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There are no doubt people who will argue a case for America’s Deadliest Lifeboat Storm Fisherman, Active Volcano Bobsled Barbeque Masters or The Real Housewives of New York City, but in my experience, all you need for experience a sense of adventure in your own home is an internet hook-up and a subscription to an online dating service.
And yes, this would be one way of saying the matchmaker didn’t quite pan out. Otherwise, I’d probably have cloaked my catching intro in the form of an engagement announcement, yes?
But, let’s be honest, if everything was going well, who would care.
My biggest challenge was sorting through the tedium to find enough humor to make a column out of it.
Truth: Unlike men I talk with, who seem to stagger through a nightmare of phony photos, salvaged road kill, and drunken ER visits, the biggest complaint I can make is that I seem to spend most of my time dipping in and out of shallow end of the testosterone pool. If I might fall back on the old shopping cliché, however, even if I end up taking the sensible black pumps out for a spin, it doesn’t make shopping through the other departments less fun!
For instance, this profile:
SAME OL STORY LOST THE HOUSE KIDS,CAR ,OL LADY ,SO IT'S TIME TO GRAB MY BOOT STRAPS PULL THEM UP AND CARRY ON OFCOURSE THE FACT I'M GETTING READY TO GO DO 20 YEARS IN PRISON KINDA PUTS A LITTLE HITCH IN MY GET ALONG BUT HEY HEAD UP HEART STRONG
BEFORE THE GAVEL FALLS PERFERABLY
Sadly, no expiration date was provided, so I don’t know if his simple dream came true.
Much of the sport can be found in just scrolling for viable candidates, a combination of the old personal license plate game and trying to answer the question, What was he thinking when he picked that ID? When faced with names like:
like2lick76 (who posed for his photo with his teenaged daughter—or somebody’s teenaged daughter…)
Even a seemingly innocuous handle like “Brokenwing” or “lonelyguy” is kind of sad or borderline creepy, depending on the picture next to it.
The guy who poses hugging a stuffed animal for instance—what’s that about? Unless you're a pedophile, I would suggest avoiding posting photos that suggest you might be. On the other hand—ew!!
The guy with crazy hair posed in front of the cheap motel piqued my curiosity.
The many men who posted photos that only showed half a face—secret agent? bad camera skills? eczema?—did not.
If you are a woman looking for a man who loves motorcycles, loves to fish, loves standing near water, and loves having his photograph taken doing any or all activities involving the above—as long as you don’t mind the insertion, you’ll pardon the expression, of the occasional Bud or Hooters Girl--girlfriend, you will be like a kid in a candy store here!
Booze, bikes, backpacks, and babes—it’s a living photo album!
What happens when the sun goes down and the album closes, I can’t guarantee.
I had hoped working with a matchmaker might be a faster, more direct and personalized way to find love, but it turned out to be even more of a challenge. My matchmaker was as committed as she could possibly be, but she didn’t have the resources that the dating sites did: to make the match, you have to have the match, and she doesn’t. At least not yet.
I’m not a particularly easy client, either. I’m looking, as I put it to someone recently, for the frosting on my cake, not the butter and eggs; my life is pretty good right now, and whomever I add has to be someone that enhances it, brings growth and joy, and vice versa—not just fills a place on the couch or a seat at the movies!
My matchmaker, now friend, Amar, when we were in a group of younger single women, all throwing out helpful suggestions for my slump—new hairstyle, different hair color, better make-up—after a couple of rounds of tequila.
“You don’t understand,” she said, cutting them off with a raised hand, “Men love her. They want to see her again. She’s the one I can’t seem to make happy!”
What, and miss out on all those fish photos?
For now, I have my laptop, my subscription to Zoosk, and my determination. I believe that eventually I’ll find Mr. Right or he’ll find me. And if that happens, there’s always Mr. Restraining Order.