Miss Match: Part 1

I debated whether I should write a blog about my online dating stories, because anyone who has tried it has at least one or two stories about it. Some that I've heard are pretty damn funny. Not "ha-ha" funny, but more like the "you've gotta be freakin' kidding me" kind of funny. From both men and women. But someone dear to me told me I should write about some of my experiences. So here's goes...

After my disastrous second marriage, the match made in the bowels of the Antichrist, I needed some time to get over it. So, following a period of puking up thick, green sewage, and the demon leaping out of my soul and into Father Damien, who promptly jumped out a window to his death, (in other words, good therapy and some drugs), I decided it was time to try dating again. Cautiously, I put a profile on an online dating site. There were several reasons this felt like a good idea. Number one: I'm not a club person. The stink of cologne, big hair, and walking sideways through a crowded bar trying not to spill my overpriced vodka tonic just doesn't feel like it would be the best place to facilitate meeting the girl of my dreams. Number two: I'm a writer, so it would be a great way to be charming and disarming from a safe distance. Number three: It was something I had never done before, so I thought it would be interesting. Since then, I've met some nice women, some "interesting" women, and some I'd rather forget. And so, I give you Part 1 in my online dating saga. I call this story:

"Didn't you think I was going to find out about the extra 192.5 pounds?"

So I'm e-mailing this one girl, who seems nice. Her picture was nice. She listed her body type as "curvy," which is fine with me. We talk on the phone, we have some stuff in common, but she tells me she's moving to Indiana temporarily to help her sister out there. Well, fine. I tell her to call me when she gets back. She tells me that she really wants to meet. Like really wants to get together before she moves. I'm working late, but she begs, so I agree. I wait outside the bar for her. Just then, a truck pulls up. I'm not talking about the vehicle. I'm talking about the woman driving it. Now, I've got nothing against big girls. I'm no bag o' bones myself. But if you list yourself as "curvy," I don't think they meant that as curvy like the side of a mountain. Her picture was probably several years old. So, right off the bat, I'm pissed. Not because she's big enough to bench press a Buick, but because she lied. And that sucks. So we had a beer, and she insisted on having another, even though she's leaving for Indiana the next day. I tell her that I'm really beat, and need to go home to bed. She's hinting around the idea of leaving Philadelphia with a bang, with me as the fuse. I don't see that happening. So I walk her to her steel-frame reinforced vehicle, and lean in for a quick "nice to meet ya" hug, when she reaches out and engulfs me in her fleshiness, planting her gaping maw across my mouth. She's digging for cavities with her tongue and I can't even breathe. I felt my entire intestinal system being dragged up my windpipe by the sucking force. I could not pull away. It was like I had gotten the Hulk very angry and you wouldn't like it when he's angry. Finally, she lets go, and I backed away, slowly. She asked again if I wanted to go back to her place, and I felt in my pockets for holy water, a tazer, anything. I said no thanks and left. When I got home, I curled up in the fetal position in the corner and cried. I felt violated. I was ready to go to court and point out the places she violated me on a doll. I shot her off a quick e-mail the next day letting her know that I didn't think she was my type. I prefer women with a weaker grip than me.

That afternoon, I was back on Match, searching for the girl of my dreams. Why? Well, I think Woody Allen put it best. In the last line of one of my favorite movies, Annie Hall, Woody says, in voiceover:

" I thought of that old joke, you know, this guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, "Doc, my brother's crazy. He thinks he's a chicken." And the doctor says, "Well, why don't you turn him in?" And the guy says, "I would, but I need the eggs." Well, I guess that's pretty much how I feel about relationships. You know, they're totally irrational and crazy and absurd and ...
but, uh, I guess we keep goin' through it because we need the eggs."

It rings true. But one thing's for sure, I know I won't be going to Indiana to find any eggs.