In the Room the Women Come and Go Talking to Online Gigilos

My friend, who is going through a divorce, recently tried online dating and had the usual reaction we all do at first: horror -- complete and utterly mesmerized horror. He would message me in reactive despair after taking brief peeks inside the online-dating big tent, a Pandora's box of human desire that lays bare an embarrassing mixture of clueless bravado, breathtaking superficiality, weary optimism, quiet revelation, and a deep yearning to connect that will break your heart.

This is the same friend who will quote lines from T.S. Eliot's Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock at times when life seems almost unbearable. Well, who would have thunk it? My Prufrockian friend is horrified by online dating. Hmmm... who put the chocolate in my peanut butter?

I suggested he should take down his profile and replace it with the online dating profile that J. Alfred Prufrock would have posted, had he been real and middle-aged now. Can you imagine the reaction he'll get to a profile explicitly filled with regret, thwarted desire, disillusionment, sexual frustration, and social isolation due to an inability to act? In a world that richly rewards self-confidence (warranted or not), is there a less likely candidate for cyber-dating success than J. Alfred? When you're a sensitive, thoughtful person devoted more to the life of the mind, instead of how hot you look in that photo, online dating seems as likely a place to find a soul mate as standing in line at the DMV. Posting J. Alfred Prufrock's dating profile is a snarky way to laugh at the huge limitations of internet dating.

I admit I may have been too hasty in dismissing the possibility of finding someone on a dating website. The problem might lie in using a gigantic dating website that really is the match-making equivalent of waiting in line at the DMV. Perhaps I need to find the dating website that is the equivalent of browsing in the literary section of an upscale bookstore. And if it's not out there, maybe I need to create it. I'll call it "Measuring out my Love Life with Coffee Spoons: a Dating Website for the J. Alfred Prufrocks of the World and Other Sensitive, Creative Types."

Burqa to the Left of Me, Barbie to the Right, Here I Am -- Stuck in the Middle Askew

When I first moved to Los Angeles, I lived in a high-rise apartment building near one of the big universities. After having lived in a house for the previous six years, it kind of felt like I was living in a dorm again -- thankfully a dorm mostly filled with responsible students who studied all the time, so noise was rarely an issue. My floor was an eclectic crazy quilt of ages and ethnicities, which, at the time I thought was unusual, but after having lived here in LA for more than a decade, I realize is the norm.

One of my neighbors was a 22-year-old Barbie Doll who only wore trendy neon-colored workout clothes two sizes too small or, when she felt like dressing up, a bikini top and cutoffs. She was aggressively blonde and always displaying the merchandise. If Dolly Parton had channeled her creative energy into exercise, instead of music, she would have looked like my neighbor Barbie Doll.

At the other end of the spectrum, there was the Muslim wife and mother of two young kids who always wore a floor-length black burqa with a small rectangular slit that only revealed her eyes. I never saw her in anything else, even while she was doing laundry or just taking her trash to the garbage chute. Burqa lived at one end of the hall, while Barbie Doll was at the other. And then there's Maude -- smack dab in the middle -- harshly judging both of them for the same thing: dressing as female caricatures in deference to men. I was having none of it -- this dressing-to-please-men nonsense.

I viewed Barbie Doll with disdain because I assumed she spent lots of time and energy in exchange for male approval for something as superficial as her looks. I judged Burqa for covering up her entire body, with the presumption that she was doing it to please her husband. It was a hot summer in LA, and here was Burqa dressed head to toe in a voluminous black robe made of polyester. It seemed like a ridiculous accommodation to her husband's presumed needs entirely at the expense of her own.

Truth was I was wearing my own particular version of a burqa: baggy unisex beige clothing from L.L. Bean that did a better job of camouflaging my body than a burqa. I was hiding in plain sight, and no one was interested in looking. When I think back to that time, even at 34, I felt invisible in that same way that many American women over 50 feel.

Back then I thought I was lucky to be married to an "enlightened" husband who didn’t care about my looks. I had deluded myself with the smug idea that we had a love based on things superior to the raw impetuousness of physical attraction. In the aftermath of my divorce, I realized just how much I had overestimated my ex’s esteem for me. Not only did he not care about what I looked like, it turned out he didn’t give a crap about my other “less superficial” qualities either.

