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My dog died and I signed back on to Match.com.
Make of that what you will; it’s the way it happened, and I assume there’s a correlation (That’s me showing off all the stuff I learned in my accelerated Statistics class over the past eight weeks, too).
The thing about Match, for those of you not in the know, is that if you drop your subscription, they don’t automatically delete your profile. Prospective dates can still see you and contact you, you just can’t respond.
You can, of course, delete your profile, but it’s a pain in the butt to create the thing, so if you have any intention of re-upping, it’s much easier to just lie dormant.
The first thing waiting for me was a message from my ex-without-boundaries:
“It’s not too late
And your sister”
One fine feature of Match.com is the ability to block people from viewing, searching, or otherwise interacting with your profile.
Moving ahead, there were emails—and *winks* actually, a non-verbal way of letting someone know you’re interested—from several men in other states. I always wonder about this. First, my criteria clearly state that I’m looking for someone within 25 miles of Sacramento.
But then I wonder, is there some code I’m missing? Are they looking for porn pals?
No matter, I brush these off with the auto-eject button, the “Say No, thanks,” and begin looking for faces I haven’t seen hundreds of times among the ones that have become like family.
The truth is, there is someone I would rather be with. Someone who, for awhile said and did good things for the right reasons, until he realized he was doing it, panicked, and decided it was too complicated. I fought the good fight for minute, but by then it had become a self-fulfilling prophecy. It was too complicated. It was exhausting. Hurtful.
So I retreated to my (other) friends, and family, and activities.
I un-friended him on Facebook, so I wouldn’t have to see his picture every day.
And then my dog died.
So I wrote him a horribly self-indulgent weepy email about losing my two best friends.
And I joined Match.com
At least I didn’t call him.
(I have standards.)
Enter the pilot.
Ten years younger and 8 inches taller.
He started emailing me from across the country, then calling, and texting.
This, I typically don’t do, this building a rapport prior to meeting face to face, but he was 37, 6’4” and my dog was dead!
You get the picture. And who keeps in touch every night? I’ve had husbands I didn’t talk to that much. It was lovely, really. He flew rich people all over the country. Interesting.
Back in town, he made every effort to meet me the first night, couple of drinks.
Next night he picked me up for dinner, opened the car door for me—getting out, not just getting in—and came in for a while afterwards.
There are a lot of flight references that could be made here, but that would be cheap and easy (see what I mean?). I could talk about the baggage that made me doubt that he was relationship material—just had to sneak one in—but that isn’t where I was going.
Two reasons I bring this up, with regard to dating: my suitor’s follow-up to our date, and my sister’s reaction.
I’ve complained in the past about people (men) who simply disappear, or who ask for a phone number on a first date, distinctly giving the impression that they intend to call, with no intension of ever doing so.
Not this guy.
Well, not much.
He did tell me I’d passed the “Second Date Test,” which he’d made a big deal about as the equivalent of some people’s first date test, but he was a bit on the spot.
Only a deaf and blind person with no hands would have missed the third degree burns he had received from past ultimatums over everything from his flight schedule to his love of cats.
Nice guy, definitely.
Moving forward, maybe not so much. Hate to be a hater in 1.5 dates.
What he did do, was write me an email the very next day—long, courteous, grammatically correct for the most part—detailing why it would never work out.
The funny part—and I’ll be honest, not quite so funny when I received it as in retrospect—was that he was rejecting me primarily for two things: my inability to accept his schedule (based on the quoted statement, “If you’re interested in me, I know you’ll find time to see me when you can”) and my lack of affection for Rocklin and Roseville.
What are the odds, I ask you? He lives in Roseville. Asked where I wanted to meet, and I said, “I really hate Roseville; the places are just so generic.” How had I managed to keep it hidden so long?
Dating is so complicated.
As for my sister, she couldn’t understand why we didn’t just agree to, well, keep it casual, since he’s gone all the time, and I haven’t found anyone serious?
I started to respond that I hadn’t had that kind of relationship since my…and realized: I never really had that kind of relationship. Not intentionally, anyway.
I’m just not booty call material.
Even with my beloved puppy passed on, for me it’s still Go Big or Go Home.
Or, I guess, sometimes both.