(singlewhitefemale) has sent you a *wink*

About once a year, I down a bottle of wine, start feeling restless, and get the great idea to sign up for an internet dating site.

It all started five years ago, when we urged a friend to sign up for a free trial on eHarmony. We all lounged around the living room in various stages of hangovers, adjusting our sprawls every once in a while to relieve gravity's pressure on our aching livers. After about an hour of participating loudly while she answered five thousand questions about her personality and preferences, she received a dickslap to the ego in the form of this message:
                            
         We regret to inform you that we found no matches for                                       
                  you in our database. 


We were appalled. Nay, we were outraged. While my friend Googled animal shelters in our area to start collecting cats for the lifetime of solitude ahead of her (don't worry, I swapped fortunes with her and now she's practically married), we all threw trash at the concept of meeting strangers through a computer monitor and expecting to find some sort of lasting romance. We returned to nursing our hangovers with diet coke and burritos, and I cursed the site along with the others, only briefly wondering if I too would be deemed "match-less."


A year later I sought the answer to my secret inquiry. I was living in a house full of Hot Girls downtown, and it turned me even more antisocial than normal. All of a sudden I was reverting to my childhood habit of living not only in my room, but specifically on my bed. (Let it be known that because of this tendency, there have been at least fifty-seven occasions in my life where I've thought, "It's like I have a bedroom!!!!.... Oh....") I consumed my meals while watching Dancing with the Stars and straightening my hair, all the while perma-propped up against my pillow. My bladder was my biggest curse. Though the bathroom was a mere nine feet from my bedroom door, the possibility of being seen by others became a fear so great that it consumed me and gave birth to a variety of odd behaviors. I developed a keen sense of hearing so that I could keep tabs on everyone's activities throughout the house. When someone went into her bedroom and closed the door, I catapulted from my bed and launched my bursting bladder into the bathroom. When someone turned on the shower, I threw my work clothes on and crashed like a maniac on crack around my room gathering all necessary belongings before sprinting through the hall and out the front door. I frequently forgot things in my feverish escape, and whenever I found myself hobbling the mile-long walk to work barefoot and bra-less I would call my sister for emergency supplies. When I returned home from work to a house full of bros and bro-hos partying it up, I would feign a headache and slip into my room in complete darkness, holding my breath for three hours so as not to make a noise and raise suspicion. I only broke out of my statued silence to deal with my jerk of a bladder, and out of the desperation harnessed by agoraphobia, I trained myself to pee into a plastic cup and toss the liquid into the bushes outside my window. (I know you're all wondering if this is true or not. I'll never tell.) During one of my self-appointed bed-arrests, I had a flashback to that day in college when my friend tried her hand at eHarmony. (You're still thinking about the peeing-in-the-cup thing, aren't you? Don't worry, I was just exaggerating. Or was I...?) I paused Dancing with the Stars mid-rumba twirl and logged on to the website. 


If you've never gone onto one of these sites, I highly recommend it. I'm not saying JOIN the fucking thing, just take a look at it maybe. You seriously answer about a million questions about yourself-- things that you'd never even think to ASK yourself about yourself. yourselfyourselfyourselfyourselfyourself. (Sorry, just had to get that outta my system.) ANYway, I sat there in the darkness, my face lit up like a leprechaun in the eerie green light from my computer screen, rubbing my hands together gleefully and cackling with joy about being allowed to type pages and pages about bullshit and actually have someone READ it!! (Oh wait... sucka!! Just kidding, I love you, please don't leave.) At the end of the questionnaire, my glowing green finger lingered above the SUBMIT button. What if I too didn't fit into any boxes? I mean, wait a second, I'm WAY weirder than my friend, so if she couldn't be matched up with anyone, what the fuck are they gonna do with me?!! I hit the ENTER key and held my breath. Well, wait, I was already holding my breath so that my housemates wouldn't hear me, so I guess I just continued to do exactly what I was already doing, but... uh... my heart was beating louder. In anticipation. That's it. It turns out, I fit into a box. I felt a rush of relief mixed with a bad taste of disappointment at not being as much of a renegade as I'd always secretly prided myself on being. (Dude, seriously? Stop worrying about if I peed in the cup. You're making me regret writing that, so I'll forget it if you will, 'kay? Deal.) I started scrolling through my Matches. There were some good-looking guys in there, all of them pretty close to the Santa Barbara area. And then I started freaking out at that realization. If I can see them... they can see ME!! Uh oh, I didn't like that one bit. I was paranoid that I was going to see someone on there that I knew from Real Life. Nevermind that he would've been equally guilty of participating in an embarrassingly vulnerable activity-- oh no, for some reason it felt like I was committing social suicide. Call it insecurity? I immediately canceled my account and shut my laptop screen, glancing around frantically in my pitch-black room to make sure no ghosts were snickering at me in judgement. 


