The Turn-down Template

Us online-dating Midwesterners face an inevitable fate: we’re gonna have to turn people down, we’re not any good at it, and we will feel bad about it. In an attempt to deal with all three, I have been using a turn-down template. But first, a few rules for us try-to-make-everyone-happy Midwesterners:

1.) DO NOT tell them, “It’s not you, it’s me.”

2.) DO NOT go into a deep analysis of why you think that you would not be a good match.

3.) DO NOT pretend that you accidentally killed someone and must flee to Mexico.

4.) DO tell them something. If they’ve asked for another date, it’s just not Midwestern of you to leave them hanging.

In the spirit of short and sweet, I offer you my turn-down template. Feel free to edit according to your situation:

Thanks so much for meeting me (yesterday/last week/about a year ago on the day before you left for the peace corps) for (coffee/lunch/a drunken make-out session at the local bar that I haven’t shown my face in since). I think that you might find a better match with someone else on this site, and wish you all the luck in doing so.

All the best,(name/alias)

See, Midwesterners? Short and sweet. And really, if you’re going to be turned down, isn’t this the way that you would like to be told?

Actually, I think I would appreciate the "I killed someone and must flee to Mexico" excuse. Seriously. Shows gumption.

The Three Date Weekend

Boy am I tired.

Just kidding. It wasn’t that eventful. But it was busy:

Friday night: date #3 with Frizzhead. Meh. No chemistry. It felt like I was having a chat with the stranger seated next to me on the plane. So move on to…

Saturday afternoon: date with 14-email guy. Turns out he’s a grumpy grad student with a chip on his shoulder about his department and talked about himself the whole time. (“I was forced to learn Flash but I refuse to apply it. Static cartography is far superior, but I seem to be the only person left who realizes this.”) So move on to…

Saturday evening: date with the DJ Chemist. Yes, for those of you keeping score at home, that adds up to three dates in 24 hours. And no, you haven’t heard about the DJ Chemist yet.

This guy had future professor written all over him. He’s already got the persona down: The slow, deliberate talking, the premeditated jokes that are more aimed at personal gratification than an outside audience, and the rather annoying property of not directly answering your question because there is a tangential question that he thinks is more important for you to comprehend.

For example, I asked him when he started DJing. After pausing, he responded, “That depends (pause) when you consider (pause) the beginning to have begun.”

Wha…SERIOUSLY? I didn’t realize I was on a date with Bill Clinton. Somebody get me a cigar.

Fifteen minutes into the date I had already written him off and began wondering what would constitute a reasonable amount of time before I could leave without bruising his ego. I try to follow the campsite rule for dating: Try to leave your date’s sense of self-worth in at least as good of shape as you found it in.

And then, the unexpected: he began to grow on me. Maybe it was the breadth of topics that we covered, maybe it was the smoothness with which he introduced zombies into the conversation, or perhaps it was how he lightheartedly enjoyed me making fun of him when he, say, went to ridiculous grammatical lengths to prevent splitting his infinitive. If you’re going to do that, it’s best to not fear being laughed at. (If you got that joke, I’ve got a guy for you to meet.)

We ended up walking to a park and watching the sunset over the lake while covering topics such as energy storage methods for biennials, microwave frequencies, and Greek/French fusion pastries. We also had a contest to see who could be more smug. I won.

So three hours later I found myself enjoying the company of the man I had written off 15 minutes in. Which goes to show….something, I’m sure.

Or maybe it’s just third time’s the charm.

This Entry is About Porn

Mostly.

So my beloved computer is becoming obsolete. While top of the line just seven years ago, it now cannot keep up with the new fangled technology that the Intertube People are using to stream video. The nice woman at the computer help desk informed me that there “may be some charities who are willing to take your computer and try to find a use for it.”

In an effort to resist our throw-away-and-upgrade culture (and to justify being a cheapskate) I am trying to minimize my need to stream video. It’s like I’m giving myself a stern talking-to.

“Do you really need to watch videos when you’re home? Isn’t there something better you could be doing?” “Are you that impatient that you can’t wait until you get to work and watch them there?” “Are you complaining that you only have one computer that you can watch videos on? People are starving in Africa. Bring your damn work computer home.”

And then, the mother of all realizations: “Oh wait…porn.”

