(Mis) Adventures in Dating

As tends to happen as we grow older, my friends are all paired off. Every last one of those assholes. This makes it very difficult for me to meet single men, as couples are the last bastion of acceptable segregation. My friend K had great luck on match.com, meeting the wonderful man who became her husband and father of her daughter after a relatively short time on the site, so I figured I’d give it a try.

I also made a rule for myself: that I wouldn’t be as brutal in my culling as usual. I’d shrug off poor grammar and spelling, check any concerns about ex-wives/baby mamas at the door, and ignore my definition of attractive.

Following is a sample of my results:

  • Turkish businessman from Syracuse: Not very attractive, but I thought that I’d let it go, so I responded to his message. We ended up meeting at Turning Stone Casino (which I really don’t care for, but was determined to follow my “ease up on the brutality rule). Had a drink, got some dinner, and chatted. At NO POINT in any communication – written, verbal, or physical (definitely not physical – unless a handshake can be considered a come-on) did I express an interest in going home with him, but did that stop him from asking? It did not, in case you didn’t realize that was rhetorical. I just looked at him, slack-jawed, and then managed, “I have to go take my dogs out now.” And that was the end of that.
  • Vanilla A, machinist at a gun factory. Nice guy, not super concerned with proofreading his profile, and makes agents of death, but whatever – don’t forget The Rule. Divorced, three kids. Normally, that would be a lot of baggage, but like a jackass, I followed my own temporary rule and let it go. Turns out that three kids, two ex-wives, and so much child support that he works 50 hours a week and brings home less than $15 in his paycheck and had to move back in with his parents is a lot of fucking baggage. He’s a talker, and by talker I mean he talks and talks, but doesn’t have a conversation. He legitimately did not ask me one question about myself or my life. Ever. I literally put in writing the reasons that this was not going to work so there would be no misunderstanding. He still texts me…he’s like a dumb dog that gets beaten every time it gets on the furniture, yet still thinks he can sneak onto the couch.
  • Jethro K also works at the afore-mentioned gun manufacturer because FUCK MY LIFE. We texted and talked on the phone. He sent a picture of his daughter, who I knew from somewhere. Turns out, he’s one of a friend’s wife’s ex-husbands because OF COURSE HE IS. (Yes, one of her ex-husbands, and she’s younger than I am, so I tell myself that at least I don’t have multiple ex-husbands/baby daddies…but I digress.) At this point, that piece-of-shit, worst-fucking-idea-I-have-ever-had-in-my-lousy-life rule is still in place. We decided to meet at a casual pub for a beer. I’m well aware that this particular pub isn’t fancy, but it’s far from a dive, so I still dressed to hide my flaws, curled my hair and applied fresh makeup. This jamoke rolls in, talking to my friend who is married to his ex, wearing a Gun Company t-shirt, and untucked, unbuttoned, wrinkled, possibly dirty flannel shit over said t-shirt, and a Gun Company baseball cap, which was at no point removed. Let me tell you, he was in a mood after having a rough day (never mind that I offered to reschedule more than once because he’d had a shite day), which is always a pleasure to entertain…and by “always,” I mean “never.” He opened with, “I was just on the phone with the current husband, and he didn’t have anything bad to say about you,” thinking he was funny. It was a lie, and I wasn’t amused. Additionally, he’d gained probably a good 25-30 pounds since he took the pictures he used in his profile, which wasn’t a big deal until he asked me if he looked like his pictures. “No, you don’t look like your pictures,” I replied because he did not deserve the comfort of a lie. Then Flannel McShootsalot asks if that’s good, bad, or different. I just told him “different,” because we all have fluctuations and I didn’t want to shame him (note to self: that was a missed opportunity…read on and you’ll understand). A short while later, he proceeds to tell me how he went out with a woman who’d put on weight that wasn’t reflected in her photos, and he wanted to turn and run. O, RLY? So, he talks and talks and talks, and then stops, looks at me and tells me to talk. The fuck? Really? Okay…I struggle to find something to talk about, and finally land on the show Archer – thank god for H. Jon Benjamin. He made me feel completely awkward for not being able to pull a conversation out of my ass on demand. The dude dressed like he just got off a plow managed to make me feel awkward and inadequate. DUNZO.

Lessons learned:

  • There are reasons that I am the way I am. I need to remember that before making stupid rules about being nice, giving people chances, and all of that happy horseshit.
  • Kand her dear husband are likely the exceptions, not the rule. Those happy bastards.
Bottle of "So This Happened" wine with lit candle.

Sometimes all you can say is, “So this happened…”

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