About a year later I was living with my sister on the edge of town. As I tossed my empty wine bottle into the recycling, I got that familiar sense of "Well what do I do now?" I had a mental arm wrestling match with my ego, and although I can't really tell who the winner was, it resulted in my signing up for match.com. I popped my knuckles and settled in for the exhilaration of filling out the questionnaire: 


Your significant other takes you to a coworker's dinner party where you know no one. Are you most likely to...
a.) stick to his side, avoiding all interaction with strangers.
b.) introduce yourself to everyone, making several new friends by the end of the evening.
c.) try to put yourself out there socially to make your partner at ease, but frequently check your watch and be relieved when the night is over. 


I love this shit. 


When I received my matches, I did the same scroll-through as before, but although I was still scared of the possibility of seeing someone I recognized, I decided to keep my account and see what happened. For about a week, I checked my messages and got excited by all the attention I was receiving. Ninety percent of that attention was from men over the age of forty, waving gooberishly from their photos with bug-eyed expressions and sleeveless stained T-shirts. By the way, in case you aren't familiar with internet dating etiquette, the standard protocol to follow if you are interested in a member is to either "wink" at him or her or to send a message. "Wink"ing is the cyberspace equivalent to making eye contact across a bar. "Message"ing is about the same as walking balls-out up to someone and asking for his or her number. Each time I checked my page, I had about ten winks from homeless-looking old guys, and maybe one or two messages in which a sensitive misunderstood soul would relay his loveless plight and implore me to consider all our similarities and interests. My reactions to both of these was pretty similar. After .15 seconds of feeling flattered, I'd shudder and dismiss the guy, thinking, "Dude why the fuck are you talking to me, I don't even KNOW you!" I think I failed to understand the whole thing about meeting people on the internet.


Six months later, I'd forgotten the site even existed. I was managing at an Italian restaurant downtown, and it was the end of the night so I'd gone upstairs to the office to start counting the day's profits. The busser knocked on the office door. "Uh... (singlewhitefemale)? There's a guy downstairs asking to speak to you."


I sighed. Sometimes I hated being a manager. What was it, did he find a piece of glass in his fettuccine alfredo or something? We'd come soooooo close to having no problems tonight, damnit! I trudged begrudgingly down the stairs to face the complainer with my hands half-up in automatic defense. The busser pointed out the small guy with stylish hair and I got my best how-can-I-help-you smile on my tired face. "Hi, I'm the manager, what can I do for you?"


He shuffled uncomfortably on his feet. "Hey, how's it goin.... I uh... I hate to do this to you, but someone once did it to me, so I feel like I gotta. Are you, by any chance, on match.com?"


My brain dropped through my open mouth and hit my teeth on the way out. I was too surprised to even blush. "...Um... yes? I guess? Yes, I am." I looked around, terrified, making sure that everyone was refilling the sugar caddies well out of the range of overhearing us. "So...?"


He laughed nervously. "Sorry, I just recognized you when you were waiting on us, and I think you're really cute. I talked to you a couple of times on there."


