And so it begins
If there's anything more pathetic than reading the Craigslist "men seeking women" ads at 1 AM, it's reading them through one's tears.
No, strike that: I don't think there's anything more pathetic than the Craigslist "men seeking women" ads.
No flies on me, eh? Why am I doing this, you ask? Dating as spite? Dating as some grim exercise in prescriptivist thinking?
No, c'mon, it's actually been three months, not three hours. And, just as K is trying desperately to sandbag his fortifications with words, to prevent us from getting swept back together by that weird, powerful force (I always envision the smoke monster from Lost) that seems to bind us despite ourselves, I've gotta make the split real to myself, too, using whatever's at hand to barricade the door against the marauding commitment creature: tables, chairs, eligible bachelors.
Plus -- and, hey, in times of stress, I don't even try to hold back the irrational part of my brain -- I can't help thinking about that "two Julys" hypothesis for us, the notion that the commitment creature will stop at nothing. So, really, I'm dating for the sake of the health and safety of the transportation infrastructure of the greater Washington metropolitan area.
So, anyway, I sampled a couple dozen ads and then picked the best of the lot -- that'd be the one who employed a recognizable variant of the English language and didn't come off as an axe murderer -- a nice enough-sounding guy with an extra ticket for an upcoming Garrison Keillor taping and who's also into bike camping. I wrote a disarming little note, and he wrote back right away, with a picture. And...
And nothing. He's a perfectly decent-looking guy. And I'm sure he's a lovely person. I also firmly believe that after about the age of 30, certain personality characteristics become inscribed on one's face. And that, given a picture and a writing sample, one can create an extremely accurate and detailed assessment of another individual. And, for me, this guy ain't it.
It's been a long time since I've dated. I can deal with the rejection -- I remember, even in my prime, looking at a personals site and running a search on potential matches. Then I re-ran it, specifying only matches that wouldn't exclude me based on my height. Ninety percent of my would-be suitors disappeared. No, the part I've always been bad at -- and this might surprise some of you who surmise a certain heartlessness based on the misanthropy in my writing -- is the rejecting.
I'm also rusty on the protocol. This guy's looking for a LTR (or so he says). I'm 99.999 percent certain it won't be with me. Do I let him find another Woebegone Cinderella? Or -- thinking skeptically here of books like "the Year of Saying Yes," which perhaps I should actually read -- do I go ahead with it on the presumption that at best I find a platonic male friend with whom I can perhaps take some bike trips, and at worst I have good blog fodder? Do I reply with a photo of my own, letting him reject me, which is perhaps kindest all around? How do people actually do this?
No, strike that: I don't think there's anything more pathetic than the Craigslist "men seeking women" ads.
No flies on me, eh? Why am I doing this, you ask? Dating as spite? Dating as some grim exercise in prescriptivist thinking?
No, c'mon, it's actually been three months, not three hours. And, just as K is trying desperately to sandbag his fortifications with words, to prevent us from getting swept back together by that weird, powerful force (I always envision the smoke monster from Lost) that seems to bind us despite ourselves, I've gotta make the split real to myself, too, using whatever's at hand to barricade the door against the marauding commitment creature: tables, chairs, eligible bachelors.
Plus -- and, hey, in times of stress, I don't even try to hold back the irrational part of my brain -- I can't help thinking about that "two Julys" hypothesis for us, the notion that the commitment creature will stop at nothing. So, really, I'm dating for the sake of the health and safety of the transportation infrastructure of the greater Washington metropolitan area.
So, anyway, I sampled a couple dozen ads and then picked the best of the lot -- that'd be the one who employed a recognizable variant of the English language and didn't come off as an axe murderer -- a nice enough-sounding guy with an extra ticket for an upcoming Garrison Keillor taping and who's also into bike camping. I wrote a disarming little note, and he wrote back right away, with a picture. And...
And nothing. He's a perfectly decent-looking guy. And I'm sure he's a lovely person. I also firmly believe that after about the age of 30, certain personality characteristics become inscribed on one's face. And that, given a picture and a writing sample, one can create an extremely accurate and detailed assessment of another individual. And, for me, this guy ain't it.
It's been a long time since I've dated. I can deal with the rejection -- I remember, even in my prime, looking at a personals site and running a search on potential matches. Then I re-ran it, specifying only matches that wouldn't exclude me based on my height. Ninety percent of my would-be suitors disappeared. No, the part I've always been bad at -- and this might surprise some of you who surmise a certain heartlessness based on the misanthropy in my writing -- is the rejecting.
