Internet Dating

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.

Discovering an Anchor

It all starts with a seemingly small series of nonevents. As it turned out, I was to go to the Shakespeare Festival alone to my secondary teachers conference. As no one was coming with me, I prepared myself with audiobooks, journal, cooler full of my kind of food (too much of it as usual), novel, patriarchal blessing, scriptures, and a vague idea that if I had time outside the conference and seeing plays, I would absorb into myself some kind of miraculous peace about everything. All things denoting a journey in meditation, a reevaluation of self.

My second day after the conference ended at 5pm, I found myself in my car throwing a tantrum as I am sometimes prone to do. This tantrum was monumental for being by myself, and it was because of myself I threw it. Because I could. Because I was by myself. The reason for it is silly by itself. But not so much given what became context.

I berated myself for having left my cover-up that I had carefully placed into a plastic baggie which never actually made it into my purse. "Berated" is possibly too mild. Feeling hideous and ultimately inhuman, I decided to treat myself that way. And it was a decision. For a fleeting moment I could see outside myself and what the more logical part saw could have frightened her if I hadn't whipped her back into the froth. I knew I was being vicious and ridiculous. I didn't care. I couldn't contain my feelings of loathing in thoughts or words, so I half-screamed, half-gurgled in my car. Yes, gurgled is the best word for it.

Later that night, sanity came back to me. "Okay." I said. "This, this needs to stop. This is not just on occasion, but always seething under the surface. And it needs to stop."

Then the image of this little girl, this care-free little person telling stories in her dramatic way to all who would listen, who would dance around the living room in her slip and watch the Solid Gold Dancers for dance moves, who knew she wanted to be an actress from the time she was sentient. Who felt the magic at the Shakespeare Festival and wanted nothing more than to bottle it and have it and keep it forever. This was a person I would never in a million years insult and injure the way I had myself. What had happened to her? Where did she go? I asked myself. The answer is so simple. She is still me. She is still me. We don't have to be separate, but we are. I have always felt a separation from myself. Always. In conversations on the topic, I just didn't feel like people understood the degree of the separation I felt. I don't know what happened. I don't know why I care so much about what other people think. But I have cared about that so much for so long, it seems the pattern is an impossible chasm to cross.

But it's not. I'm working. She's going to help me. We are separate but the same. Any time I need her, I remember who I am. This may not seem like a big deal to some. But not to us.

I can't express here how it feels to have her back in my life, to remember she is me. Words are never enough. But action. Action is what I am taking.

This is a waking up. A revelation.

SSDD

Another day, another date, another reason not to go out. Ever feel like Sisyphus, rolling that stupid boulder halfway up the hill every day, never progressing? Or just generally looking for a needle in a giant stack of needles? And you can say a thousand times that you give up. You're done. No more. But saying that doesn't make that boulder go away. It'll still be there when you wake up in the morning. Don't kid yourself. The only way to get away from it is to sleep and hope you dream about finally reaching the top or just finding some dynamite and blowing the damn thing up. But then you wake up.