I tried to focus on his features, as if I were wearing someone else's prescription glasses and I had to tilt my head just right to make out his shape. Nope, definitely didn't recognize him. "Sorry, it's been a long time since I've been on there." (He interrupted me all-too eagerly with an emphatic "Me too!") "What's your name on the site?" I watched him pretend to forget it, then raise a finger like it'd just come back to him as he recited it. Oh fuck, I recognized the name. Oh fuuuuuuuuck! That was the guy who'd sent me like thirty looooong messages about how he has two cats and a dog and how he's a really nice guy and he thinks we'd be perfect soulmates and all that shit!! Aaahhhh!!! I started sweating as I saw the servers edging closer and closer toward us, finished with their sidework. "Oh uh yeah, yeah, I remember you. Well it's nice meeting you, let me uh--" I frantically searched my apron for a pen and scrap of paper, "--here's my number, I gotta keep closing up but thanks for coming to say hi and everything." I blacked out with social anxiety while he said his goodbye, and it wasn't until I was back upstairs with my sweaty hands palm-down on the desk in front of me that I realized I had just given my number, unsolicited, to some dude that I had absolutely no interest in. I reasoned with myself that it had seemed like the only thing to do to get him to leave, and I tried to convince myself that he'd never call.


Fourteen text messages and six phone calls later, I'd caved and agreed to go out with him. He invited me to dinner, so I faked some dinner plans and suggested we go out later for drinks. When he rolled up in his huge-ass truck (overcompensating, anyone?) and stepped into my driveway, I had a fleeting moment of optimism. He's CUTE! Oh my gosh wait, he's way cuter than I remembered him being! And he has a nice man-blazer on and he's not wearing mountain sandals! Hey, this actually might BE something! He helped me up the six-foot ladder into the passenger side of his colossal beast-ride. And turned on his playlist.


"I'm just really into epic 80's ballads right now." Blink. Blink-blink. Blink.


I tried to fight back the vomit that had urped up into my mouth. If there's one genre of music I detest as a rule, that, my friend, is it. I'll even take country over that shit. Strike one. Now, my sister used to have a nervous blinking habit, so I know I should be more forgiving of it. My brother used to nudge me and start winking, so I'd start nodding, and we'd say, "Hey sis, it's your turn!" When she'd finally get the Winkin, Blinkin, and Nod reference she'd be in tears, and my pride at being included in one of my brother's jokes was aaaaalmost washed out by the sympathy I felt for her. Almost but not quite. So I tried really hard to overlook the fact that every time he looked at me I started imagining what it would be like to view the world with a permanent strobe light flashing on everything. Strike two? Maybe?