So, now guess who's dressing in a way that (hopefully) gets her noticed. Not traffic-stopping noticed -- just a bit of a lingering glance noticed. Nothing dramatic. Nothing Italian. Despite wanting to think otherwise, I've come to believe that physical attraction is one of several important ingredients in the glue that keeps a good relationship together. If it weren't so important, wouldn't we *all* be dressing in unisex baggy L.L. Bean clothing in various shades of beige?

I Like Kale, Dammit!

Every once in a while I will receive a "check-in" text from guys relegated, by my choice or theirs, to the dating dustbin of my past. The check-in text seems to occur when the guy is single and not having any luck with the ladies, so he texts me -- and no doubt all his other former dates -- to try to figure out the extent of his current amorous options. It's essentially the "Hail Mary" pass of dating, a last-ditch desperate effort to score.

After I know it's not going to work out with a guy, I usually delete him from my phone, unless of course we're friends. Months later when I receive one of these check-in texts, I am usually confronted with an unfamiliar phone number and a vague message that offers no clue to the texter's identity. My most recent check-in text began with this nugget:

"Happened to see your number in my contacts list but couldn't match the name to a face..."

Flattering. I matched the level of charm put into this text with one that contained my first name and a "Who's this?"

Him: "Neil."

As luck would have it, I don't know any Neils, except for a guy I met online 18 months(!) ago. I remembered this Neil right away. He was the inappropriately young surgical resident who emailed and texted me for a month, then set up a tentative date, but flaked on me. Since I have zero interest in dating him, I decided to have some fun with him instead.

Me: "NEIL DIAMOND?!!! I've been waiting decades for your text. YES! YES! I would LOVE to sing You Don't Bring Me Flowers with you!!!!!!!!!"

Him: "Lol no. We might have met thru ok Cupid a while back."

Me: "Oh yeah. I was the HOT one on okc. Does that jog your memory?"

Him: "Lol. For some reason a couple of random associations such as glasses and writing come to mind. We must have met or I'm having deja vu."

Me: "Yes, I do wear glasses when I write."

Him: "Lol. K. So I'm not (completely) crazy."

Me: "If you say so. (I don't like to argue with crazies!) Are you still on okc?"

Him: "Yeah...Sporadically. You?"

Me: "Not for the past 13 months."

Him: "Where in LA are you?"

Me: "You mean RIGHT NOW? As I'm doing errands?!"

Him: "Lol. Yes. How else can we get a drink together?"

At this point, I'm driving between errands and not reading his texts. He must have second-guessed his get-a-drink suggestion to me and decided to back peddle when he didn't get an immediate response.

Him: "jk"

Me: "Don't worry about my location, Neil. If you want me to do a duet with you, I can be *anywhere* -- the Bowl, the Greek, the Palladium -- in less than an hour. I've only been waiting since 1980 to do this with you!!!!!!!!!!!"

Him: "Ha. You're funny. Are you free to meet up?"

Me: "Not tonight."

Him: "Will do a duet another evening then."

Me: "How old are you, Neil? I'm having age-related concerns."

Him: "I'm 30. How about you?"

Me: "I was afraid of that. You're just not young enough for me. Sorry. I'm looking for more of a Harold and Maude relationship."

Him: "Will be honest -- had to google that movie!"

Me: "I'm 50. I can't believe you've never seen Harold and Maude! It's a classic."

Then he sends me one of those bathroom selfies. He's in his surgical scrubs. And he's very cute. Damn it. He's as tempting as a cronut, but I've taken a vow against junk food like deep-fried pastry and too-young-for-me guys.

Him: "This is me. Was on call at hospital earlier today."

At this point, I'm thinking he sent me the selfie I didn't ask for because he was worried I didn't remember that he's a surgeon. And cute. Then I wonder why he took the selfie *earlier* in the day and decide he must have been sending it all afternoon to EVERYONE he's ever dated or even contemplated dating. Maybe he felt that things were now desperate for him. He was facing a weekend alone. He must have struck out with all of the women in his datable sphere, and now he was reaching back to a sarcastic old broad he met online 18 months ago and didn't even bother to meet.

Me: "I can't take a selfie right now because I have mustache cream on."

Him: "Lol, mustache cream from coffee? Even better!"

Me: "No. To get rid of the hair on my upper lip."

Him: "Gotcha."

I really *did* have mustache cream on my upper lip. I even took some selfies wearing the mustache cream, but I couldn't take a decent selfie that made me look cute enough. Even though I'm never going to meet this guy, I am so vain, I vetoed the idea of sending him a less-than-flattering photo of me in all my mustachio-creamed glory.