I am NOT watching porn on my work computer. And I am NOT giving up watching porn. It’s been bad enough lately with trying to watch porn online when it looks like a flip-book in the control of someone with syrup-covered hands.

Hey, it’s better than nothing, but it’s only going to get worse.

As I have mentioned before, one of the worst parts of being single having no one to fantasize about. With no one that I get to see naked and no one on my radar that I want to see naked, porn can save the day. It’s a safety net. Dryspell? String of bad dates? No booty on the horizon? For these eventualities, God gave the single girl porn.

And since I use it rarely and have no particular must-have fetish, I am a cheap porn date. A free site or two with five-minute videos? Done. I’ve got some lovely thoughts and can write my own ending.

So, after being a porn freeloader for years, now I am seriously considering spending some serious cash on a new computer for the singular reason of free porn.

This is some expensive irony.

Typefaces and Science

In the digital menagerie of online dating, I emailed a lad a simple question relating to his profile. Here are the topics of our emails that followed:

Him: Local campaigns, jumping in piles of leaves, climbing treesMe: Scaring the tourists, unrealistic political aspirationsHim: Having a security escort out of a tree, ridiculous political stances to spark debate, attempts to conquer the moonMe: Campaigns in the age of Facebook, the price of a good suit, privatization of the moonHim: Enthralling one’s students through radical cartography, planning parties through Facebook, OSHA regulationsMe: CPR, circuitous routes to finding careers, the Mason-Dixon line, ubiquitous embarrassing photos, receiving random chats from men who want to talk about their penis sizeHim: General fear of the deep south, moving around as a kid, the rare occurrence of liking one’s job, people who use the internet to be ironically dumb, the use of parenthesisMe: Stoplights in rural areas, Century Gothic, third-party certificationHim: Population density, Trebuchet, being generally trusting, impending deadlinesMe: Finding climbing trees, appreciating art on a visceral levelHim: Film festivals, a possible future in craft fairs, bagging groceriesMe: Physical labor, fake tattoos, sealing waxHim: Documentaries vs. comedies, steel nib pens, Times New Roman vs. Baskerville, chocolate.

Do you notice any topics that were not discussed? Namely, the two of us meeting?!

In my defense, most of this correspondence happened while I was juggling three other boys. Hmm. That defense doesn’t seem nearly as strong as I thought it was going to be. At any rate, I didn’t notice this notable absence from our conversation until we were a dozen emails in. Then I thought to myself, “Why not see how long he’ll go?”

Yeah, that idea didn’t last long. It only took one more email exchange for me to realize I did not need an internet pen pal. So I sent him the following email:

Do you realize that we’ve now sent a total of 14 emails back and forth over the span of two months and neither of us has suggested meeting? This brings me to this question:

    You haven’t asked to meet me because:    a.) What’s two months? I like to wait an average of six.    b.) I am waiting for you to say something interesting.    c.) I’m married and I get a kick out of being pen pals with single chicks.    d.) What the hell are you talking about? YOU haven’t asked to meet ME, either!

In all seriousness, I am interested in your answer. I find that emailing back and forth too many times before meeting leads to dangerous expectations, but somehow our conversation got away from me. Whoops! Bad conversation! BAD!

He responded to say he agreed that emailing too much causes unrealistic expectations, and for this reason he, as well, likes to meet as soon as possible. His excuse for not asking to meet me? He’s had hermit-like tendencies the past couple of months.

Now THERE is an attractive quality!

But I feel like I’ve put too much effort into this one to write him off due to hermitness. (Hermittude?) On the other hand, I have gone way beyond the safe point. Without meaning to, my imagination has filled in the many gaps. I now have basic assumptions about his demeanor and level of gregariousness that cannot help but disappoint me when once again someone’s writing does not perfectly reflect conversation skills. While I can make every attempt to keep my expectations low, there is only so much I have control over. Our minds are trying to fill in the gaps. Expectations grow on their own.

So I guess we’re already sunk before we’ve even met. But wait! SCIENCE TO THE RESCUE!

A post on ScienceDaily exposed a secret weapon against expectations. Citing a University of Michigan study, the act of washing your hands can make you lose the need to justify previous decisions. Like, say, the decision to go out with the boy in the first place!

    According to the authors, the results show that as much as washing can cleanse us from traces of past immoral behavior, it can also cleanse us from traces of past decisions, reducing the need to justify them.

