Uncle Exhausted

He seemed old and tired, as if life exhausts him. And it probably does, since he's three-and-a-half years into a long drawn-out divorce he considers needless. I knew almost as soon as I walked into the restaurant overlooking the city that this was not going to work for me. He claims he's 58, eight years older than me by birth, but he seems 20 years older. It felt as if I were having a drink with an uncle who spends all his free time playing golf or drinking high balls at the country club bar.

He pulled out my chair for me. He stood up when I returned from the bathroom to our table. He helped me put on my sweater when it started to cool off on the veranda of this old, faded restaurant that is at least 25 years past its prime -- like a movie starlet who was once stunning, but is now "merely" beautiful for a woman in her 70s.

When the waitress came by to see if we wanted another round, "Uncle Exhausted" asked her to tell the bartender not to put any ice in his seven & seven. I switched from a glass of wine to lemonade. I was driving. 

He rolled his eyes constantly -- like a Middle School girl stuck at a wedding with her mortifying family. He rolled his eyes when he told me the mess his 10-year-old son makes when he stays with him every other weekend. He rolled his eyes when he told me about "the lecture" he received that day from a friend who thinks gluten is poison. He rolled his eyes when he talked about the self-important CEOs and captains of industry he used to encounter in his previous career as an investment banker. If I rolled my eyes as often as he did, I would give myself migraines.

I was surprised I had so misjudged him based on his dating profile. He spent part of his childhood growing up in several European countries, the son of well traveled teachers. And he likes to garden, spend time in the woods, and ski. But I kicked myself for ignoring the gigantic red flags I now see conspicuously waving in his dating profile. Tellingly, Uncle Exhausted used the word "stoked" to describe his love of skiing. Stoked -- a word at least 20 years out of date -- the "awesome" of the early 90s. He also cops to drinking instant coffee every morning -- the horror! Who drinks instant coffee, except my 79-year-old father when he's camping and astronauts? But the real warning I ignored was when he told me, "ABBA really gets a party going!" Um... not any parties *I* attend.

He gently complained to the waitress about how watered down his drink was, even though the second one came with no ice as he had ordered. I squirmed in my chair, embarrassed to be an unfortunate witness to this. He emanated a palpable sadness as he nursed his second cocktail and recounted his two failed marriages and his two careers. I wondered if he is an accidental alcoholic, self-medicating with booze and solitude. It was easy to feel compassion for him -- he's a nice guy. But I was stoked when the date was over, as if someone had interrupted the funeral dirge playing all evening to get the party going with Dancing Queen.

Solving the Rubik's Cube of Love

Trying to sort through all the dating possibilities on an online dating website feels something like trying to solve a Rubik's Cube. Based on limited self-selected information that could very well all be lies, I am trying to sort through all the guys who've contacted me to find the plausible ones with the most appealing combination of traits for me. The Rubik's-Cubing goes something like this: he is geographically undesirable, too tall, and sings in a barbershop quartet, but he makes me laugh, he loves camping, and he's fit -- both physically and intellectually. Solving this romantic Rubik's Cube would mean finding my next long-term relationship using this crude method. Is it a hopeless strategy given the fact that I've *never* solved a Rubik's Cube in my life?

A few days after I came up with the Rubik's Cube/online dating comparison, I was contacted by a guy who was amused by all the 80s references in my online profile. He wondered why I hadn't included the Rubik's Cube, which he told me he can solve in less than 10 seconds. His teenage son is a "Speed Cuber," a competitive Rubik's Cube player who can solve it in two seconds! He even sent me a couple of clips showing his son in competition. I found it all weirdly coincidental and weirdly fascinating.

Of course, sorting through all the qualities/facts about a guy is a highly imperfect algorithm, as I am reminded again and again. I can't speedcube my way to the right guy, because there's no guarantee I will like him in person. Alas, there's no shortcut to finding love, which is on its own damned schedule. Mine seems to be taking its own sweet time, like Prissy in Gone with the Wind when she's dawdling on the sidewalk back to Scarlett's house because she "don't know nothing 'bout birthin' babies."

The Inexplicable Goes to 11

I was very excited when he finally asked me out. We had been instant messaging through the dating website over the last several weeks, and I was dazzled by his wit. The first paragraph of his online profile is a symphony of sarcasm that hit every note of annoyance, pessimism, and reluctant resignation I have been feeling about online dating:

I am old, worn out, torn up with a bitter broken heart and I am a cheap skate. I have baggage, an ex who comes over unannounced in the middle of the night. My teenage daughter is pregnant with her second child, father unknown. My son is a meth addict and routinely breaks in to steal something from the house. I make a living smuggling people across the border. I love my job, never a dull moment as it really caters to my creative side.

He seemed to love my sense of humor too, and our jokes organically fed off each other. He is a year older than me and he loves to ski. I was ready to run off to Vegas with him, sight unseen, but I settled for dinner only a short car ride away. From the moment I woke up on the day of the big date, it felt like Christmas, Halloween, New Year's Eve in Times Square, and the 50-1 longshot you played just getting up to win by a nose, all rolled into one.

When I parked in the lot behind the restaurant, I texted him to say I had just arrived and that, "my profile pictures were 15 years old -- hope that's not a deal breaker!" His reply? "Oh good. Mine are even older."

