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.

Kind of an Asshole

The second time around on an online dating website, I find that my bullshit-o-meter goes off all the time, like a metal detector at a NRA convention. I now know how some men use online dating websites like a giant drag net to dredge up anyone for a possible fling or date.

A typical example is a guy my age who sent me what on the surface is a lovely message.

HIM:  Beautiful, striking, sexy, sassy and I sense completely grounded in strength, soul, and intellect! I would love for us to explore our chemistry together and see where it leads us. Your thoughts?

I smelled bullshit as soon as I read it. My profile is more sarcastic than a mean girl on the defensive in a high school cafeteria. There is nothing in it that would suggest what he wrote. So I pressed him for evidence of this.

ME: Thank you! What an awesome compliment! Just curious about what exactly in my profile leads you to believe I'm "completely grounded in strength, soul, and intellect?" I'm not saying those things aren't true, I just don't see those things in my profile.

HIM: 100% vibe! Vibes speak volumes to me....very organic....very primal.

I checked out his profile, which turned out to be a long, very particular list of requirements he has about the women he likes to date. He posted almost nothing about himself. I bet he has this one golden message -- this one trick pony -- that he sends out to hundreds of women who catch his eye, each thinking he alone can see her soul and was so moved to write this special unique message just for her.

But I think this whole "vibe" business is his way of cutting to the chase, dispensing with all the pre-date emails that he considers a waste of his time. He's one of those ill mannered guys for whom the only real question about a potential date is, 'Do I find you f*ckable?'

HIM: What are your thoughts?

ME: I think your vibramator is a little off. I'm kind of an asshole.

The Circus is Back in Town

Back on it. After a 15-month hiatus, I have come back to online dating -- the sledgehammer of romance -- to find true love. Hope I don't get bludgeoned too much. Instead of posting a long earnest profile that tries so hard to reflect the real me, I wrote a brief, very sarcastic one and posted a couple cute photos. My opening lines skewer two common cliches found in many female dating profiles. And I make fun of the profile question, 'What are the six things you couldn't live without' by posting six things that no longer exist, such as new episodes of Dynasty. This time around, 80% of the guys who send me messages don't understand my sarcasm or my digs at dating-profile cliches, but the other 20% are hilarious guys who do. Score!

Turns out funny guys like sassy women with a sarcastic edge. But it's also what seems to attract super confident guys who just want to get laid. That guy will send me a short, funny, flirty message. If I respond, he'll soon escalate the flirtation with some questions about what I'm wearing or what I like in a man. He's as subtle as a Katy Perry song, and just as eye rolling.

If I keep replying to his messages, even in an intentionally vague way, the flirtation will quickly advance to propositions to sleep with him. When I explain that I'm not looking for a hookup, that in fact I'm *only* looking for an intimate relationship that builds slowly, he tries to flatter me into sleeping with him. But my vanity is immune to the flattery, because sex with someone you don't really know well is awkward and feels emotionally hollow. Sex without that intimate emotional connection built over time is the equivalent of grocery-store sushi. Why bother? It's so unsatisfying compared to the real sublime thing.

When I flatly turn him down with the explanation that I don't want to have sex with a stranger, no matter how hot or funny, he responds with slight disbelief, like a dog tilting his head when he hears an unusual sound. Then I really confuse him by saying, "You just invited me over for shitty sushi. Who would ever want to eat shitty sushi? I don't."

The circus is back in town. Enjoy it while it lasts. I know I will.

Yukking It Up

We walked in together and quickly grabbed the last available seats in the row of bleachers in the small performance space. He was good looking--in his 40s--with dark graying hair. 'Oh, this might be interesting,' I thought to myself. We didn't know each other, but we were both here for the same reason -- to prove our "good parent" bonafides by sitting through two hours of middle school dances just to see our kids on stage for five minutes of it. The bleacher seats were made for elementary school kids, so after ten minutes, we were all ready to unfold ourselves and stretch out. I'm short, and this was the first time in my life I've ever had an issue with leg space.

"Now I know what Lebron James feels like stuffed in the back of a Mini Cooper," I said to the "lucky" bleacher people within my proximity. I got a few laughs from that, then I thought of something better. Same joke, new variation. "I feel like I'm one of those clowns stuck in a clown car," I said to my new BFFs stuck in the bleachers with me. And that's when I heard it. WTH? I thought. It sounded like a cross between an out-of-breath high-pitched wheeze and a theremin, that eerie music in creepy old movies about ghosts. But not just a theremin -- a theremin that sounded slightly off, like an old music box that has gone out of tune after you've opened and played it ten thousand times. (Although really, how can you tell the difference between a theremin that is in tune and one that is not?)

