Periodically, I look around my dim, witchy apartment, full of
history tomes, antiques and Victorian mourning art, and I think, "I
should probably go out and interact with other humans, before I myself
am an antique. Hell, maybe I should try going on a DATE. I used to go on
those." Trouble is, it's mighty hard for a gal like me to meet eligible
bachelors in the real world.
The sleepy town in which I live is partially to blame. There are very few events that appeal to me in this town, other than the occasional party or show, and the scene in which I move is woefully-small and decidedly picked-over. Another issue is probably my job, where the only interaction I have with single men involves handing containers of cremated remains to teary-eyed widowers who, although occasionally attractive, would probably not appreciate the funeral home receptionist slipping her number into a deceased wife's urn. So what's a single, mid-thirties goth gal to do? Why, turn to the miracle of modern technology, of course.
Over the years, I have had a reasonable degree of success in the arena of online dating. Back in 2001, for example, I met a guy named Mike over the internet. This was well before the days of Plenty of Fish, but in the heyday of a television show called "Blind Date". The premise was simple: two romantic hopefuls were paired up and followed around for a day by TV cameras, then made infinitely more entertaining through the post-production addition of asinine cartoons and "thought bubbles" indicating what the hapless singles might possibly be thinking about their interaction. Check this link for some retro "Blind Date" goodness:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X8pS6K9Dkdw&list=PLA0BAB4214EA0DC86
In addition to the show's painful hilarity, it also offered, by way of its website, a chance to meet up with and go on your own awkward blind dates with people in your area! (The reader will remember, of course, that in these pre 9/11 days, this was something innovative, indeed). And thus, after perusing "Blind Date"'s website for eligible hunks, I met Mike.
Bonded by our mutual love of karaoke, marijuana and professional wrestling, we decided to meet in person. I was immediately physically repulsed by him. We went to Milestone's, drank Bellinis and talked about Chris Jericho and the Hardy Boys. Although I never once touched him, Mike and I ended up developing a very close friendship that lasted for several years. He took me to all manner of shows and events, and even bought me a tiara which, for some mystifying yet secretly-gratifying reason, I wore whenever I came over to his house. Eventually, he figured out that I wasn't ever going to sleep with him, at which point, he cut me off entirely and subsequently married a husky girl with a mustache, by whom I'm told he sired two unfortuate-looking children. Thanks, "Blind Date"!
Another online fairytale romance occurred for me exactly ten years later, as I trolled the fetid waters of Plenty of Fish. In early 2011, while checking out the site, I came across a handsome, 6'3" government worker named Clinton. We arranged an initial, innocuous meeting at a coffee shop. Although he did not offer to pay for my latte, I liked him. He was definitely intelligent enough, and possessed of a biting, sarcastic sense of humor that I found intriguing. I assume he didn't think I was a moron or something.
Once assured that we could tolerate one another, we arranged a second date, this time at a pub. We both became so inebriated that, although I went home with him in a cab, we ended up merely passing out on his bed. In the morning, since I felt obligated and grateful that he picked up the tab, I succumbed to the indignity of awkward, hungover first-time sex, in the stark, unforgiving morning light that poured in through his bedroom window. I did at least get a conciliatory Tim Horton's breakfast sandwich out of it, which I chewed ponderously while we sat in the parking lot of the restaurant.
Surprisingly, Clint wanted to see me again! And thus, our courtship began. And what a courtship! He was SO GREAT! And we had SO MUCH IN COMMON!... Except that he loved reggae, and I'd rather gouge my eyes out with a spoon than listen to Bob Marley tell me to "no cry"... Well, and except that I was a smoker, a fact that dismayed and repulsed him... Oh. And for the fact that he was an avid golfer and surfer, and my main hobbies included shopping and couch surfing... Thinking back on it now, I think Clint and I always kind of hated each other. The two crucial points on which we DID connect, though, were a) we both loved to drink, and b) we both REALLY REALLY wanted to be in love with someone.
Clint was older than me (38 to my 31), and thus, operated largely in a world of married couples with toddlers and mortgages. He wanted more than anything to be one of those couples, and I always got the feeling that any girl on his arm would do, so long as she could fit into the mold and facilitate that reality for him. The few parties that he took me to were depressing, macabre affairs. I didn't even know that people like that really existed, until I attended events at which I was expected to sit primly in a party dress with the rest of the Stepford Wives, cautiously sipping Pinot Grigio and talking about Gymboree and tea lights, while the men retreated to the "man cave" in the basement, to crush beers and play Rock Band. Invariably, and to Clint's dismay, I'd end up down there with the dudes, belting "Livin' On a Prayer" at top volume, Lucky beer in hand, before retreating to the patio to smoke cigarettes with the one cool friend among the ranks of Basic Bros and realtors.