I walked right past him as he leaned against the hood of his car while he checked his phone. He didn't really look like the hilarious guy I had animated in my head based on his texts and a few shot-at-a-distance photos of him. I went into the restaurant to find him, but came back out when I realized that car-hood-leaner was him. We hugged, but it felt awkward, since I was hugging a stranger. Little did I know, but that was only an appetizer of awkwardness. The whole seven-course meal was ahead of me.

He seemed *completely* not into me, as if he were disappointed with the reality. He didn't say anything about the way I looked, even though I was wearing a dress, and I looked good. I had made an effort. Even if I'm not your type, if I've put on a dress -- A F*CKING DRESS, PEOPLE! -- you'd better say something, even something innocuous like 'You look nice,' otherwise you're just a social clod. I got nothing.

He was distracted throughout dinner, often checking out the thin 20-year-old single mom in the tank top and mini skirt who repeatedly let her young toddler bang her head hard on the table they shared with a group of her 20-something friends. He was rarely present or focused on me, and he didn't say one funny thing all night. It was as if a different person showed up for our date! Perhaps he had a humorless twin brother who had bound and gagged the hilarious twin I had been texting, just so he could take his place.

I can usually find something to talk about with anyone, but I struggled. Finally, when I asked him what he had planned that weekend, he told me he was going to shop for a "yacht." His word. Not a boat. Not a sailboat. Not even a big-ass boat. A yacht. He was going to spend the weekend yacht shopping. I could not relate.

This is when my bad date went to 11. "Not Into Me" mentioned he had previously worked at a well known internet company, the same one where my ex-husband worked for a year or two. Not only did they work there at the same time in the same building, they both worked at the small publicly traded company that the large well known internet company had acquired! Not Into Me searched his phone for my ex-husband's name, and when he couldn't find it, he checked my ex's LinkedIn profile. The 54 people they both knew on LinkedIn wasn't the only thing they had in common though. I realized they both behaved the same way toward me during dinner -- with almost complete indifference. As if they wanted to be anywhere else at that moment. And certainly not with me.

The check couldn't and didn't come fast enough. When it did, I offered to split the bill as I always do on a first date. In all my first dates, I can't remember a guy taking me up on that offer. Until now. Naturally, the guy who was planning to spend his weekend yacht shopping is the one who wanted to split the bill. Whatever. It was a small price to pay to end the awkward misery.

Not Into Me had parked right in front of the restaurant, so he just said good night, hopped in his car, and drove away. He didn't offer to walk me to my car, which was parked in the lot in back. After a night of utter disinterest in me, I was not surprised, and relieved that I wouldn't have to endure even five more minutes of him. I practically skipped back to my car, happy to cross this dud off my list and hopeful that my next date wouldn't be the train wreck this one was.

Two days later, Not Into Me texted me and asked me out again. WTF?! Bet you didn't see that coming. Neither did I. I was stunned and confused. Then it was he who was stunned and confused when I turned him down, telling him I thought there was zero in-person chemistry between us. He said he was tired that night and that he really liked me. No matter. There is no way I will ever knowingly go out with a guy whose behavior towards me reminds me of my ex-husband's during the most unhappy part of our marriage.

Dating is hard. Dating strangers is even harder. Sometimes I wonder how anyone can discover that special someone through the distorting haze of expectation and imagination that clouds online dating websites. Then I go back online to take another hit off that distortion and let myself get carried away again.

Another Reason Why There's Already a Reserved Seat for Me in Hell

Recently a perfectly nice guy -- whose only fault seems to be that he lives 35 miles away and is therefore "geographically undesirable" -- sent me a brief message through the online dating website. When I checked out his profile, I noticed one of his photos showed him wearing a police uniform with the caption 'What I wear to work every day.' And he was built, so I decided to tease him a little bit.

ME: Just wondering if you're a cop or a male stripper pretending to be a cop? I have extreme reactions to both. One is very good; the other, not so much. 

MALE STRIPPER COP: Which one is good, and which one isn't?

ME: I would be amused, and slightly horrified, if you were a male stripper dressed as a cop. I think law enforcement officers are great. So, I guess this means goodbye. I just can't date a male stripper -- no matter how hot!

MALE STRIPPER COP: Lol. I'm not a male stripper. I'm a police officer. What makes you think I'm a stripper?

ME: Cops aren't built like you! Male strippers are though. Do you dance at a club or do you specialize in bachelorette parties and baby showers?

COP WHO LOOKS LIKE A MALE STRIPPER BUT CLAIMS HE ISN'T:  Baby showers? Lol. I'm not a stripper. But thanks.

ME: Oh, c'mon. You expect me to believe that?! You don't have an ounce of donut-flab on you! And that uniform is fake. I can see the velcro.

COP WHO LOOKS LIKE A MALE STRIPPER BUT CLAIMS HE ISN'T:  The uniform is legit. Seriously, I really am a police officer.

ME: Hahaha. You'll have to "arrest" me, Officer Hottie. Please! Please! I've been bad.

COP WHO LOOKS LIKE A MALE STRIPPER BUT CLAIMS HE ISN'T: I don't know what to tell you. I'm not a stripper. I just like to work out.  

ME: How do you get all that money home -- since it all comes in $1 bills? Do you stuff it all in a backpack or do you have to use something larger like a wheel barrow?

COP WHO LOOKS LIKE A MALE STRIPPER BUT CLAIMS HE ISN'T: Goodbye.