Me: "I can't believe you don't have a date on a Saturday night!"

Truly. Let's think about the implications of that. A young, attractive surgeon can't find a date on the biggest date night of the week in a town OVERFLOWING with beautiful, interesting, awesome women. WTF's up with that?!

Him: "I'm actually meeting a good friend from college who's in town for the night."

Me: "Have fun. Don't booze it up too much. You might be called in to do emergency lipo."

Him: "Haha. I don't do plastics, plus not on call overnight! (Thankfully) BTW, how about you? No hot Harold for a Saturday night?!"

Me: "I'm going to a party. I wouldn't be defoliating my upper lip if I were just staying in to watch Friends reruns tonight."

What I'm really saying is: Dude, read between the lines. That's pretty obvious subtext you didn't pick up.

Him: "Quite sassy. Good thing I'm not there."

I agree. That *is* a good thing. It's pretty easy to say no to junk food when it isn't right in front of you looking so irresistible. Until the temptation fades, I will keep repeating my mantra: I like kale. I like kale. I like kale, dammit! I just hope he doesn't ask me to a Neil Diamond concert, because I'm not sure Sassy McSassmouth could actually say no to that.

Dogged by a Special Type of Social Cluelessness

I must have looked pretty good yesterday, because I noticed guys checking me out at work. It wasn’t so obvious – not like the cartoonish head-turning double takes littered throughout a movie starring Pamela Anderson’s breasts. It was more subtle -- just a split-second up-and-down body scan that some men seem to do unconsciously. Under many circumstances, I wouldn’t mind being noticed by men in that way, but at work it feels inappropriate and prompts me to second guess what I’m wearing. (What possessed me to wear a push-up bra to work?) Besides, I can’t imagine going out with a coworker. Interoffice dating seems as well thought out as pogo-sticking on a trampoline while juggling live grenades. What could possibly go wrong with that?!

Being checked out at work now in 2014 isn’t nearly as bad as it was 25 years ago. Back then it was much more blatant, particularly with one type of workplace menace: the office Boob-Gazer. Back in the dark ages of the 80s and 90s, women at work were often subjected to the long “boob gaze” by a special type of socially clueless coworker. Yes, *that* guy. Remember him, ladies? There was usually one Boob-Gazer in every department, at least in my unlucky experience working in offices back then. The worst offender would actually gaze at my chest with an unblinking laser-like stare that defied human biology (we’re programmed to regularly blink, right?!). Sometimes Boob-Gazer would even talk to my boobs, with my mouth the uncomfortable third participant in an always awkward conversation that usually took place in the most public of hallways. It always annoyed and astounded me that Boob-Gazer was either oblivious to how icky he made all the women feel, or that he just didn’t give a shit.

The Boob-Gazer wasn’t confined to one narrow demographic though. In my experience, he could be old, young, married, single, or even female. Whenever I complained about Boob-Gazer to my friends or female coworkers, I would often be advised to aggressively stare at his crotch. But that required the type of public boldness that I -- the shy, demure, delicate flower that I am -- did not possess. (Hahahaha. That made me laugh too.) Actually, a retaliatory social faux pas delivered to eliminate future social faux pas made as much logical sense to me as using the death penalty to affirm the value of human life.

I often resorted to the “file folder” strategy to deflect Boob-Gazer’s unsettling gaze. Whenever I had to interact with Boob-Gazer, I would grab a file folder and hold it in front of my chest like a shield. This sort of worked, except, out of pervy habit, Boob-Gazer would often just stare at the file folder, *imagining* what my boobs were wearing that day.

My personal fantasy was to have human resources get involved by officially making Boob-Gazer wear a large white cone of shame around his neck – like the large white rigid cones that dogs have to wear after being neutered or spayed to keep them from licking their stitches. Not only would the white cone serve the practical purpose of keeping Boob-Gazer’s eyes up off my chest and on my face, it would also serve as a social-shaming device, a dunce cap for social dunces. I loved that my idea combined useful functionality and public shaming in one fitting solution. Perhaps I missed my calling as a cranky sass-mouthy tv show judge.

Frosty Pink Me, Now with New Flavor Crystals!

