As most of you know, I’m signed up to meet people through on-line dating. Every so often I get random emails from people and, more often than not, I have no idea why in the hell they thought we’d be a good match. And I’m not even referring to the offers I’ve gotten from men in Namibia, Malaysia, the Phillipines, and Fort Collins, Colorado to be my boy toy. Oh, and there’s the one from an American in the Middle East whose wife recently dumped him and wanted to know if I wanted to retire with him to his finca in Argentina. Seriously. Without even talking to me.
On one hand, I guess I’ve been surprised just how many decent people are out there but it’s also unsurprising just how few of them I feel interested in. Unsurprising not because the world is stacked with idiots–no comment–but because apparently, according to some dear friends, I can be rather picky. (I’m sure I have no idea what they are talking about. 🙂 Also, there’s the fact that I live in Colorado and have no interest in the Av’s or backcountry skiing and I am not an exercise fanatic. So that wipes me off the list of about 2/3 of the guys right there.
Everybody has their filtering factors and I am no exception. I know a bunch of you out there are internet daters or at least dating site lurkers, so feel free to add yours to this list or post to links to winner profile writers …
Turn ons (aside from common interests) …
* Shows he can walk the fine line of being humorously self-depricating without begging for reassurance
* Unselfconscious, rambling descriptives
* Use of unusual words
Turn offs …
* Any reference to the term “low maintenance” in his description of what he wants. This terms is totally vague and tells me nothing other than, “My last girlfriend scared the hell out of me and you better not be anything like her.”
* Shirtless or doesn’t smile in his picture.
* Includes anyone under the age of 27 in his matching criteria. (Nothing against you 20-somethings, but if he is anywhere close to my age and is still looking for someone that much younger, then he is not someone I’m interested in.)
* Multiple spelling errors
* Any indication that his sense of identity revolves around something less than being fully human (i.e., overidentifies with his job, his kids, his hobbies).
* I could go either way or this one, but I’m suspicious of any use of the term “lady” (as in “I will treat you like a ….”). I like my femininity to be honored, for sure, but when it comes right down to it, I’m not as polite, proper, patient, or passive as I would imagine one might expect of a true lady.
I put together a sort of last minute “Holiday Leftovers” potluck last night so that my folks could meet some more of my friends and so we could have a little variety in our time together. I had no idea if anyone would show up or not; it was such short notice and a lot of people are out of town, but 11 of us turned out with a couple of short drop-ins.
Anyway, on her way to bed last night, my mom hugs me and says, “I’m so proud of you.” I gave her a quizical look and she elaborated that everyone at the party had, at some point, made a point of telling my parents how special I was and how I had affected their lives. Mom looked teary-eyed and happy.
Now, that feels nice. I am humbled. Thanks, dear friends, for noticing and for caring enough about me to want my parents to feel proud and pleased too.
So, my parents are here visiting. Apparently, my ability to remember little remnants of songs upon loose association is genetic. We walk around the house, the three of us, and completely unconsciously feed each other (through whistling, muttering, or distracted melody making) suggestion of songs which then another takes and perpetuates until it circles back around and we are all silently grooving to the same song. Tonight, I’ve heard the chorus to “Santa Baby” in a myriad of forms probably 12 times now.
Might be time to break out the guitar for a rousing chorus number.
The antepenultimate day before Christmas was a beautiful day, and I was driving with the window down when suddenly my shopping list defenestrated itself! Quickly, I tried to recall everything on list and confirm that I was covered, but still I had this niggling feeling that I had forgotten someone. Discombobulated, I wandered the mall permeated by that ubiquitious holiday cheer, moiling in my search for the perfect, generically suitable gift and settled on Martha Stewart’s eponymously titled biography. What a Merry Christmas it will be indeed.