It Ain't Brain Surgery

Take it from me, it might not be a good sign if you feel the urge to study before a first date. But this guy, a 29-year-old surgical resident whose photos reminded me of a young Barack Obama, didn't really seem like the younger guys who typically contact me on the internet dating site. (Oddly, most of them are computer programmers.) After briefly dating a guy who reads Martin Heidegger for kicks, I -- a woman who regularly reads chick lit -- was somewhat sensitive to dating someone too smart for me. So, I fervently hoped "Young Barack" would turn out to be doing one of the "dumber" surgical residencies. 'Please o please, let him be an orthopedic surgeon,' I prayed. But no, it turns out he's not one of the "dumber surgeons." He is, in fact, a neurosurgeon... a f*cking brain surgeon.

We chatted back and forth by email before we started texting. At first Young Barack was very interested in finding out about the serious book I'm in the middle of writing, because it's tangentially related to an aspect of neurology. But that doesn't mean I know much at all about the brain, which is why I was anxious to fill my head with the Cliffs Notes version before I met him. But, as the inner professional surgeon got elbowed out of the way by the inner 29-year-old single guy, his texts became flirtier, less syllabic. Instead of texts asking me about my book, he started asking me about my swimsuit, then my underwear, but always in a clever, funny way that rode close to the line of indecency without ever crossing it. Even though he has a degree from one of the best medical schools in the country and a residency at one of the best hospitals in LA--a very bright guy indeed--he was still essentially a 20-something guy just trying to get some.

He asked me out for drinks a couple of times, but I was either busy or out of town. Finally, after a month of emailing and texting, we made plans to meet for a drink one Sunday afternoon in October. He told me he would call me Sunday morning after he woke up. When noon came with no call from Young Barack, I wasn't sure if I should call him, but I decided against it since he was on call the night before. I didn't want to wake him up too early, and deny him that crucial last hour of sleep he would need in case he was called in to perform emergency liposuction later that night. If you need lipo, that's considered an emergency here in LA.

Hours went by as my phone mocked me with its smug silence. By 3 pm, I had given up all hope that I would ever hear from him again. At 5 pm, Young Barack texted me to ask if I was still up for that drink, with no apology, no "so-sorry-I-overslept," no hint of an explanation even. I tersely declined in a polite way of course, because I had plans to have dinner with friends that night--plans about which he had previously known, which is why we hadn't originally scheduled that drink for that night.

And that was it--the disappointing third act to a month of fun flirtation and the denied gratification of finally meeting someone in person. It's these kinds of unsatisfying online dating experiences, with their emotional highs and lows, that occur with all-too-regular frequency and wear me down and make me want to hide in my apartment for an entire Hot in Cleveland marathon in my bathrobe, smelling of beer and despair.

Internet dating shouldn't be this difficult. It ain't brain surgery.