I've decided to start dating and have forgotten how the hell one goes about it. So I put up an ad on a personal web site, recommended by a magazine and a few acquaintences. Internet dating is weird at best--first you write all this ish about yourself, trying not to sound too provacative because most men and a few women can make a euphemism out of " I have brown hair," or "I like long walks." You want to give some sense of yourself and be really clear about what you are looking for, and still, you get all kinds of crap replies. 'How big are your boobies?" one guy asks. Another asks me to complete a sexually explicit fantasy he's written about a woman's visit from a contractor. One potential suitor tells me that he's allergic to Boston but will meet me somewhere out in the woods. And the grammatical errors! The horror! One bloke says, "I don't do this email stuff. Give me your phone number." Huh. Give me your background check, Mr. Man. One delusional freak gets mad because I don't date married men. One bozo writes, "I'm discreet and am available in the daytime." For what? Why do we need to be discreet? I want someone to go bowling with. OOOO, you don't want anybody seeing you do that.
One guy says that he's looking for a mother for his year old child and I look "maternal." If he only knew. One guacho says, "I just came in Boston can you meet me friends?" One guy sent a picture in which he had the same hairdo as the late Orville Redenbacher. Silly guy from paragraph one writes, "Why don't you want to share your bra size?" and then there's "Looking for...Rapunzel, Cinderella, Barberella, exotic Black woman, exotic Asian woman" (obviously you haven't seen my picture) and the ones who post pictures were obviously taken with those little horizontal Kodak cameras we all had in 1972.
I'm having blogja vu. Have I written about this before?
I meet nice men all the time. They are gay or live in Latvia or Nairobi or are very young or very elderly or devoutly Muslim or very Christian or a little wacko. Not that I'm picky.
I met a Green Line train driver last Wednesday named Bobby who made me nervous talking to me instead of looking out at the tracks, explaining in manic non-stop fashion how he was nice to bums, and all the train passengers, wishing them a nice day and letting them know, via the intercom, what Boston tourist delights they could enjoy at each stop. He asked if he could call me sometime as I descended the steps but I pretended not to hear.
All he needs to be, in the end, is funny, intelligent, ambulatory, and sweet. Perhaps a licensed hair dresser or gourmet cook, but these are not requirements. Reads and likes the beach? Bonus points. Loves music? Yes, please. No waxed moustaches or sub par personal grooming or rat or snake owners. But that leaves a lot of availability, doesn't it?
I'm not complaining. I live in Possibility, after all.
Suggestions about target rich environments welcomed.
