One of the most obviously difficult aspects of online dating is
the issue of chemistry. Without a screen and the…shall we say forgiving response time texting affords acting
as intermediaries (I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again—anyone can be clever if given five minutes to
google), and with the presence of pheromones, chemistry—or the lack thereof—is
usually readily apparent in person.
However, things get a little murkier when you take that dance
online. Too often, I’ve felt an initial spark (witty banter is my catnip), that
failed to kindle in person, and sometimes fizzled out before a real life date
could even take place. That’s probably why most of those who have success in
online dating start with a large pool of potentials—however, I tend to pick one
person with whom I’ll conversate exclusively for a number of weeks before
finally meeting him for drinks or a disappointing dinner, quickly (sometimes
with reason, sometimes without) lose interest, and then delete my account. This
cycle will repeat the next time Venus is in retrograde, or it’s the week before
Valentine’s Day and I find myself once again without anyone but myself to buy me
chocolate and a hideously lurid bear that was likely born in a Honduran sweat
shop. The odds are never in my favor.
So after (mis)reading the signs from Facebook’s great Server in
the Sky that HowAboutWe could potentially lead me to He Who Has Not Yet Been
Named, I followed my formula: I found one guy, Paul, whose date suggestion
involved neither binge drinking nor violating international laws but was still
interesting enough to catch my eye (though apparently not interesting enough
for me to remember what it was eight months later). I sent him a message and
then waited with bated breath for his reply. In this case, messaging
transitioned quickly to texting, and even a phone call or two.
Sidebar: I’m convinced that this fact alone made Paul something of
a unicorn in the online dating scene—a magical yet rare creature that allows
you to hear the sound of his voice before subjecting you to the inevitable
awkwardness of your first meeting.
Before too long, I was giddily getting ready for a drinks date with
a guy who, according to his profile at least, was tall enough that I could wear
five inch wedges without worrying about deflating anyone’s sense of manhood.
And we actually had a pretty great date, at least as far as first
dates go. I got there first and perched myself daintily on a barstool. He
didn’t keep me waiting and arrived soon thereafter, more bearded but no less
towering than he appeared in his profile picture.
He did, however, bear a striking resemblance to a friend of mine.
A friend on whom I may have had a tiny crush several years prior and who at the
time was preparing to become a Man in Black—no not that kind, this kind.
I’ve touched on the rabid incest that took place within my group
of college friends before, and so the uncanny physical similarities—he didn’t
just look like my friend, he sounded like him,
had the same mannerisms, and was possibly his long-lost twin—between Paul and
Sean made me feel a bit…weird. He also did this bizarre thing where
he would push his lips out, squint, and nod emphatically in agreement with
something I had just said—Sean, for the record, has been known on occasion to
make a similar face, although always in jest. With Paul though, I couldn’t tell
if the expression was sincere in its vigor or if he was making fun of me.
Odd facial contortions aside, we still managed to talk for hours,
all but closing the bar where we met. He walked me to my car, and even though I
didn't exactly feel that zsa
zsa zsu, I was prepared to kiss him, but instead he went for a hybrid
hug-handshake—a peculiar choice following his gallant gesture, but one I went
with.
Unfortunately, I tend to have remarkably poor timing when it comes
to relationships (shocking!), and so this date came right before I went out of
town for a glorious and heartbreaking weekend of football. Then Paul was out of
town. Then I was swamped with papers, had a League commitment, and was out of
town again. However, before our game of scheduling tag reached epic
proportions, Paul called me up and asked if I wanted to go to a concert with
him—the catch was that the concert was four weeks away. Against my better
judgment, and breaking another one of Barney’s rules (You never make plans with a guy further in the future longer than the
time you've been going out), I agreed. And then before I knew it, two and a
half weeks had gone by and not only had I not seen Paul, I’d barely spoken to
him.
(Please excuse my jury-rigged
video capturing--how was this not already on YouTube?)
Panicked, I quickly arranged a brunch date for
the following Saturday. The morning dawned cold and decidedly damp and my bed
was perhaps the most warm and comfortable it has ever been; the morning was tailor-made for rereading The Thirteenth Tale and
drinking mug after mug of Earl Grey while snuggled under the covers. Hopeful, I
texted Paul to see if he wouldn’t rather postpone our date in light of the
gale-force winds, leaving me to my book and hot tea, but Paul refused to let
our plans get rained out. Longingly eying my cozy duvet and pile of pillows, I
dragged myself out of my room and into the bathroom to get ready.
Sidebar: If I’m being honest, I’m not sure my
preparations included a shower. I’m not proud.
Brunch was okay, but honestly, it was already
over for poor Paul. Through no real fault of his own, the lack of momentum
after our promising first date killed my initial interest, lulling me into a
state of romantic ennui. Plus, Boise State was playing at home on the screen
just to the right of his head and I simply could not. Look. Away.
He talked, I focused most of my concentration on
trying to pull my eyes off Dead Smurf Turf, we ate, I paid.
Sidebar: It’s usually not a good sign if I insist
on paying on the second date. This means that I have no intention on going on a
third date with you, and this is my way of paying you back for dinner.
He walked me to my car, and I clutched my open
umbrella, thankful that it prevented tall Paul from attempting to up his game
from hug-handshake to a more urbane, double-cheek kiss while he cluelessly
asked if I wanted to come to his place for dinner the next day.
I replied automatically: I didn’t…I had church?
Sidebar: I did actually go to church that night,
so not a lie, just convenient scheduling. Plus, Paul was still a near-stranger,
and I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of being alone with him at his house.
Later that week, I contracted some kind of
hideous mini-cold—perhaps I caught it while standing out in the rain that
weekend, but more likely some darling germy teenager infected me at work. The
concert was still a few days away, but the forecast for the weekend included
more freezing rain, and the last thing I wanted to do was pretend to be excited
about Josh Abbott Band when I felt so icky.
I texted my sister for advice—she rightly told me
I couldn’t cancel outright—tickets, after all, had been bought—but I could tell
him that I’d been sick and didn’t know if an alfresco outing (Paul wanted to
hit up the carnival beforehand) would be wise. So I gave him the option to
ditch me for someone who could do both things—the outdoor fair and the indoor
concert.
Paul gave me the out, which I took gratefully.
Then he replied, “No worries. I’d prefer not
getting sick from making out afterwards anyways ;)”
You and me both, Paul. You and me both.
So what’s the moral of this story? I teased last
week that Paul only seemed normal, but he probably was—though I doubt his
parting words to me inspired the reaction he intended. No, what I took
away from this dating interlude was that for being a despicable human being
much of the time (and a fictional one always), Barney Stinson’s rules for life
are usually pretty on-point, and so if ever I find myself once more on the
receiving end of an invitation from a man I've only been out with
once that requires me to flip several pages in my datebook, I believe I
will politely pass in case the relationship doesn't last without the zsa zsa
zsu.
//image via Pinterest//
