Scarecrows.com

After the lawyer with no heart came Scarecrows.com. Friends had been suggesting Internet dating for a long time but I was appalled by the idea so I resisted. Then, My Friend practically dared me to join Match.com so one fateful fall day I joined the thousands (millions?) who have entered the halls of cyberspace courtship, composed a compelling profile, uploaded a photo and waited.

Within no time I was getting “hits.” It is an interesting term to a baseball aficionado for whom the term “hit” has always meant that the batter has succeeded, has gotten to first base or maybe second; has earned the right to score. It meant that he didn’t have to sit down on the bench; that he could stay in the game, perhaps become the hero. My experience with Match.com did not result in any home runs. All I got were foul balls (no pun intended).

Once one’s credit card information has been confirmed the dating process begins. The first step is to receive an email that informs one of another member’s interest. They may do this in several ways. They may send a “wink,” which allows them to simply click one key, not write a word and wait to see if you’ll do all the work to get the thing started. I never responded to a wink. I pegged these men as “lazy-ass-couch-potatoes-who-will-wait-until-you-walk-by-the-recliner-so-they-can-ask-you-to-get-the-remote-that-is-three-feet-away-and-requires-actual-movement” Guy.

But after contact is made one CAN check out the profile to see if there MIGHT be mutual interest.

Another method is to send an actual email. Match.com provides several convenient ways to reply. One might click one key and send a canned response prepared by Match.com that carries with it all the compassion and sensitivity that is apparently required. The man who has just mustered the internet equivalent of the courage required to approach a woman in a bar and ask, “Come here often?” receives a message that simply reads, “Not interested.” I never sent one of these either. I figured if the guy actuallymade the effort to write, “Yo! You look good. Here’s my number,” he at least deserved an email response. So after checking the man’s profile, if I determined that rather than meet this man I would prefer to stick needles in my eyes or have a clandestine meeting with Quasimodo in the bell tower of Notre Dame (at least I’d be in Paris), I would send the man an email that contained any number of cordial but convincing…lies. I became quite good at fabricating excuses not to meet the man of my nightmares while at the same time assuring that his delicate ego remained in tact.

Dear LonelyInLadsen,

I am soooo sorry but just yesterday I met the man that I am going to marry.

If you had only written 24 hours sooner. I really liked your profile!

Dear AwesomeInAwendaw,

I really like the picture of your trailer. And the two cars sitting on cinder blocks in the front yard sure look like they’ll be ready for the open road any day now. But my favorite aunt ever was just diagnosed with a rare skin-eating disease and I have to move back to Rhode Island.

Dear LadiesYouDon’tKnowWhatYou’reMissing,

I am so sorry to hear that you have just divorced your fifth wife and your thirteen children no longer have a Mommy. But just yesterday I was diagnosed with a rare skin-eating disease and would not want to infect any one of those precious little angels. Perhaps you could ask your mother to move in?

Dear HanahanHunk,

I have always wanted to be a Biker Chick, but unfortunately I cannot accompany you on your quest to visit every NASCAR racetrack in the country. I have a job.

Dear RhettFromRavenel,

Rhode Island is not an island off the coastof New York. It is a state all by itself.

And I would love to meet you at The Road Hog bar and strip club, but my church fellowship group has just started a new Bible study program called, “Floating Towards the Light” and it meets every night of the week from 7:00 to midnight from now until the Kingdom Comes.

Very often they would respond with a polite email that read, “Thank you for being so honest.” I felt guilty sometimes but rested in the knowledge that when given the choice of telling a little fib or denting a man’s ego, I chose the lesser evil. 

The men who contacted me and who actually got to the point of email exchange usually revealed who they were in as little as two to three emails. The following is a collection of actual men I encountered (in email only) through the graces of Match.com:

Don, who asked me to send him a “full-body shot” so that he would know that when we met I wouldn’t “rumble” towards him.  (I trust that no explanation for a failure to pursue him is necessary).

