Not OK, OKCupid
It’s not you, it’s me.
We all have a friend with faith in online-dating.
A year and a half ago, mine did dinner and drinks with an online-match on the Upper East Side. After a round of overpriced cocktails and mediocre banter, her date mentioned he was low on cash. As he reached for his card, my girlfriend caught her breath, only to almost choke on it.
“You want to give me cash for yours?” he asked confidently, nodding at her half-finished cranberry-vodka.
And so the story goes, she handed him seven dollars and never saw him again.
No; this was not where her credence came in. Nor is it from where my curiosity stemmed. Both came later in the form of a real-life, totally not-creepy long-term relationship with a genuinely good guy. Truth be told, I haven’t seen her this happy since the release of SkinnyGirl our sophomore year. Bethany Frankel may have let her down, but Plenty of Fish did not.
My inevitable interest caused me some concern.
I am an admitted victim of overpriced high-waisted shorts with standards just as unreasonably high as (if not higher than) the cost of my pre-worn denim. Single sans the mingle, I spent this year scoffing at potential suiters, so much so that I can no longer differentiate flirting from friendly conversation.
Here’s how it typically goes:
“Meg. That guy is hitting on you. Talk to him.”
FYI: the tap-on-your-opposite-shoulder-to-get-you-to-look-the-other-way approach will not make you part of the 1%.
Soon, the seemingly subtle engagement announcements wedged between important opinions on Miley and Molly hit me like a wrecking ball. High-quality muploads of soon-to-be-newlyweds under the Brooklyn Bridge flood in like Fall, shoving their conveniently-manicured left hands as far in our faces as everything fucking pumpkin.
My girlfriend and her perfect match are coming up on their one-year anniversary, and then there’s me.
The closest thing I have to a committed relationship is with the barista at Starbucks who thinks my name is Maggie. I’m captaining a well-caffeinated sinking ship, so this summer I took the plunge.
Not only did I hope online-dating would lower my senseless standards – part of me half-expected to receive a mail-order boyfriend in three to six business days. This was my first cue to abandon ship:
It took some deliberation but I decided not to shout my love for Mexican cuisine from the rooftops of the Internet as OKCupid so thoughtfully expected me to. I went with another variation of my first and last names, cringing with every finalizing click.
According to my profile, I am an Instagram-filtered Fireball enthusiast with a part-time job in journalism. My special skills include Netflix binging, putting quotes around things like “finding myself” and eating Chipotle.
Twelve middle-aged visitors later and the messages came rolling in. Like this one, for instance:
And this one:
Soon, people were starting to be honest with me:
And I mean really honest:
Thank you, gray-scale 23/M/Astoria in snow-cap. I can’t say that I have, but my third grade teacher taught me to keep trying. After all, there are keepers like this guy (for anonymity, I’ll leave out his username but tell you it has “Tiesto” in it):
Thanks, Dean. Unfortunately I’m not sure we’re right for each other. Life is too hard down here at 5’2.