For as much as I’d rather be dating than not dating, given the option, there’s also something to be said about the time and cheddah I’ve reclaimed. It’s noticeable, with more flow in cash flow and naps–yes, even naps–feeling all the sweeter. The dry spell hasn’t abated one bit, though part of this is self-inflicted, I suppose. That’s because I’ve been doing a lot of culling recently. There have been moments when I’ve wondered if I’ve blocked someone too soon, or deleted a message too quickly, but then I shrug it off and stay the course.
Whenever the topic of engine differences arises, I explain them as such: eHarmony is like Nordstrom, Match is Belk, and OkCupid is Marshalls. On eHarmony, the screening process culminates with three timed essay questions, if you log in via desktop instead of mobile. I shit you not. It’s like a seminar. Conversely, OkCupid boasts pure tonnage, likely because it’s free to register, but you’ve got to trawl through humanity at large.
I’ve seen things. Learned things, too. I never knew what “pansexual” meant–didn’t even know the word existed, until OkCupid–and I celebrate the English language on a daily basis. Two weeks ago, I would’ve guessed it meant, like, maybe Cuisinart is your whole jam, or Pottery Barn makes you moist. Two weeks ago, I would’ve been dead wrong. But now I know.
The reason why I’ve been ruthlessly blocking is because I’ve made my peace with my shallowness. Sure, the heart wants what the heart wants, to a certain degree. But the heart especially wants what the eyes want, and my brain is fine with that. The four women I’ve met–one from eHarmony, two from OkCupid, one from Match–have all been far more attractive than I am. And if lightning can strike four times, why not a fifth?
If there’s anything half-dead around here, this website notwithstanding, it would be yours truly. Two winters ago, in what was decidedly the worst Christmas present I’ve ever received, I took ill with a virus of epic proportions. There was projectile vomiting. Fever. A severe case of the runs. Trips to Urgent Care and the ER. And this was before Ebola was even a thing here. Overcoming this ordeal was a badge of honor, as Cheshire can attest. That’s because she’s a survivor, too.
On Saturday, I was pretty certain this strain of misery had found me in Texas, basic tenets of immunology be damned. Problem was, Ebola’s very much a thing now, so I paid close attention to my symptoms. I was pleased to avoid fever and projectile vomiting, insofar as a man can be pleased when afflicted with Montezuma’s revenge, dizziness, and an achy body. That was my routine, Saturday through Monday: frequent temperature readings, an avoidance of food, the runs, and sweet, sweet oblivion, whenever it availed itself.
Tuesday was a final exam of sorts, with a two-hour conference call culminating in a brisk tour of over 1,600 lines of SQL code–and a self-imposed embargo on bathroom breaks throughout. But then the sickness broke, giving way to the silver lining. When the one thing on your to-do list is to stave off dehydration, your calendar clears up quickly. In this clarity, you find a renewed focus, a mental reboot. You see what’s worthy of your time, whether it be people, work, or dating. It’s like an enema for the mind.
It took some elbow grease, the perfect angle of approach, patience, and the right posture, but I finally prevailed, and I’m not talking about tennis or running or any other sport. I’m talking about a toilet. The toilet, shared by all the businesses on our floor, and while I may not have clogged it, I sure as shit unclogged it last Thursday. Poor choice of words, I suppose, since urine and paper, thankfully, were the only obstacles at hand, and I was doubly thankful I knew who dispensed the urine because, y’know, Ebola and such.
To understand why I bore the mantle of bowlmaster, rather than a qualified plumber, you have to know the contours of our office. It’s a little– How do I put this? Gritty. Whereas some spaces pride themselves on furnishing the creature comforts of the corporate world, this building celebrates the exact opposite. We take out the trash. I refill the paper towel dispenser. Most of our furniture was scavenged. Direct sunlight is a rare commodity.
We share the floor with a rich cast of characters. One masseuse is occasionally seen making coffee, but otherwise toils out of sight. Another masseuse insists on splaying her business cards everywhere, even affixing them to the goddamn “issues” of Coffee News. There is a tech startup peopled by bros and a younger, balder Phil Robertson. And then there are the electronic cigarette distributors–mellow folk who go about their craft in practiced, monastic silence.
This is where we–the Chief, Rawketeer, Professor, and I–weave our magic, and we’re certainly no saints. We’re the loudest group on the floor, and while we usually shut the door when we’re at our most profane, it’s more for gesture than effect. That porous piece of wood, splashed in builder white circa 2002, does precious little to suppress our passion for home loans. But we gave back to the community last Thursday. There’s something primal and satisfying about fixing something. When that blockage cleared, after a good 40 minutes of effort, I was exultant, and the sentiment was singular: I am man. Hear me plunge.