Reason #5,000 I Hate Online Dating

Brace for it, friends...because today's the day that all my "oh, isn't life just grand? I'm working so hard on making myself a better person" sing-songy loveliness goes right out the window and is replaced by bitterness towards all things even remotely resembling the word "dating."  Grant me this one day, and I promise that I will go back to my Oprah/Dr. Phil-like self-help wisdom in, eh, twenty-four hours.  Give me twenty-four hours.

Urgh.  Why am I doing this?  Why do I continue to torture myself with online dating?  Why do I ever expect that it's going to be different "this time around"?  You could insert the word "the ten thousandth" instead of "this" and that sentence would read the same way.  Ridiculous.  Reeeee-diculous.  How do I manage to remain so optimistic about this every time I start over after such dismal and insanely idiotic past experiences?

Are there men who are online dating that take this seriously, or are they all just looking for a texting buddy...or worse? (Remember my promise to keep this blog PG-13 rated in case my mother ever gets a wild hair and decides to read it, but insert your own version of dirtiness for the word "worse.")  Sometimes I get confused and have to check to make sure I didn't mistakenly end up in the "Adult Services" section of Craigslist. 

Here's a brief update (hold on to something steady...the bitterness here might knock you into next week):  Mr. Hangover must not have been at all interested in anything other than my witty pop culture references because he effectively disappeared when I got into a more serious subject that sounded something like "How was your weekend?" 

For real? The one with the one eye?!

Brief introductions to both Mr. Teenager and Mr. Purple.  Don't get too attached though, they're neither long for this Singleton's world.  Mr. Teenager popped up last week, and I have to give him credit.  He sent me an actual email with words that formed a sentence, several of which ended in that elusive online dating grammatical character of a question mark, but...he is still probably a senior in high school so all that stuff is fresh in his mind.  Oh, didn't I mention?  He's eighteen.  Eighteen years old.  As in, still a teenager.  Also as in, just wrapped up puberty...can't drink legally...probably just got excited about buying his first lottery ticket...was born in the 90's...(I remember the 90's, vividly)...the ink is still wet on his drivers licence...have I effectively made my point?  I think so.  Again, he's trying hard.  You can tell by his array of obvious self-portraits all highlighting his (eh-hem) "biceps," several of which include my least favorite male fashion choice:  the wife-beater.  I told him I was flattered by his compliments but felt that I was a bit too old for him, avoiding the obvious flipside of that coin by stating that he was entirely too young for me.  He told me that he hoped I didn't take this the wrong way, but that he'd received several broken hearts by "women" his age (I mean, really? At eighteen, girls have only not had cooties for what, three maybe four years?!) and enjoyed "the company of older, more maturer women." (<-his word.  Obviously not mine.) I don't consider myself maturer, I just consider myself grown.  And consider him not grown.  If talking was his goal (and it is mine at some point), what would we hold conversations about?  The latest episode of Yo Gabba Gabba or Dora the Explorer? I am tempted to write him back and just say:

"You know, I am truly flattered that an 18-year-old so into his body would be interested in me, but I'm having a hard enough time finding one ten years older than you that doesn't act like a child or turn tail and run at the first sign of interest.  I have some girls I used to baby-sit for who'd love to put your pin-ups in their lockers.  I'll forward your number for texting."

Because texting is the story of my life!!!  (insert screaming Macaulay Culkin from "Home Alone".)  Meet Mr. Purple.  (Seriously, I feel like I'm just throwing these guys out there, but I promise they're all real.)  Weird name, huh?  Yeah, that's because he claims that he's the one person in the literal millions on Plentyoffish.com who is not physically able to upload a picture.  "I keep getting error messages," he says.  But somehow he was able to upload a solid purple box in place of the "Ask me for a Photo!" image usually present when one hasn't been uploaded. Could be because you can tell the search function that you're only interested in people with photos.  Clever.  But why purple?  When given the option of the entire color spectrum, why did he choose purple?  And he's named after his strange image because I know nothing else about him.  He emailed me to tell me how beautiful I am (losing it's power quickly...I used to be flabbergasted by such a compliment, but if you've got a dime in online dating, you've got a dozen "beautiful" compliments.  Back it up with actual interest in me, and I love hearing it. Take me out more than once and it might get you somewhere.), and how he kept viewing my profile all weekend trying to come up with something worthy enough to send me (okay...that's new...after my potential stalker thoughts wore off, I was flattered).  Still in his introduction email he said "I know that I'm chubby, but I have a big heart."  I got a big problem with this.  No pun intended.  Don't berate yourself in your introduction email.  Even more so when I can't see a photo.  Remember...we talked about this.  By not posting a photo, I think you're either a science fair project gone bad or hiding from something/someone.  When you tell me you're "chubby" in your introduction and don't have a photo, I'm thinking "low self-esteem" and "Jabba the Hutt."  Let me reiterate, I do not discriminate on the grounds of size, shape, anything.  That would be crazy hypocritical of me.  But, I do have a vivid imagination that usually ends in the No Physical Attraction Zone if you don't prove otherwise.  Oh! I almost forgot the best part.  I gave Mr. Purple the benefit of the doubt (what the hell do I have to lose?) even though he lives way outside of my usual realm of consideration and wrote back, asking what about  my profile caught his attention, hoping it might generate conversation  and included a couple of other questions.  He sent me back his phone number.  To text him.

I'm bound for one of two things:  lifelong carpal tunnel syndrome or entering the sisterhood.  I wonder how long you have to be a member of the Catholic Church before you can become a nun?  Here's a glimpse of the Old, Stupid Optimistic Melanie...maybe my real-world meeting with my Mr. Prince Charming (heck, I'd take Mr. Not as Crazy as the Rest of These Guys right now) is just around the corner, and the dating gods are sparing me the time wasting.  Hmmm (contemplative face).  Here comes that damned optimism again...