We went to a really chic place off State Street and got some fancy mojitos. As an alcoholic, I found it painful to try to pace myself to his frequency of sips. I figured that on a first date it might not be appropriate to outdrink your companion tenfold, so I distracted my parched addiction by stabbing at the mint leaves with my straw while we participated in The Awkward Getting-to-Know-You Talk administered by people on first dates. Surprisingly enough, I started really enjoying myself. And then I realized that of COURSE I was enjoying myself, because it was the ultimate playing field for the narcissist. He was Fresh Meat for all the stories and thoughts that I'd love to bore my friends and family with but oh wait I already have. He fiiiiiiiinally pansy-gulped the last of his mojito and I swiftly ordered another round from our server using Universal Alcoholic Hand Gestures from across the room. I took one quick hit from the straw the second the server handed me my drink, and bolstered by the tinges of a buzz, I turned to my date. He was smiling sleepily at his drink and giggling like the Coppertone baby girl on the side of my sunscreen bottle at home. "I'm not really much of a drinker. This is so strong!" Okay, if that blinky thing was only half a strike, this is DEFINITELY strike two. There's nothing an alcoholic hates more than hanging out with people who make her feel like an alcoholic. I debated chugging half his drink when he left me to go to the bathroom, but I behaved, if for no other reason than to practice my good manners. When he came back, he asked if I'd wanna go for a stroll and get some air. Dear lord, is he gonna puke? I nodded a lie, and we moseyed along State St., chatting more about our families and jobs. He wasn't THAT bad. I found myself laughing, even enjoying myself at times. I tried to do that thing that all women do because we're crazy, where we try to visualize our lives with a guy we've just met, picturing sitting across the table from him at breakfast every morning and taking him to family Christmases. There was just no way. However, when he mentioned the earliness of the hour and asked if I'd like to maybe watch the Batman movie The Dark Knight at his house, I didn't feel a complete fight-or-flight response (refer to my earlier blog where I mention how I'm a retard and don't know how to end a night until everyone else is done, too). We went out to his house in Goleta for part II of our date. I was impressed by the fact that not only did he live alone, he also had a guest bedroom. I have literally never seen that before--or since-- in Santa Barbara. Then I smelled the sheer amount of cat and dog presence in his place, and I quickly forgot about everything but fresh air and my own tiny shared studio with my sister. I managed to breathe through the entire movie, but it was NOT easy. His shih tzu, though adorable, SUCKED. She kept jumping up on my legs and into my lap and my face/neck area and being as much of a pesky dog as possible. Look, I'm just not a dog person. And I definitely saw him try to discreetly use a paper towel to pick up a piece of dog poop that was just lying there all casual-like on the carpet next to the bathroom. I used to think I was a cat person, but then his two cats came over and made me rethink the title. They rubbed their saliva-encrusted fur on my shoulders, my calves, my fingers, my FACE... **spine-rattling shudder**. Finally, one posted up for a nap on the back of my neck, and the other across my bladder. I spent the last half hour of the movie motionless, perfecting the art of crying on the inside. Strike three. As soon as the credits rolled across the screen, I fake-yawned and jumped up, startling both felines into angular states of all claws and teeth. After they'd stopped yarling at me, I fake-apologized profusely and started edging toward the door. I left my date with Santa Barbara's Ace Ventura with an inch-thick layer of matted animal fur on my dress and a vendetta against internet dating. 


Okay, yes, that vendetta ended about a year later, right before I moved to Encinitas. I was reading my favorite vegan 'zine when I came across an add for veggiedate.com-- the perfect site for veg-friendly people to mingle!! Yes, I am a nerd, and yes, I signed up. Not really with any intentions, though. I was thinking it might help me to make a few connections before moving down here, and I was worried it would be as difficult to find fellow vegans as it was in Santa Barbara. It didn't, and it isn't. Though most of the people on the site gave me nightmares (I'd never before seen the style combination of dreadlocks, kimonos, and baby-fuzz mustaches), there were a couple of people who made me optimistic and excited about my new lifestyle as a vegan. Once I moved, I forgot all about the site, and submerged myself in the bustle of the Real World.


 I recently had a friend tell me I needed to be more pro-active on dating sites. Instead of waiting to be winked at by greasy middle-aged serial masturbators, I should really sort through my matches and be the winkER to any guys I see as plausible options. The funny thing is that I'd think hiding behind my keyboard and pictures of myself that I choose for people to see would be the ultimate dream for someone with social anxiety like myself. I love texting versus actually TALKING on the phone, and any time I can write a facebook message instead of talking with someone face-to-face, I'm gonna opt for it. I think... though... that what attracts me most to people is the vibe that the person gives off. Does that make sense? Not like I'm reading the color of his aura or something, but there has to be some sort of self-amused, half-uncertain energy wafting off of a person in order for me to register him as someone I could be interested in. A hundred times per shift, I hear the girls at work whispering and giggling about how "hot" some guy is, and I am always so bored by their selections. Yes, that guy is generically attractive in an extreme way. Give me a ginger with a beard who accidentally snorts when I make a joke to him and then blushes and tries to hide his head while he signs his credit card receipt and I'm taking my bra off and hopping over the counter to be his new girlfriend. 


Huh. Well, I dunno, Internet Dating. It looks like we're at a standstill right now, and I'm not sure I'll ever drunk dial you again. If I do, it won't be for at least ninety-five days, and you'd better bust out your big guns for me or I swear I'll give up on you entirely. Maybe when I'm forty I'll join cougardate.com or something. Actually, that sounds pret-tay, pret-tay good to me....

*wink*