    This "clean slate" effect may be relevant to many choices in life. Does washing away the urge to justify one's choice of one car over another, or even one partner over another, result in less rosy evaluations of them in the long run? If so, does this increase buyer's remorse because buyers are less likely to convince themselves that they made the best choice possible?

Buyer’s remorse? Nah. This is just coffee. Before I meet him I shall literally wash my hands to rid myself of all previous decisions made about him, conscious and unconscious.

Of course, after I meet him, I may wash my hands of him.

The Owl

Recently I found myself on the hippie street in a strange city, complete with Jesus bongs and fire jugglers, and decided to get my Tarot cards read.

Allow me to set the scene: middle-aged woman who looks like she’s straight out of the suburbs is sitting in the corner of a sports bar giving really cheap 10 minute Tarot card readings and keeping track of the time with her cell phone. Yes please!

I plopped down, skipped the introduction and said, “Romance. I’ve got a lot of options right now. Tell me something.”

A few cards in she asked, “How many options are we talking about, here?”

“A lot.”

“Okay. I was going to have you draw a card for each person, but instead why don’t you draw ONE card for what you’re looking for in someone?”

I drew The Owl.

“Okay,” said the Tarot Card Lady. “You need someone who can see through you. You are good at calling people on their shit. You need someone who can call you on yours.”

Now, I don’t care what you think about Tarot cards. You can totally believe them, you can believe that they are vague enough to apply to everyone and make people believe something magical is happening, or you can be like a dear friend of mine who just shrugs and says, "I love that shit."

Whatever. Here's my point: isn’t that fantastic advice? Isn’t that exactly what everyone wants?

I want someone who can see through me! I want someone to call me on my bullshit! I want someone who sees me clearly and likes me anyway! I want someone who can help me see exactly what is going on, perhaps even before I can see it, holds me to my beliefs, and enjoys doing it.

In short, I just want someone who blows my mind. Is that too much to ask?

How the Hell Do I Respond to This?

Okay. A few days to recover (and a lovely email exchange with Boat Boy that involved a lot of thanking and wishing of luck) and it's time to get back on that horse. Or on the wagon. Or whatever the proper metaphor is here.

So back to it. But...um...how the hell do I respond to this?

    Re: What to say...

    OK, so this is that awkward kind of thing where I sit here, stare at your profile, and wonder how the hell I’m going to capture your attention.

    I mean, I want to say something different than “I likez ur profyle,” but I don’t even know what to say. Then there’s the fear that saying too much will turn you away, but not saying enough would imply I’m too simple of a person for you to waste your time on. 

    What’s going to get your attention? Hell, am I even the kind of guy you’d reply to?

    So… maybe I should… I don’t know. Maybe…    Is this really as hard as I’m making it?

    Umm… So how ‘bout this weather?    No, no. What about…

    Oh, I got it!

    On Memorial Day weekend, when I was 25, I was really bored, and had nothing better to do. So I filled a big gas can full of slightly yellowish-brown colored water, drove to the mall parking lot, and started dumping it all over my car, in plain view, with a big cigar in my mouth.

    I thought it was Hilarious. Mall security didn’t think it was funny.

    OK, so now you’re either going to think I’m insane, or hilarious… (ponders) or desperate for attention.

    Well, you can contact me regardless, that is, if you feel like gracing me with a reply.

    Have a nice night,

I feel as if I should reward the effort, however awry the effort went. It perplexes me that people somehow think this is difficult, or there is some trick to it they they have to find. You have read an entire profile of me! You know what my interests are! Ask me about one of them!

And what if I do reply and we end up meeting for coffee? How is he going to start the conversation, by telling me what he's planning for Memorial Day weekend this year? If it involves anything in a mall parking lot I am out of there.

Almost Perfect

For our last date, Boat Boy and I got takeout, headed back to my place and played Scrabble. How cute is that? And completely his idea. Also, before coming over to my apartment, he made sure to clean out all his boat supplies from his backpack, since he “…was not sure what the Single Girls’ Handbook would say about someone showing up with a bag full of knives and rope.” He has a great sense of humor, he is an absolute sweetheart, we agree on just about everything, and he is a great kisser.

And I’m just not into him.