A Starbucks I used to frequent with occasional regularity has posted a big banner announcing its "Grand Re-Opening." I don't get the whole "Grand Re-Opening" thing, except when a place has made a dramatic night-and-day change, which this place hasn't. I always think "Grand Re-Opening" is just an artificial marketing ploy to get new people to check out the not-new. Those words -- Grand Re-Opening -- seem like a marketing euphemism for "Yoohoo! We're still here selling coffee like we do every day. Oh, and we have some new chairs that are just as uncomfortable as the old ones." When I saw the banner, I snorted at how maddeningly difficult it must be for the marketer tasked with making a Starbucks seem new and interesting when they're on every corner and across the street and down the road and at the airport and in the grocery store -- as ubiquitous as fake boobs and yoga studios in LA.

Going back to online dating feels like it would be my own personal (not very) Grand Re-Opening. Reactivating my old profile at the dating website would be the equivalent of posting a banner that reads "Yoohoo single men! I'm back. Same old me. Just single again. And a year older!" When I had an online dating account, I noticed that a guy would sometimes go offline and then reappear with the same exact profile a few months later. Presumably, the promising relationship that had prompted him to deactivate his online dating profile lasted a while, but ultimately didn't work out. Those guys who later resurfaced always seemed a little stale to me, as if their failed budding relationships implied that they were not guys worth keeping, and therefore they were guys not even worth trying.

If I were to go back to online dating, would I have to resort to phony-baloney marketing tricks -- me, now with new flavor crystals! -- to make me seem new and exciting and worth trying? My goal is not to sell me to the masses. I'm just trying to find that one guy for whom I'm the perfect local coffee shop in a vast wasteland of Starbucks.

Glaring at the Hamster Wheel

I do not relish the idea of getting back on the hamster wheel that is online dating. After a year of being one-half of a couple, I am single again. Standup comedian Julie Marmelstein describes it best when she says online dating is really just "shopping for people." No wonder I so often find it tediously sucktastic. I don't really enjoy shopping.

I like having beautiful clothes that look nice on me, so out of necessity, I go shopping. While I do like finding something that suits me, I think it's the inefficiency of shopping that I detest most. It always seems to take so much time and diligence to find something "perfect." Until you get lucky, shopping is a New Year's Day parade of big- and near-misses. 'That dress would look fantastic on me -- *if* I were 25 years old again.' Or 'That sweater would be so cute, if only the buttons weren't so big.' Or 'That skirt is so sexy, but I'm still not comfortable dressing like a skank.' Shopping is a test of patience and endurance, which are not two of my greatest strengths.

And so it is with online dating. As I page through profile after online profile, the refrain is similar. 'That guy would be *perfect* for me -- if I had met him in 1992.' Or 'I have so many things in common with him, but he's a smoker.' Or 'I like that he's outdoorsy, adores David Sedaris, and loves animals, but I just can't get past that giant face tattoo.'

A common solution for a person who doesn't have time to shop for clothes, is to use a personal shopper or hire a stylist. Maybe at some point I will need to hire a matchmaker. For now, I'm ok being single and letting dating serendipity work its magic. By which I mean, I'll be spending my nights watching a lot of tv at home alone. I'm just not ready to jump back on the hamster wheel yet, so I will just sit and glare at it instead.

Paris Can Wait

I've never been to Paris. That's not a complaint -- just a fact. Even though I love visiting new places and count myself lucky to have traveled to other European countries, I have not yet visited France. I could have orchestrated a trip to France when I was married, but I couldn't bear the thought of seeing Paris for the first time with someone with whom I was not wildly in love. The three of us -- my daughter, my then-husband, and I -- ended up going to Ireland instead. Given my lifelong love of horses, Ireland was a fitting "consolation" prize. What Paris is to love, Ireland is to the horse.

I've been "saving" Paris for a great love ever since. I have many reasons to think I would adore Paris, among them my interest in art history, the three years in high school I tortured my class with my midwestern-accented semi-coherent attempts to say simple phrases in French, and good God, I *do* so love to eat. I read once that if you smile at a stranger in Paris, the local Parisians will assume you are either an escaped lunatic from a mental ward or you're an American. That reaction delights me. I pray it's true.  

When Frenchy and I started dating, I thought there was a good chance I'd finally get to see Paris with him, but it wasn't meant to be. Frenchy and I have broken up. Paris can wait.

I'm still committed to visiting Paris one day with the love of my life. I can picture us walking along the Seine trying to find the exact place where Madeline fell in and Genevieve the dog saved her, or arguing about which street mime was better -- the one who was "caught in a wind tunnel" or the one "trapped in a box." I can even hear her chiding me, "Mom, you're embarrassing me. Stop smiling at everyone!"