Just My Type

About a month ago, a guy with a wildly funny online profile checked out my rather boring profile. His profile showed off his keen intelligence and irreverent sense of humor, which together, as I've mentioned before, is catnip to me. A yoga fanatic with a couple of tattoos on his arms, he is a playwright and an artisan coffee roaster who looks like he's in his late-50s -- an aging hipster. The kind of guy one would see cavorting in his native habitat on Abbot Kinney in Venice.

Every day I checked Aging Hipster's profile with the same obsessiveness as a 13-year-old girl with a Justin Bieber crush, hoping he would contact me. His hilarious profile prompted me to finally put in some time and effort to beef up my own phoned-in profile. Yet my "charm" seemed to elude him, despite my desperate pleas to the Universe to make him take notice of me.

Then last week out of the blue, Aging Hipster revisited my profile and gave me the cheesy 4- or 5-star rating that seems to mean he likes my photos or my entire profile. Excited and intimidated at the same time, I decided to send him a private message if I could come up with something funny. Finally, I came up with this:

You are hilarious. If you're an asshole too, you're JUST my type -- at least based on some of the guys I've dated. 

Aside from master sushi chef and ruggedly handsome burly fireman, artisan coffee roaster might just be the perfect vocation for my next boyfriend.

He responded right away and told me I was hilarious. After a few funny messages back and forth, we quickly made plans to meet up for coffee four days later on Saturday afternoon. He even picked one of my very favorite coffee places in LA, located near me.

After making plans with Aging Hipster, the other first date I had made for that week really lost its appeal for me. Although I did go through with it anyway and had a pleasant time, it was as if I were stuck in a waiting room somewhere and casually browsing through a Pottery Barn catalog. That kind of pleasant. But with margaritas.

Finally, Saturday arrived and I woke up to this terse message from Aging Hipster:

I have to cancel. I'm sorry.

What the hell?! The one guy I've been dying to meet for over a month cancels on me without explanation. Maybe he really *is* just my type. I guess I should be careful of what I wish for -- even sarcastically.