After last week’s post about how much I hate online dating, one of my BFFs (yeah, I said it) encouraged me to buck up and “actually try.”
Here is a collection of conversations she and I have had since then. Her husband (someone I lovingly refer to as one of my Blunt Ones) also participated.
BFF: “Your profile photo looks great!”
BFF’s husband: “What? No it doesn’t. What is that, your LinkedIn photo? You look too professional. And old.”
Action taken: A new photograph has been installed as my profile photo. I did not remove my original photo; I just made it a secondary image. (I like that photo! However, most of the gentlemen who also expressed an affinity for it were admittedly about a decade older than my preferred mate.)
Me: “Seriously, I’m done with Match. I emailed two guys and neither of them wrote back.”
BFF: “What did you say?”
Me: “Something about how I hate emailing back and forth with strangers. And how everything in Lowertown has either ‘bull’ or ‘dog’ in the name.”
BFF: “We need to work on your emails.”
Action taken: I agreed to tone down the awkwardness of my emails. I also decided to pick less normal guys.
Me: “My favorite photo is the one I posted of the gingerbread house my family and I made a couple of years ago. It’s sitting outside in the snow, sort of askew. And it’s on fire.”
BFF’s husband: “That photo makes you seem creepy and weird.”
Action taken: I added a caption: “My family makes the best gingerbread houses.” We do.
BFF: (looking at matches on my account) “That guy looks nice! And he cooks! It says here he’s a really good chef, and he even has some pictures of his dishes… a fancy beet salad, some tuna crostini things… You should message him.”
Me: “What would I say?”
BFF’s husband: “How about, ‘Do crostinis make you feel like a giant because they’re so small?’”
Action taken: I laughed until pink champagne stung the inside of my nose. And then BFF (who is quite pregnant) asked if husband and I were going to drink the entire bottle of champagne by ourselves. We said yes.
BFF: (still looking at matches on my account) “I think you’re being too picky.”
Me: “Why, because I won’t date a smoker who thinks college is an ‘evil empire?’ And that last guy you picked for me had really big wrists.”
BFF’s husband: “Man. It’s a good thing I’m married. I would have cleaned up on Match.”
Action taken: Two sets of eye-rolls.
So. I’ll keep you posted every once in a while. Even though it pains me to blog about dating, it pains me even more to admit that it’s sort of therapeutic.