I'm also rusty on the protocol. This guy's looking for a LTR (or so he says). I'm 99.999 percent certain it won't be with me. Do I let him find another Woebegone Cinderella? Or -- thinking skeptically here of books like "the Year of Saying Yes," which perhaps I should actually read -- do I go ahead with it on the presumption that at best I find a platonic male friend with whom I can perhaps take some bike trips, and at worst I have good blog fodder? Do I reply with a photo of my own, letting him reject me, which is perhaps kindest all around? How do people actually do this?
2 Comments:
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Anonymous said...
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- 3:02 PM
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Anonymous said...
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- 3:19 AM
Post a CommentE Person--
I know by now I have chalk all over my worn out running shoes for violating every rule of Esquivalienceland (too big a potty mouth for nieces, too boring for everyone else, etc.), but what the hell. Besides, I know for a fact that you're armed with a delete button and are not afraid to use it--a regular Bernie Getz of editors, you are.
There was a great Bloom County cartoon back in the day--I can't find it, because the jerk I let stay at my house temporarily for three years probably took it....But Opus has decided that enough was enough, and published a personal ad for himself. The next morning, Opus is at the breakfast table, looking very smug, sitting next to Milo--who's reading the paper. Milo then reads out loud a personal ad, something like 'Tall, svelte, petite nosed, awesome sexual powerhouse of a dude, looking for hot mama interested in herring heads, long walks on the beach, and occasional serious snuggle bunnies'...something like that. The dialogue continues:
Milo: You?
Opus: Me.
Milo: Opus, you aren't 'tall.'
Opus: And Nancy Reagan's not 62. Yet the earth still spins.
I mention that in light of your concerns about language in personal ads.
Now, it may have been some time, but this is in no way your first rodeo, sugar. A GUY in a PERSONAL AD says 'LTR,' and you think that means LTR? Where are you? The Amish section of Craig's List? Granted, me making a comment on personal ads, dating, and/or social interactions with non-imaginary beings of any sort means another five to ten consecutive on my already multiple life terms in hypocrite hell...but my GuySpeak--English dictionary still defines 'LTR' as 'a non-commercial sexual transaction' (Special shout out to nieces the world over).
Of course, bike camping and Garrison does have 'big wienie' written all over it (in bold, block letters), but still--you can't say for sure.
If memory serves, the last time I made an almost kind-of dating pitch to an otherwise stranger was to an extremely personable woman (shockingly close to my age), at the end of an almost three hour run (we were training for a marathon at the time). I confessed that my blood sugar had dropped to an extremely low level, which in turn made me lose all common sense and sense of proportion. So, even though she told me her idea of a really good time was getting together with extended family and eating enormous amounts of BBQed animal flesh (extended family gatherings, slabs of burnt & raw meat, sharp stick in the eye--hey, sounds great!), we exchanged e-mails.
I responded by writing her the start of a semi-twisted story about a disfunctional workplace (in the same field she worked--and 'disfunctional' is meant as a polite euphemism). Well, that was the last I ever heard from this woman, and on all subsequent training runs, whenever she saw me she ran fast in the opposite direction.
Puzzled, I sent a copy of the story to my regular running friends. They responded by telling me that I was not just stupid, but that form of stupid modified by the gerund of an extremely graphic expression for sexual intercourse. In my defense, I pointed out that perhaps all were better off, because if this Belle thought I was bent to the point of danger based on THAT story, what would she think when I started to tell her what I REALLY thought?
No, I was told, that was completely wrong. The problem is that this woman had no chance to discover that I am an 'all show, no go' kind of idiot, which is why I am not merely stupid, but really, truly, & sincerely [GERUND FORM OF GRAPHIC TERM FOR SEXUAL INTERCOURSE] stupid. (My subsequent defensive whining about the incompatibility of her eating hunks bloody flesh were dismissed as sour grapes & typical 'loser' rationalization....).
I guess my point is to urge you to remember that faint heart n'er won short hairy dudes with both a casual outlook on morality and the ablity to effortlessly work 'nu' into daily conversation.
I remain:
On Double Secret Probation.
Bill Abendroth
You're not about to join a church group, so I won't go Ann Landers on you, but how about finding a group of like-minded (read: non-competitive) cyclists to start hanging around with? You live in Washington: you shouldn't have to date to meet other guys.
On the other hand, you could sign up for Date Lab.
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