My friend Julie in Baltimore decided to dip her toes in the OKC waters, which inspired the two of us to go at this together. Much like workout buddies, we are there to remind each other to hold our heads high and not to give up — and to share some of the insanity that runs rampant on the Internet. We also thought it would be interesting to compare and contrast the Los Angeles and Baltimore dating scenes.
Because some of this material is too good not to share, we’ve decided to share it with you in the form of weekly highlights. You’ll get them until either one of us finds love (don’t hold your breath) or gives up (more likely).
Dating, and online dating in particular, is not for the faint of heart. It requires the ability to operate with military precision, to negotiate numerous potential prospects, many of whom flame out before ever getting to the “in person” stage, and, most importantly, it requires a very thick skin.
About three weeks ago, I spoke on the phone with one OKC prospect. The call wasn’t bad, and I expected it to lead to the “in person” stage, but then he went MIA for three weeks, only to randomly reappear yesterday, asking for a date next week. “I’m afraid not,” I said, “without at least an explanation for where you’ve been, and even then — no promises.”
His response was to tell me that he’d had some bad experiences on OKC and so had taken a little detox, but now he was back and wanted to meet me. My first instinct was to wonder if his bad experience was somehow connected to the fact that the desired age range specified on his profile was 18-40. Had he accidentally hooked up with an underage tween?
But then he sent me this:
I had previously met a transvestite who didn’t put that in her (his) profile; that didn’t bother me too much but was dishonest… Previously met a woman who was – no kidding – 100 pounds heavier than her profile… And this most recent one took the cake. I don’t even want to get into it. It put me in a very difficult situation. And I’m not talking about her turning out to being a prostitute (which had also once happened to me about four years ago).
Wow. Well. On one hand — the transvestite didn’t bother you? On the other hand, I guess I should consider myself lucky that my only negative experiences have been getting up close and personal with the honor-free man-child douchebags Los Angeles seems to breed.
But still, I don’t feel lucky. I don’t feel like I’m cut out for this. And I need a cave to retreat into — stat. And yes, I’ll talk about this in therapy next week.
Because here’s the thing, I’m way too sensitive for my own good. I can handle the military-esque negotiations, even if I find it exhausting how many peter out into nothingness, but I can’t handle the emotional ups and downs. The attachments. The vulnerability. The hoping. The disappointment.
I wish I was Lori Petty in Tank Girl (PS. a great movie and a great soundtrack).
But I’m not.
Instead, I’m more like one of these. I read that article a couple days ago, and while I have no idea if I’m actual empath, I’ll say that many of the symptoms sound pretty dead-on. All of which further reinforces my suspicion that I should just take myself off the dating market.
Phone Calls: 0
I saw two people this week. One of whom I already referenced in my previous post. The other one last night. He was nice and smart and we’ve got a lot in common, but, first of all, he’s a dude, and unfortunately, I think LA has vaccinated me against them. And second of all, I am inexplicably smitten with the girl from Wednesday, with whom there has been much texting but no further actual physical interaction — and not due to a lack of effort on my part but a lack of availability on hers.
If only Julie could fly out to LA, track down Coke Jesus (who has thankfully stopped calling me at 1am), drag him up to Griffith Park, and feed him to the coyotes. Maybe a ritualistic sacrifice could clear out some of my excess baggage…
But since that’s not likely to happen, because Julie’s got a very full dating schedule, I may need to revert back to my self-imposed hermitude.
Because ain’t nobody got time for that (except for, apparently, Julie).