Mike, who told me that if he wasn’t playing softball on the weekend we could meet for a drink. (In other words, if I have nothing better to do, I’ll give you a call.)

Rusty, who made the dubious choice of downloading eight photos on the Match.com web site.  Seven of the eight photos depicted his posing proudly with various dead fish he had presumably just snagged.  (When I wrote to my daughter and asked her, “Do I really want to meet a man whose 7 out of 8 photos show him on a pier holding a dead fish?,” she responded with a resounding, “Hell, no!”)

Dean, who wrote to ask if I would like to go to his house for BBQ and watch “the Wrold Sereis.” (I figured one of two things; either he really doesn’t know how to spell World Series, or he doesn’t care enough to check his spelling before clicking the “send” key.)

John, who lives in Columbia and admitted to being married but occasionally drives to Charleston on business and was interested in having a “little fun.”

Alan, who spends all of his time scuba diving, surfing, deep sea fishing, swimming with sharks and skinny-dipping in the ocean after sundown. Those of you who know that I almost drowned when I was five and still suffer from aguaphobia, know why that one was a “no.”

Andwele, who recently moved to San Diego from Africa and whose knowledge of American geography is obviously lacking but whose photo was actually quite stunning. Within two emails he wrote the following, “My Louise. I cannot wait to meet!!!! I read your profile and look at picture thirty times in day and know that you are one for me. Please give to me your phone number. Here is my phone number. Please, please, PLEASE call me!!!! Do not go away!!!! I feel we have come together for reason. I will go to Nigeria next week for visit with Mother. I will tell her about you. She will love you too!!!!”

(I am not kidding).

Charlie, who wrote, “My sister’s brother-in-law on her husband’s side has a second cousin twice removed who is a teacher, and my favorite movie is ‘To Sir, With Love.’ I think we have a lot in common. Let’s get together!”

I actually met three Match.com men for coffee at, yes, Starbucks. And I decided to gauge the level of my immediate attraction to each of them on the basis of what size coffee cup I was compelled to order; a Tall, Grande or Venti. I never ordered more than a Tall. 

One of the men was interesting enough but he was embroiled in domestic crises; the resolution of a 2 year divorce settlement and professional concerns involving 2 law suits against him. After a coffee meeting and a few emails, he disappeared from the face of the earth.

When the day arrived that my Match.com membership expired, I raised not a whimper in protest.

The last man I dated was allowed to hang around for three months. But his stock quickly plummeted. After recounting all that he had said and done to friends, men and women alike came to unanimous agreement. He had to hit the road Jack, make a new plan Stan, hop on the bus Gus, no need to discuss much. I will not share what those things were that sent him on his way. I am too embarrassed  for him.

After he was sent packing, My Friend said to me, “Now, don’t go get another one,” and I have seriously been considering her advice. I am not in the habit of categorizing people, but it seems to me that the men I have dated (few though they may be) do exhibit characteristics based on their age:

   

    *** 35-45 year olds are either consumed with their careers, making their mark on the world, or are about to enter their mid-life identity crisis.

    *** 45-55 year olds are in the midst of their mid-life identity crisis, which will result in the desire for one of the following; 1) a new young mistress or wife, 2) a hot new sports car or 3) a new baby (which often accompanies attainment of aforementioned 1 and presents a problem for retaining aforementioned 2).

   

   

Perhaps there is a category upon which I should turn my gaze, the 25-30 year old (if I dare, and if they would have me). The ones that I know seem unthreatened by intelligence in a woman and in fact appreciate it. They have no crises of identity as yet. They are filled with a joy and wonder for life; they are adventurous and open. They are fearless and may actually agree to move to Paris with me. They think I am fascinating and have not seen “The Graduate.” I just may decide to raise my glass to them and whisper under my breath, “Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson.”

I must repeat, and insist once more that I do not expect or demand perfection.

All I ask for is a man who has a little brains, a little heart and a little courage.

Perhaps someday, just down that Yellow Brick Road and somewhere over that damn rainbow…