If I was an online dating greenhorn last week, then I am now–well, if not a journeyman, then at least a better greenhorn. Were we framing this in tennis terms, this would be game three or four in a tied first set. eBay terms, fourth or fifth lot ever sold. And if I were to regard this as a health regimen, I’d be at seven, eight pounds lost. Progress, in other words, but still a long road ahead.
I’m now on Match and OkCupid, in addition to the erstwhile eHarmony, and almost all activity happens on the two new sites. It’s interesting, too, how the pools of people are by and large unique, which only helps. Certainly there are matches you’ll recognize, of course, and those are the ones whom I block first. That’s right–first. There is a system now. The Familiars are culled first, followed by the Shallows, which is kind of a misnomer, because I’m the one being shallow.
Then, it’s a matter of reading the profiles themselves. I’ll be completely frank: I’m looking for “Christian” in the religion field, to be sure, but there are limits. If the Holy Trinity is invoked repeatedly in the profile, it just doesn’t do it for me. One match mentioned how she often thinks about the “conception of soul,” whatever that means, and she wasn’t talking about the birth of a musical genre, I can tell you that. Above all, the text has to be interesting. Countless profiles talk about being new to the area, or loving travel, or make eyebrow-raising avowals: “I’m funny.” “I’m sarcastic.” “I’m witty.”
But in every pile, there are a few profiles that are sarcastic. They are funny–and witty and punchy and confident and breezy. These are the ones to keep and pursue. Am I limiting myself? Absolutely. I won’t settle, though–not yet, at least. I’m not searching for 7s or 8s or 9s, as I explained to the Professor this week. No, I want it all. I’m hunting for leviathan-class, and I’d be a fool to think this easy.
When I look at the numbers so important to me, just a few weeks ago, they seem strange and distant now. These days, I have only three numbers in mind: 21.4, 7, and 5. The first? Poundage lost. The second? eHarmony. And the third, eHarmony again. Call it a one-track mind or call it focus, but like the health regimen or the grand eBay odyssey which preceded it, this is my thing now, and I’m committed.
You’d think going to Chipotle for, like, 50 fucking days in a row for lunch would inflict deep psychic scars, but you’d be wrong. I’m sure avoiding the place in the last few weeks has aided in the healing process, of course, though I don’t begrudge the time I spent there. It had to be done. Chipotle had a function to serve. Now, variety has returned to the lunchscape, with a mix of Mexican, Italian, American, and Thai each week. I’ve reached a caloric equilibrium, where three hours of tennis each week–coupled with 75 minutes of cardio and light breakfasts and dinners–grant me license to go apeshit during lunchtime and continue to lose weight.
This will only help, too, as I descend into the deeper circles of eHarmony. The “7” and the “5” stand for seven out, five in, and it remains a Venn diagram that does not cross. I’ve coldly, heartlessly blocked the five. Felt a pang of guilt, but did it anyway. I’ve changed, I tell you, in ways I’m not particularly proud of. Selfies, for instance, grim currency of the social media era–never had cause for ’em, but now I find myself experimenting with lighting and motherfuckin’ angles. I’ve altered survey answers regarding gun ownership, too, after realizing I’m kinda, y’know, in Texas. Disingenuous, yes–and absolutely necessary. There was a match who couldn’t spell “fascinate” correctly, but she’s hot, and I messaged her anyway. I’m so sorry, sanctity of the English language, really I am.
When you turn to the Internet, de facto province of cat videos and selfies and giftcards, for something like dating, it’s daunting. There is a sea of questions, feeds, protocols, matches, stages, thresholds, and your profile feels like a ship in a storm. There are choices to be made, seemingly about everything, and the burden of creating context lies squarely on your shoulders. I haven’t made it a week into eHarmony yet, and I couldn’t even try to guess where or how this is going to end.
But I can tell you how it began, and it started, as most things do for me, with a bunch of questions: what to say, what not to say, expectations to be set, the types of pictures to be taken. I gathered input from guys and girls, then got down to it. Dropping 20 pounds from my health regimen helped photos, certainly, but it was the profile itself that was grueling. I wrote it, then rewrote it. Then, I rewrote it again, tweaking here and there until it was polished to a sheen. And finally, finally, I went live on Thursday.
There’s this unspoken fear–and maybe this is just my own neurosis–that your profile will launch to crickets. These are metaphorical crickets, not the crawly kind, and I’m compelled to clarify because I’m sure there’s a site somewhere for people who are, like, actually into crickets. I’ve reached out to five matches, and four have hit me up. A fair ratio at first glance, but the twist is there’s absolutely no intersection between these two groups–for completely shallow reasons, too, which I’ll be the first to admit. I will yield no ground, though. Not at this junction. I’ve got to date up, got to earn my way, and if I’ve chosen the tougher road, well, at least we’re covered for a few more posts.