I turned my head and stared at Handsome 40s next to me. He was laughing, not having the asthma attack I feared. I tried to pretend I hadn't heard that disconcerting, awful sound, as the next dance started. When the lights came up and the group of dancers were taking their bows, I cracked another joke, in part because I just couldn't let a good joke die inside me without it being uttered publicly. But I also wanted to find out what Handsome 40s's real laugh sounded like. I was disappointed to realize that the dying asthmatic theremin *was* his real laugh. I quit making jokes after that. But some of the dances had wonderful comic moments, and so I was treated to interludes of the dying asthmatic theremin all evening. 

I wondered if he had ever gotten laid with a "laugh" like that. (Sure, he was a parent, but his kid could have been adopted.) Though it may be as capricious as a Seinfeld episode, crossing a guy off your dateable list just because he doesn't have an acceptable laugh seems perfectly acceptable to me. A laugh is something that signifies momentary pure joy -- an unexpected small gift from the Universe -- so if you can't let loose with a big hearty guffaw when you are rewarded with something funny, I am suspicious of your ability to *ever* let loose and momentarily enjoy life. While some people use a handshake to quickly size up a person's character, I use laughter. 

A Friday Night of Wistfulness and Loud Shitty Music

I did not want to be there. It had been a crazy, exhausting week at work, and all I wanted to do was go home and crash on the couch next to my dog, who likes to watch the same tv shows I do. But I had made a promise, so there I was, waiting in a long line. Stuck. From the moment I walked in, I felt like an unwelcome interloper. The music was predictably awful, made worse by an insipidly glib dj. The room was jammed with *much* younger guys and girls who were adamant about only making eye contact with each other, not with anyone older. The girls were beautiful and tiny -- 30 years of "oh, just another bite" hadn't caught up with them yet -- and almost all were dressed in shiny short dresses and impossibly high heels. The jeans, black shirt, and boots I was wearing made me feel all fifty of my years and then some, as I watched the dance floor from the periphery. I may as well have been using a walker.

"I wish I were young again," said my middle-aged friend Sherry, wistful as we watched the exuberant much younger crowd dance to the loud shitty music. "I wish I had a beer right now," I answered with equal wistfulness in my voice. And we both hung out in the back of the room taking it all in, and shaking our middle-aged moneymakers to the beat of that loud shitty music.

This is how I spent my Friday night. Not out clubbing in some hopelessly misguided attempt to recapture the carefree joie de vivre of one's early 20s, but volunteering as a chaperone at my 13-year-old daughter's eighth grade formal dance. And not just chaperoning. I was helping serve dinner -- a veritable lunch lady -- so I was below the lowest of the low in the middle school pecking order. My status was on par with that of the janitor.

My daughter was annoyed at me for volunteering to be a chaperone. She was afraid she'd be judged for *my* usual embarrassing behavior -- my "excessive" friendliness with strangers and my inability to consistently refrain from using my pet names for her when we're in public. (Two years later, and I'm still in the doghouse for the infamous sixth grade "Hey, Squirt" incident.) But I was good. I only talked to her once during the dance, and for the most part, I kept my big embarrassing mouth shut. Every time I was tempted to compliment a girl on her lovely dress, I bit my tongue and repressed the urge, because I didn't want to ruin her night. No teenage girl is going to be flattered by the compliment on her dress that comes from a middle-aged lunch lady. She might, in fact, be reduced to tears. If anyone's going to cry at a middle school dance, it's going to be due to what some boy did or didn't do or say, not because the lunch lady gave you a thumbs-up on your dress.

I couldn't help but think back to my own middle school dances, much less formal affairs that took place in the gymnasium, with all the girls on one side of the cavernous room and all the boys on the other. From today's perspective, the middle school dances of my youth were more similar in spirit (and looks) to an Amish barn raising than my daughter's dance, which felt more like a non-alcoholic rave fueled by the giddy excitement of young teenagers drunk on the possibilities of life. It was infectious, and even I couldn't help getting caught up in the mood. Watching my daughter fully engaged in unselfconscious fun for three hours more than made up for a night of loud shitty music.