Yep, it was pretty grand, being in love. Sure, we fought constantly, and I refused to go on his stupid Wild Rose cleanse. He'd tell me that I wasn't "wife material", and I'd snap back that he was an egocentric idiot to whom I would never consider getting hitched in the first place. Slowly but surely, I came to see him less as a sarcastic intellect and more of a complete and total bastard. After six months of this bliss, we both looked at each other one day and said, "Meh". I left and we never spoke again. Word around the internet is that he did eventually find his Stepford Wife and they rode off together into the sunset on a golf cart, while the mellow strains of The Wailers carried on the June air.
2015 is upon us, and the future is now. Enter: Tinder, a dating ap for your smart phone. In many ways, this incarnation of online dating is the most ingenious yet. You can basically avoid trudging through all the meaningless "I like this, I do that, I hope for this and dream about that" nonsense, and just cut straight to the fun of judging people based solely on a single photograph. Choose your picture wisely, lovelorn iPhone owner! A poorly-executed selfie in less-than-ideal lighting can mean the difference between being approved of or being cast aside with the swift, merciless swipe of a thumb.
But never fear if you are less-than-sublime in the looks department. The most gratifying feature of Tinder, as I've discovered so far, is the empowering feeling of quietly and ruthlessly judging others for yourself. A photo pops up, you examine it for two seconds, make a snap, unfounded judgement and, with the haughty detachment of a Roman emperor dooming a gladiator to his bloody demise, you swipe left. A delicious, giant red sign that reads "NOPE" stamps itself over the reject's photo, and whoosh! He or she is banished from your sight. Poof, begone. #deadtome.
I've
been using this ap for a couple of days, mostly at the behest of my
bestie, who has had some recent good fortune with it. While minding his
own business one day, he was suddenly "liked" by one of the mythical
creatures I call "The Unicorns". These apparitions are most easily
identified by their aloof, cool beauty, stick-thin thighs, perky,
pierced nipples, and their prolific Instagram profiles. They are also
most certainly listed as being about 27 years old, about 5'8" and fully open to
shooting "nudes" on Modelmayhem.com. Anyway, GVS found himself a unicorn
and has been having what he describes as many a "blissful" weekend,
often culminating in some sort of outdoor sexual escapade. With this ringing endorsement, I thought I'd see what all the fuss was about.The sleepy town in which I live is partially to blame. There are very few events that appeal to me in this town, other than the occasional party or show, and the scene in which I move is woefully-small and decidedly picked-over. Another issue is probably my job, where the only interaction I have with single men involves handing containers of cremated remains to teary-eyed widowers who, although occasionally attractive, would probably not appreciate the funeral home receptionist slipping her number into a deceased wife's urn. So what's a single, mid-thirties goth gal to do? Why, turn to the miracle of modern technology, of course.
Over the years, I have had a reasonable degree of success in the arena of online dating. Back in 2001, for example, I met a guy named Mike over the internet. This was well before the days of Plenty of Fish, but in the heyday of a television show called "Blind Date". The premise was simple: two romantic hopefuls were paired up and followed around for a day by TV cameras, then made infinitely more entertaining through the post-production addition of asinine cartoons and "thought bubbles" indicating what the hapless singles might possibly be thinking about their interaction. Check this link for some retro "Blind Date" goodness:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X8pS6K9Dkdw&list=PLA0BAB4214EA0DC86
In addition to the show's painful hilarity, it also offered, by way of its website, a chance to meet up with and go on your own awkward blind dates with people in your area! (The reader will remember, of course, that in these pre 9/11 days, this was something innovative, indeed). And thus, after perusing "Blind Date"'s website for eligible hunks, I met Mike.
