Okay, internet dating is officially THE WORST. I have gotten e-mails from people who look like they're in the Taliban, people who are definitely on Social Security, and one guy who said, "Oh, I see you work with people with autism? I actually have autism." Is this real life?! Nobody knows how to spell or capitalize, and anyone who stands in front of a mirror and takes a self-portrait of themselves with a cell phone automatically gets deleted. This narrows the selection pool down to single digits.
Real-life "mingling" (let's go, I need another word) gets an F, too. I was talking with one of my good friends about this project yesterday, and she said to me, "Alexandra, do you really think you're going to meet someone at a happy hour?" I stopped and thought about my prior bar experiences, and promptly deduced that the answer is no. Let's see: there was the night of the Pediatric Institute Heartthrob Ball charity fundraiser, when I went to the after party at Chinato. I was waiting at the bar to order a drink (and naturally I looked rather glamorous, it being a ball and all), when a handsome man, probably in his late 30s, started talking to me. Great, I thought, and just went with it. He was head of an I.T. department of something or other at the hospital, and he asked what I did. When I told him that I'm a behavior therapist at the Center for Autism and explained that one of our students was being honored with the Courage Award that evening, he seemed genuinely impressed and offered to buy me a drink and bill it to his corporate tab. Um, yes! We chatted some more, he said he'd look me up at work and e-mail me, etc. "Stop by our table in the corner later," he smiled. Perfect. After letting an obligatory period of time lapse by, where I chatted important-looking-ly with our business director and other legit-looking people, I glanced over at Bar Guy. And there he was, his arm around a woman, a wedding ring on his finger. DEFINITELY NOT. Fail.
Several weeks ago, my sister was in town on a Friday night, and I'd taken her over to the Tremont Art Walk. We stopped at South Side for dinner and had to squeeze two seats together at the crowded bar since tables were an hour wait. It being a Tremont bar, there was some sophisticated European white-people sport being televised that I believe is referred to in America as soccer. (It was definitely on ESPN 9, or some channel that I didn't even know existed.) Two handsome gentlemen next to us were immersed in the game, but since I was entertaining my sister and thoroughly enjoying my melty, cheesy goodness of a sandwich, I was minding my own business. Sisters before misters. Thankfully, my athletically-minded sibling was able to contribute appropriate comments such as "Penalty!" or "Goal!" or other such astute game-related observances which are clearly outside of my realm of comprehension. This struck up conversation with both Handsome Gentlemen, and over the course of the evening, I proceeded to discover that Handsomer Gentleman and I were reading the same book, regularly peppering our banter with Arrested Development quotes, and -- ready for it? -- he was a newspaper editor. Come on. Does it get any better than this. When we'd all cashed out, he left the game at halftime to walk us to the bakery and then also to our car, and then he hugged me goodbye. Several days later, I get a text from him. He'd tracked me down through a mutual acquaintance, gotten my phone number, and contacted me. I seriously thought I'd died and this was somehow heaven, even though I'd always been pretty solidly certain there's a permanent space with my name on it in hell. I was essentially ready to create a wedding board on Pinterest. After a few days of flirty texts, he says, "This is so crazy that we have such chemistry, especially since we're both with other people." Umm, that'd just be YOU, because I am absolutely single. And you're apparently cheating on someone. DEFINITELY NOT. Fail.
Fast-forward a few weekends. I was at Lolita with one of my lovely single lady friends, and we were having drinks at the bar. (I am not an alcoholic.) A beautiful man is sitting next to us, and we're talking, and he's extremely nice and friendly, and he tells us he's a furniture designer. (Hello, hot!) And more talking, and he gives us his card, and tells us to check out the website, la la la. And then he gets up and leaves. What the hell! DEFINITELY NOT. Fail.
The man-watching -- not even "talking," just "watching" -- was pretty rough at the east side Melt this weekend, where all the patrons looked homeless, unemployed, and not clear on the fact that they do not nearly fit into size Small t-shirts. As Christian Lander would observe, you are trying too hard to appear hipster, and you are the wrong kind of white person. I would just like to state that I am frequenting respectable Cleveland establishments! What am I doing wrong? I don't like sports bars, and everyone knows that girly-looking girls in sports bars are trying too hard, so that definitely won't be happening. I guess I'll try again this week, perhaps downtown, which maybe attracts normal guys with normal jobs who wear something other than plaid and who don't faintly resemble tattooed bears.
So,
let's bring it on back to present. Do I really think I'll find a guy
in a bar? DEFINITELY NOT. But where else am I going to find him? In
the Taliban on this waste-of-time dating website? (This guy actually
had a turban on.) Sitting on my couch with my bunny?? (Scoops McGee
doesn't like cuddling; she tries to bite me.) In the extracurricular
activities that I don't have time or energy for (thank you CCCA)???
FAIL! One week down, people. Three to go. Let's pick up this pace.
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