Those who have never had the misfortune of having to resort to online dating are often the people expressing the most alarm over what could possibly go wrong.
These people worry most unnecessarily about the possibility of misrepresentation - that the person you're talking to is not at all who you think he is.
He could be a she, he could be writing from within the walls of a maximum-security prison, he could be fifteen years old, or he could be a Nigerian scammer wanting access to my bank account.
To these concerns I say a woman might be easier to get along with in the long run, at least I'd know where he is, I do like them young, and more power to the Nigerian scammer if he actually thinks there's something in my bank account.
Most people you find online dating don't stretch the truth that grievously. Granted, one should always subtract at least three inches from whatever height a guy has listed himself to be, and if a guy submits a photo of himself in a baseball hat then the hair color he's listed is irrelevant - he's going bald. These are irrefutable truths.
I'm guilty of some glossing myself. I only submit the very best pictures I have - the ones where thanks to some miraculous shadowing my eyes are open, my nose appears smaller than my boobs and I have fewer chins. My muffin top is listed as "curvy" and the fact I choose to park and walk into fast food restaurants as opposed to using drive-throughs means I can confidently list myself as "athletic."
Every so often though, I come across a guy who doesn't just stretch the truth - he snaps it in two pieces with a karate chop.
I have several friends who prefer dating older guys. To me this is ridiculous. It's like a choice between a puppy or a dog so old it takes pleasure only in passing gas and being carried up the stairs due to hip problems. While it's true the older dog might be trained - there's no joy in the results. I'll take the puppy every time, even if it pees on my carpet. I can totally see that this analogy is going awry, so let's move on.
I like younger guys. Guys with more confidence than brains and more machismo than common sense. They can have common sense too, I just don't want it getting in the way of them carrying me out of a burning building while in uniform or shooting down enemy aircraft while also in uniform. I don't think this is unreasonable.
Friends of mine however, would disagree vehemently. One in particular wanted to know just how well my preferences were actually working out for me. The definition of insanity according to Einstein is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.
When I argued that Alex was totally different because he's a year older than me, doesn't have a macho profession and has to wear a red tie for his car salesman uniform this was not different enough apparently.
It's true he's jumped over tables to beat the crap out of a guy he saw hitting a woman and enjoys more dangerous sports than your average dare devil so I had to concede he wasn't different enough.
It was for these reasons that I half-willingly began chatting with 43 year old doctorate student whose interests included gardening, cooking and card games. This was already such a shift in thinking for me that I may as well of decided to date women. He looked attractive enough in his photos. He had hair, arms and legs.
At this point, it's probably best not to be too picky.
I agreed to meet him for a walk and a coffee one night by the breakwater. The breakwater is a long narrow stretch of concrete walkway on the ocean, ending in a lighthouse. It makes for a lovely walk, and I thought if conversation was awkward then at least I'd have the water to look at.
Well.
Poseidon and a chorus line of mermaids rising from the deep to perform my favourite songs from the Phantom of the Opera could not have distracted me enough to make the date less awkward. Perhaps given his age, this guy didn't understand the implied trust inherent within online interactions. The guy wasn't 43.
If he was a day under 62 I would have been surprised. While it's true he had arms and legs, it was more difficult to tell given the pictures he posted were at least 100 pounds ago. He had giant man-boobs. Moobs if you will.
I think he was one of those men who delude themselves into thinking they're actually still pretty svelte because they haven't gone up a pant size in half a century. Instead, what's happened is all of the gut and chunk is held up and held over the trousers by an extremely hard working belt. Women have muffin top, some men take it to new levels entirely. This was one of them. When he walked up to me, grinning like an idiot, I was looking behind him hoping that this wasn't happening.
Again, perhaps it was his age and a need for bi-focals, but he must have missed the horrified look on my face. Rather than reaching to shake my hand, he went in for a kiss. I leaned all the way back once I realized what was happening, but he hooked his arm around my back so I couldn't get away. I was left with a wet patch of old guy spit right near my ear, as I'd tried to twist my head out of the way at the last minute.
During this whole time I said nothing. No greeting, no smile, no sound at all. He wasn't daunted. He wanted to know, "Shall we walk?" still smiling.
I really, really wanted to say no, no we shall not, but then a strange thing happened. As it usually does at the most inopportune times, I felt compassion. I felt sorry for the guy. I didn't think how he'd lied to me, but instead thought about all the times I'd been rejected and felt terrible afterward. Maybe he was lonely, and it wouldn't kill me to just go for a walk and get it over with. I was wrong. It almost did kill me.
Quickly though, we were off to an even worse start when he tried to take my hand. When I yanked my hand back like his was radioactive he told me to "Give me yer paw." I was not about to give him my paw, even if I were hanging over the edge and his hand was the only thing saving me from splashing over the side and into the ocean. As it was, I almost did end up in the water.
I told him I'd really rather not hold hands and we began our walk. Me, with my arms folded tight across my chest, him talking the entire time about his "life philosophy," and strangely, every second word was "motherfucker." I think he was trying to appear cool through excessive profanity, but instead I wondered if he was suffering from early onset dementia.
We made it to the lighthouse and then turned back, him talking the entire time, not bothering to ask me anything about my life in return. The only exception being he wanted to know where I worked and grew angry when I would only tell him the kind of work I did, rather than the exact address.
As we headed back, he shoved me.
Walking quickly, I was focused on getting back to shore, running home and scrubbing my face clean of old guy spit. I must have been nearly running, because when he shoved I was caught totally off balance and stumbled toward the edge like I'd tripped. The breakwater is not a place you'd want to trip. Had I gone over, my fall would have been broken by some concrete blocks before I hit the water, so at least there was that small comfort.
I spun and put my fists up around my ears like I was going to take this geriatric fucker out of the gene pool with a jab-cross combination he'd never see coming, just like I've been taught. My kick-boxing trainer would be so proud of me. He'd kept walking though, not bothering to check whether I was still upright. He called back over his shoulder that I was on the wrong side. He always had to walk on the left, and I was in his way.
Let's do a quick rundown of dates I have been on. I've been stood-up. I've been walked out on by a guy who confirmed I was the Bambi he was there to meet and walked out the side door when my back was turned. I've helped save a bird, had my vibrator stolen and been refused a good night kiss for religious reasons.
I've been on a successful first date with a man and his wife meaning we now have some sort of arrangement/relationship and I've been asked to spank a guy with a wooden spoon while he called me Mommy. All of these thing are true and more. And yet, I've thankfully never been hit or shoved. Until now. What a fabulous milestone.
I trailed him back to land, refusing to walk alongside of him. He kept talking the whole time though, not letting the absence of anybody listening stop him from holding forth on all matter of motherfucking subjects relating to himself.
When we finally reached solid ground he sat down on a bench and patted the seat next to him, like he and I were going to have a cozy chat. I remained standing. He winked at me, and then wanted to know if I felt there was any chemistry between us.
There was chemistry alright, and it was repellent. Rather than launching into a tirade about how disgusting I found him to be, how repugnant, how offensive and a total liar, liar, pants on fire I said no. No, there was no chemistry.
Much to my utter shock, he was surprised. His mouth opened and closed for a few moments and then he appeared to steel himself. He crossed his arms over his moobs and told me that he thought so too. In fact, he disliked me the moment he saw me. He really did. In fact, I was just...just...really unpleasant.
This was the best news I'd heard all evening. Finally, I'd done something right. I stepped aside and stood there smiling at him, waiting for him to walk away first. There's no way I was about to try walking to either side of that guy, ever again.
Motherfucker.
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