Remember the good ol’ days of notepassing? I’m talking junior high, box checking (“Yes, I like you”, “No, you have cooties”, “Maybe, depends on if you’ll meet me under the bleachers”...) lined slips of paper passed in classrooms cross-country. Simplistic. No games, no nonsense, an “ask and ye shall receive” type of mentality that has since been replaced by text-message ambiguity, e-mails painted in shades of gray, and voice messages left to be re-played endlessly to our (gradually less sympathetic) gal pals. It is in this new-found world of technological uncertainty that I have joined the brigades of match.com hopefuls. I am simply tired of bar scenes, screaming conversations in which neither party actually hears the others’ dialogue, a meat market which either leads to a) a quick number exchange, b) a messy, unfulfilling hook-up, or most likely, c) me at home, on couch, in PJs, glass of Malbec in one hand and TV remote in the other. Trust me, it’s the sanity saving route.
In a city where physical contact is an actual nuisance, where being grazed by someone’s arm on the subway leads to an inner (and sometimes outer) temper tantrum, I am fascinated by the number of Manhattanites truly searching for connection. We avoid everyone’s eye contact while hustling down busy sidewalks, but pray for a moment when someone’s gaze will latch onto ours and somehow souls will unite. Tis a city of hopeless romantics trapped in grizzly cynics’ clothing. No one will admit this intense yearning, and therefore we turn the marvels of modern technology to help assist us in an act that was once so natural, so a part of our nature: dating. Courtship, in another day. Picking a spouse, marking your territory, mating... you get the idea. Sights like match.com and eharmony are ideal for the straight-dating sect, and if one is of the same sex variety, web site Connexion will always do. Statistics are entered, first one’s own, then the traits desired from an ideal mate. Wants kids? “Maybe”. “Definitely”. “Hell No!”. Athletic? Music Lover? Billionaire? This is the spot to bare all, or as much as can be revealed in simple, one word descriptives marked on a checklist. Then all criteria is tossed into the magical match machine, something I envision to be a candy colored contraption straight out of Willy Wonka’s imagination (if Mr. Wonka dealt in creating awkward blind dates rather then delicious chocolatey goodness). Out pop the leading contenders, in the form of a “Top 5” on match.com’s site. Descriptions, basic stats, and the parade of photos are revealed. (Guy with shirt on, guy with shirt off, guy with pals doing keg stands or some standard sort of macho activity, and the inevitable cell-phone-camera-in-bathroom-mirror pic). I find myself drawn to men of the simple variety, two or three snapshots max, and if there is a puppy involved at any point, I’m sold. Bonus points for those who don’t feel the need to to present photos with ex-girlfriends having been decapitated, a “Your Face Here” caption present where some poor girl’s head once resided.
So far, I would say the success rate of match is minimal. Oftentimes, my “Daily 5” contains a surly looking gentleman who appears to need therapy more than a lady love, and many a time, gents from Jersey appear in the queue. I’m sorry, but when you are a Manhattan girl, location is everything. I don’t care if he is Jake Gyllenhaal’s doppelganger, if I have to set foot on NJ Transit, it simply is not meant to be. Brooklyn’s as far as this particular city gal can commute! I did have a lovely gentleman invite me countless times to escort him to an Alicia Keys concert. However, he was 50 years old, and I sense he might have more fun listening to old records of Barry Manilow with my dad than screaming along with legions of hip-hopper, teeny boppers. The actual number of in person meet-ups I have allowed are minimal. Three men as of yet, two of them being complete disasters. One socially challenged, the other a supremely pompous slimeball, I thank my lucky stars man numero tres is completely kind natured, generous, and heart-achingly handsome. Funnily enough, he was the very first match in my top 5 contenders on day number one of Project Match. Five dates with this fella and counting... We have a rendez-vous this evening, and I suppose the fact that I am mentally spending the day raiding my closet in search of the perfect Date Six dress is a good sign.
I can’t claim to believe in the power of the magical match machine. Who knows if it is fate, a practical pairing, or just fool’s luck that determines whether these semi-blind dates create life-long partnerships? I couldn’t offer you an exact statistic in regards to the dating site success rate, but all I can say is that, for the price of a few lattes at Starbucks, I have collected a myriad of tales that will keep me company on those lonely nights with my vino and my TiVo. Gone are the days of note-passing, pig-tail pulling, and meet-ups in the multi-purpose room supply closet (I swear, that wasn’t me!) We have evolved into beings of the computer age, and for a mere monthly fee, I can now wink at, Instant Message, and virtually hand pick my future mate, all in the comfort of my over-sized sweats. If that means no more slipping into slinky sequined minis and engaging in night-club screaming matches as I search for Mr. Right Now, call me a Match.com convert!
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