic turkeys swirled around the store. Family teams were passing bags of cranberries like they were footballs and tossing turnips like fastpitch softballs. It was a controlled chaos, except for the occasional fight over an un-cracked frozen pie crust.
The shopping cart shortage was easily explained. There seemed to be a two per family distribution — one for the children, one for the turkey and trimmings. The children looked terrified. Their eyes bugged, their little hands gripped tightly around the cart’s mesh. They looked at their parents as if they were total strangers. Are these people diving for the last bag of stuffing mix the same people that read me Winnie the Pooh stories with the funny voices?
The problem with pre-Thanksgiving shopping is that entire families head out to the grocery store. Grandparents are told to stay with the cart — usually deposited in the middle of the aisle — and watch the children, while parents try to double team on the whipped cream and produce.
Having been involved with team sports my whole life, I know that you’re only as strong as your weakest player. Bringing along idle shoppers who are told to sit and stay won’t help you get those frozen peas to the dinner table… not to mention the fouls they cause to members of other teams. I was nearly launched headlong into the stack of oranges when an unmonitored toddler cut me off at a corner. Where was that kid’s leash?!
At the end of the day, I give my fellow shoppers credit. No one really lost their cool, and I appreciated the woman who helped me load the Land Rover and chirped a “Happy Thanksgiving!” as she toted away my shopping cart.
“Good luck in there!” I hollared back.
She was going to need it.
It's a race to the checkout line. Watch out ladies, those handbags double as weapons!
Okay, so technically Prince William’s fiancee didn’t know we were in direct competition for the title role of Future Queen of England, but had she, I’m sure she would have been concerned. With CVs startlingly similar, she probably doesn’t realize how close she came to being runner up. Kate, you owe Ollie a thank you note…
We're both brunettes with degrees in art history and an affinity for elaborate hats
We’re both brunettes with pronounced cheek bones, degrees in art history, and an affinity for elaborately embellished hats.
According to the standards of our respective homelands, we’re both considered “commoners.”
Everyone we know has told us to find a rich husband.
As for any concerns the British subjects might have about my being an American, I can easily put those to rest. My parents are children of the Commonwealth — my father is South African and my mother is Canadian. My cousin Mable and her husband were Mi-5. She was made a Dame after she was injured protecting the Queen in an IRA bombing. Her husband was friends with Ian Fleming. I spell color “colour” and favorite “favourite.” I don’t know, but I think all that makes me an excellent representative of the Modern British Empire.
Even though I was a legitimate contender, Kate had one thing I lacked: access.
I may not be as quintessentially English as this scene, but I'm could make it work
I was last in the UK in 2007 when Kate & Prince William were on the fritz. The time was right and I was in Bath, staying in a small B&B on Bennett Street only a stone’s throw away from his Highness’ favorite Polo grounds. Armed with my Burberry oil-skin coat, riding boots, and feathered velvet wide-brimmed hat, I was ready to rope me a royal. Alas, stomping around the English countryside, stopping to pose in front of old English manors while hunting for the glimmer of a crown jewel proved fruitless.
Remembering I had a cousin living just outside Windsor, I bolted from Bath to get closer to the mother-ship. The Queen was apparently in residence, and as I stood at the foot of the Windsor Castle walls I considered my options. Perhaps scaling the battlements wasn’t the best way to secure an audience with the Royal Family. More likely, it would secure an uncomfortable meeting with some disgruntled Mi-5 agents and an extended stay in the Tower of London. Determined not to go home sans Prince, I took my tourist-sized Union Jack and marched to the nearest pub to plot.
Prince William and I never met, and for that, Kate, you owe a bartender named Ollie
I never met Prince William while in Windsor, and for that Kate, you can thank the bartender, Ollie, for being a terribly good distraction.
All kidding aside. Kate Middleton, I congratulate you and His Highness on your engagement. You were a worthy rival and I applaud you on your deserved victory.
However, in the unlikely event your brother-in-law-to-be, Prince Harry, develops tastes in females similar to those of his older brother, you know where to find me… I think we’d make tremendous sisters-in-laws.
They Told Me to Find a Rich Husband 