Ugh. I wish I could be. But the connection just isn’t there. The conversation isn’t there. We take turns speaking, with long pauses between. Now that we have gone out on quite a few dates I can rule out first date nerves, the boringness of being on one’s best behavior, and his being stunned by my stupefying beauty. Or hideousness. Really, the effect is about the same.

So, time to wish Boat Boy well as he sails into the sunset. Since the conversation wasn’t there, I wouldn’t have known how into me he was if it were not for the Power of the Digital Age. He changed his online dating profile to “Seeing someone.” Yeah. I know. Someone? That was me.

I know there is a grey area between “not going on another date” and “breaking up,” but this seemed to pull me straight out of that grey area and into having to break up with him. After five dates.

Okay, I’m not really bitter. Breaking up just sucks.

I called him and I think I did everything that I was supposed to do: I was honest, I was straightforward, I was heartfelt. He tried to talk me out of it and tried to blame himself. He was disappointed, and said so in exactly those terms, but eventually resigned himself to the unilateral decision I had made. He did the “Thanks for everything” signoff, didn’t believe me when I said that Madison single girls are looking for a great guy with green eyes, and that was that.

I hung up and curled up on my floor and cried. Not a lot, but still. I know this is all part of the dating scene. Since most dates prove to be ill-matched, sometimes it’s mutual, sometimes you get hurt, and sometimes you hurt them. It’s just…hurting somebody? Well, it hurts.

The Flirting of the Boys

For some it’s when the lake melts, or when the first flowers bloom, or when the allergies set in, but for me the true arrival of spring is when the boys start flirting.

Not to say they stop flirting during the winter, but like those damn ladybug-impersonating Asian beetles, on the first warm day the boys start pouring out of every crack. I know the commonly held explanation is that springtime is the time for mating, and we are at the whim of our mammalian/reptilian/insect instincts. But his never made sense to me since human mating now would lead to birthing and breastfeeding right in the scarcity of winter. Imagining myself as an aboriginal, while I would like to think I would still have a basic repulsion to giving birth or breastfeeding, I sure as hell wouldn’t want to do either in winter!

In the name of that scientist who said that the simplest answer is most likely the correct one, I offer this competing hypothesis to why the boys start flirting in spring: in these warm days, men start seeing more skin. And thinking about tail.

I didn’t used to believe in the seasonality of relationships until a few years ago when I had an apartment just off State Street, squarely among student housing, and right along one of the exit paths from the nightly festivities on said thoroughfare. A steady stream of dates would walk by on their way to parked cars/hookup locations/sometimes both. A combination of my study spot being next to my window and living on the third floor (I am waiting to hear the physics answer to why conversations are louder and clearer bouncing up to the third floor than the are on the street) made me the accidental witness to the seasonal shifts in relationships. My findings:

Spring: A lot of giggling. A lot of dresses that it’s still a little cold to be wearing. A lot of appeasement. This primarily includes laughing at bad jokes and appearing to be enthralled in shallow conversations. (“Oh, you think it’s cool when things grow? So do I! That’s so cool! I mean, they like, grow! I think it really says something about you that you like that things grow. You know?”)

Summer: Cue the fighting. Perhaps the heat is to blame for the short tempers. Or the fact that trying to be appeasing in spring leaves one ill-matched in summer. Whatever the cause, I saw some blowouts. Nothing quite like screaming about how going out wasn’t your idea in the first place while you stomp off with your date in tow because, well, your date still has to give you a ride home. I saw the end of many a relationship in the height of summer.

Fall: Pragmatic pairing. Gone are the flirting and the skimpy dresses, replaced by the more pressing concerns of “Will I be able to stand this person through the winter?” and “Does this person produce sufficient body heat?” Much handholding. I assume for the warmth.

Winter: Silence. Perhaps all the fall dates had turned into hibernating winter couples, and perhaps all the single people put on some hot chocolate and waited until spring.

And spring it is, and I offer as proof that I am knee-deep in boys right now. In addition to the ones I’m dating there was a sudden glut of boys getting in contact with me, both online and off. Add to the mix some exes must have thawed their flirting and their fond memories, as two of them got in contact with me in the past week.

But my seasonal perspective is helpful: I know the likelihood that NONE of these people will last to the height of summer. And I am on the lookout to save myself from falling victim to the spring romance: no skimpy dresses, no appeasement. For those looking for that, I hear it’s on State Street.