When I realized if Facebook were to offer a Relationship Status option that came close to fitting my romantic situation it would likely need a legal disclaimer and at least one diagram, I knew something had gone awry.
The phrase, "It's Complicated," simply isn't adequate.
This is why it's much easier to just take a self-imposed hiatus from dating in all of its forms, which is really not hard to do when the male population of this city has already taken a self-imposed hiatus from dating me.
I'm not online dating, I'm not speed dating, long-distance dating, carbon dating, sexting, texting, IMing, web-camming, calling, not calling, meeting or any other verb ending in the letters "ing" and related to heterosexual members of the opposite sex.
(Please note that this hiatus ceases immediately should I hear from Alex again in any capacity or if the dating prospect in question happens to wear a really hot uniform and can save me from a fire-related demise. Or gun fire. Or terrorist attack. Yes, I have a thing for uniforms. And personal safety.)
(Also, my hiatus wouldn't extend to time I may or may not spend with a firefighter of the married persuasion. His marriage to somebody other than me rules out any possibility of dating, so whether I see him or not, we're not dating and therefore he does not fall under the restrictions imposed by my hiatus. It's called a loop-hole, and making bad choices. Glad we could clarify this.)
I can see this hiatus lasting at least until I reach my goal weight, and if the amount of wine I drank this weekend not sanctioned by the Weight Watchers program is any indication, I should reach my ideal weight and menopause at about the same time.
It's not that I expect the world to be a different place just because I'll be sporting smaller pants, but I think I'll have more confidence, and maybe even better pictures should I post another online profile.
At the very least, I'll be able to eliminate one obstacle I might otherwise beat myself up over, so I can focus on other more clearly pressing issues. Once I know it's not my weight that's a barrier to attractiveness and finding the relationship of my dreams, I can confirm my nose or my personality are the two likely remaining culprits, and that's so much easier to accept.
In the meantime, my past dating experiences have become very useful to a friend and colleague who is recently separated. She's a beautiful, funny, kind, sophisticated woman in her late forties who easily looks like she's in her early thirties, so I have no choice but to love and hate her in equal amounts. Eager to see what's out there and to have a little bit of fun, she posted a profile on Plenty of Fish and then came the horror. The horror. Oh, the horror.
My poor friend had no idea how many men in her age-range would be looking for women between the ages of 20-25, or how many would like to meet a petite/slim/trim/thin/ woman who takes care of her health and watches what she eats, because presumably, if his photo is any indication, he hasn't seen his feet since 1973 and he simply wants to make sure his date is healthy enough to run for the defibrillator paddles should the arteries carrying KFC's secret recipe directly to his heart give up in frustration.
She had no idea how many men wouldn't register as tall enough to ride an amusement park roller-coaster, or how many pose with guitars, cats, children or God help us all, all three in an effort to appear sensitive and new-age.
Neither of us had any idea how many men within her chosen age parameters of 45-55 love taking long walks on the beach. If as many men actually walked on the beach as much and in as large numbers as they claim to love to, our shores would be over run with crowds of meandering middle-aged bald men so large, they're visible from space.
I was supportive and helpful through every step of her foray into online dating, and by supportive and helpful I do mean laughing so hard I nearly peed my pants on her desk, the best place to be seated while being supportive and helpful.
While I realize that taking dating advice from me is the very best example of the blind leading the blind ever depicted without an actual photograph of Stevie Wonder trailing behind Helen Keller, I can at least serve as a cautionary tale.
Thanks to me, my friend now knows to automatically subtract two to three inches from whatever height a man lists, and to recognize the signs a photograph being passed off as current was likely taken when Michael Jackson was still considered a black man and not a Caucasian woman. I've also translated the meaning of "420 friendly" and pointed out the photos most likely taken by a prison guard or fellow inmate.
Overall, my own complete and utter lack of ability to meet anybody decent even so that my poor Dad can stop thinking I might be a lesbian, is actually helping people.
Hopefully in a few months and when I'm ready again, I might even be able to help myself.
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