Bonded by our mutual love of karaoke, marijuana and professional wrestling, we decided to meet in person. I was immediately physically repulsed by him. We went to Milestone's, drank Bellinis and talked about Chris Jericho and the Hardy Boys. Although I never once touched him, Mike and I ended up developing a very close friendship that lasted for several years. He took me to all manner of shows and events, and even bought me a tiara which, for some mystifying yet secretly-gratifying reason, I wore whenever I came over to his house. Eventually, he figured out that I wasn't ever going to sleep with him, at which point, he cut me off entirely and subsequently married a husky girl with a mustache, by whom I'm told he sired two unfortuate-looking children. Thanks, "Blind Date"!
Another online fairytale romance occurred for me exactly ten years later, as I trolled the fetid waters of Plenty of Fish. In early 2011, while checking out the site, I came across a handsome, 6'3" government worker named Clinton. We arranged an initial, innocuous meeting at a coffee shop. Although he did not offer to pay for my latte, I liked him. He was definitely intelligent enough, and possessed of a biting, sarcastic sense of humor that I found intriguing. I assume he didn't think I was a moron or something.
Once assured that we could tolerate one another, we arranged a second date, this time at a pub. We both became so inebriated that, although I went home with him in a cab, we ended up merely passing out on his bed. In the morning, since I felt obligated and grateful that he picked up the tab, I succumbed to the indignity of awkward, hungover first-time sex, in the stark, unforgiving morning light that poured in through his bedroom window. I did at least get a conciliatory Tim Horton's breakfast sandwich out of it, which I chewed ponderously while we sat in the parking lot of the restaurant.
Surprisingly, Clint wanted to see me again! And thus, our courtship began. And what a courtship! He was SO GREAT! And we had SO MUCH IN COMMON!... Except that he loved reggae, and I'd rather gouge my eyes out with a spoon than listen to Bob Marley tell me to "no cry"... Well, and except that I was a smoker, a fact that dismayed and repulsed him... Oh. And for the fact that he was an avid golfer and surfer, and my main hobbies included shopping and couch surfing... Thinking back on it now, I think Clint and I always kind of hated each other. The two crucial points on which we DID connect, though, were a) we both loved to drink, and b) we both REALLY REALLY wanted to be in love with someone.
Clint was older than me (38 to my 31), and thus, operated largely in a world of married couples with toddlers and mortgages. He wanted more than anything to be one of those couples, and I always got the feeling that any girl on his arm would do, so long as she could fit into the mold and facilitate that reality for him. The few parties that he took me to were depressing, macabre affairs. I didn't even know that people like that really existed, until I attended events at which I was expected to sit primly in a party dress with the rest of the Stepford Wives, cautiously sipping Pinot Grigio and talking about Gymboree and tea lights, while the men retreated to the "man cave" in the basement, to crush beers and play Rock Band. Invariably, and to Clint's dismay, I'd end up down there with the dudes, belting "Livin' On a Prayer" at top volume, Lucky beer in hand, before retreating to the patio to smoke cigarettes with the one cool friend among the ranks of Basic Bros and realtors.
Yep, it was pretty grand, being in love. Sure, we fought constantly, and I refused to go on his stupid Wild Rose cleanse. He'd tell me that I wasn't "wife material", and I'd snap back that he was an egocentric idiot to whom I would never consider getting hitched in the first place. Slowly but surely, I came to see him less as a sarcastic intellect and more of a complete and total bastard. After six months of this bliss, we both looked at each other one day and said, "Meh". I left and we never spoke again. Word around the internet is that he did eventually find his Stepford Wife and they rode off together into the sunset on a golf cart, while the mellow strains of The Wailers carried on the June air.
2015 is upon us, and the future is now. Enter: Tinder, a dating ap for your smart phone. In many ways, this incarnation of online dating is the most ingenious yet. You can basically avoid trudging through all the meaningless "I like this, I do that, I hope for this and dream about that" nonsense, and just cut straight to the fun of judging people based solely on a single photograph. Choose your picture wisely, lovelorn iPhone owner! A poorly-executed selfie in less-than-ideal lighting can mean the difference between being approved of or being cast aside with the swift, merciless swipe of a thumb.
But never fear if you are less-than-sublime in the looks department. The most gratifying feature of Tinder, as I've discovered so far, is the empowering feeling of quietly and ruthlessly judging others for yourself. A photo pops up, you examine it for two seconds, make a snap, unfounded judgement and, with the haughty detachment of a Roman emperor dooming a gladiator to his bloody demise, you swipe left. A delicious, giant red sign that reads "NOPE" stamps itself over the reject's photo, and whoosh! He or she is banished from your sight. Poof, begone. #deadtome.
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