Final Score: 428 Bachelors
Posted by: annatonic on: October 11, 2009
I made an executive decision today – I pressed the ‘Cancel Subscription’ button on my unharmonious eHarmony membership. That’s it, people, no more virtual men for me. Whooohoooooo!
Breaking up is hard to do, especially when it’s with a computer. It forced me to fill out my current “status” before giving into my wishes. Was I: a) Single and still searching; b) Single and currently not searching; c) I met somebody on eHarmony/another online service/last night…You get the drift. I opted for b), mostly because I wanted to avoid any further coaxing by the virtual matching gods.
Then I received a final “are you really sure you want to do this, because you’re going to be single for the rest of your life” reminder. YES, I am and I don’t care what you say. Now let me go, sheeeesh.
My heart’s not in this game any more. I think the final straw came around the time they sent me Jimbo the Secret Service Agent (I kid you not) as a match. He was definitely a few decades older than his alleged 37 years, had a stick-on ‘stache and passions that included bioterrorism and conservative views.
Wow.
I suspect my precious time will be better served cleaning out my fridge and dating in the real world than paying for the illusion that Mr Perfect is going to pop up on my computer screen one fine fall day. While I might miss the daily dose of email amusement – the nudges, the icebreakers, the communication received’s, the random rejections – and perhaps even some of the half-loony tunes I’ve met over the last eight months, I have no qualms about my decision.
Now I can focus on updating my facebook status instead: single and not searching. Oh and P.S.: I bought a fabulous pair of Italian leather boots today. Now there’s one investment that will surely be more fruitful in attracting a Mr Lovely.
The prospect of not knowing who’s out there is simply a lot more appetizing than being told who is in 428 bachelors.
The Disappearing Act
Posted by: annatonic on: October 6, 2009
I disappeared this week. Total silence all around. I was starting to get “I know you’re busy but…” text messages and phone calls from loved ones of the “are you ok?” variety. Blame my boss and a no-minute-spared workathon.
And what did my would-be dates think? To them I was just MIA.
There you have it – the Disappearing Act, a show most often performed by people you are dating. Or think you are dating. Until, POOF! They disappear.
This most common dating conundrum can surface at any time – from your you-had-me-at-hello moment to the one where, well, you realize it’s bye-bye baby.
One day you’re gazing at each other, thinking how wildly stunning he looks under the elevator lights, and the next, you’re wandering the streets alone wondering what the heck happened. Did he move to another building? Did he forget my apartment number? Did his phone slip into the urinal?
NO. He just disappeared.
A Disappearing Act always has a pre-show. It’s easy enough to miss the pre-show when you weren’t expecting a final act in the first place.
Pay attention.
First comes The Randomness. Has it been more than a week since you heard a beep or a HI from him? Random! Does he text you “whatz up?” but doesn’t answer when you call two minutes later? Random! Do you only hear from him at very specific times, like 7:57pm on Wednesdays only? Random!
Then come The Excuses. His parents are coming to town. “I have to vacuum!” His socks are dirty. “I have to do laundry!” The game is on. “I have to drink beer!” Face it, he’d rather spend time with cleaning products or men in jock straps than with you.
And finally, Acceptance. So your worlds won’t collide anymore, at least in an Outlook-scheduled kind of way. And no, mapping your whereabouts according to his facebook status updates doesn’t count. “Oh yah, I always come to this laundromat. What? Oh….but my friend lives close by and I was just walking her dog…”
Save it. You will have better things to do. Eventually.
Table for Two, Date for Three
Posted by: annatonic on: September 28, 2009
At summer camp you were paired off into buddies, so if you never surfaced when the canoe tipped over somebody would notice. Or if you went to day camp you were paired off at the zoo, so if you were eaten by a boa constrictor, somebody would notice.
Then some twenty-seven years later your date shows up…with a buddy. So which one do you drown or feed to the nearest reptile?
I get it, dating is scary.
It’s even scarier when you get a two-for-the-price-of-one deal. Who happen to be best buds. Who went to college together. Now one of them owns a wine bar on the Upper West Side, conveniently located for date-filtering purposes for the other.
My blind date did tell me over the phone, “Oh my buddy has this wine bar….”
Fair enough, that sounds great. Hey, it was close-ish and I heard something about wine. I didn’t think twice about the buddy bit.
Until three nights later, when an unfamiliar stubbly face approached me at a dimly lit bar on Broadway.
“Are you Anna?” Why, yes I am. And who might you be?
“I’m Wine Guy, hi,” he extended a lovely hairy arm and grinned.
I was impressed, just for a mini-second. I forgot my host wasn’t the one I was there to meet.
He ushered me to the one free table, closest to the bar, and explained that Mr Date was running a few minutes late.
“I know, I already let him know that I was running a little late too,” I said.
“Oh?” He looked confused.
It wasn’t part of the plan that I was late. No, that wouldn’t give him enough time to deliver the progress report from the kitchen.
I can only imagine what the text read: “Shez here….blahblahblondeblah.”
My real date did show up a few minutes later. Tall, thick curls and emerald eyes. Yay! Slouchy and not prone to smiling. Boo!
Then Wine Guy winked at his bud and went to fetch our very large drinks, and we were left to grill each other.
But Wine Guy kept on coming back for unscheduled commercial breaks. He and Mr Date would talk about me like I was in the ladies’ room. Except I wasn’t.
“She writes.” Mr Date said, nodding in my general direction.
“Oh yah? What does she write?”
“Funny stuff.” He looked at me with raised eyebrows for a second. Was that right?
Wine Guy beamed another dormroom grin and took off again. A minute later Mr Date fondled his silently vibrating phone for two very long seconds and then looked behind my shoulder and grunted. The left side of his mouth broke into a half smile.
Oh fabulous.
I was starring in some bad sitcom, only the audience was behind the bar and the director was sitting across from me.
No, Why Are YOU Single?
Posted by: annatonic on: September 25, 2009
And now for The World’s Dumbest Question: why are you still single? Duh, because I’m totally awesome, you say, and there simply can’t be that many totally awesome people in the world. THAT’S WHY.
It’s not really the question so much as the people asking it. You never hear single people asking each other why we’re still single. That’s because we already know we’re in the Special Single People Club and can go home at any hour of the day to eat cheerios for dinner – or lunch – and run around in our underwear, if the mood so strikes us.
There are varying levels of club membership to this breed. I’ve met most of them in this never-ending dating story, and have subsequently become something of a highly unscientific expert in the singleness of the opposite sex.
Here, dear readers, are the top four most common Adult Male Singles.
Grown Up Nerd Single
The grown up nerd is interesting and likes to talk. Usually in earnest about select topics like structural engineering, Tolkien, twitter and Baywatch. He has recently discovered the gym and non-iron shirts and now he’s basking in the first female attention he’s had since…well, ever. The grown up nerd is enthusiastic, and often cute, but he still needs a few years in girlfriend bootcamp.
I’ve Been Busy Single
The I’ve Been Busy Single has been scaling mountains, solving malnutrition problems in foreign lands or boarding planes because his boss told him to. All of this while the rest of the world up and got married and had children. He woke up one day and realized 22 is no longer an appropriate age for a girlfriend and so he dumped her, packed his bags and signed up online. I relate to this single state the most, because yes, I too was either napping or changing countries, jobs or outfits while everyone else paired off. Dangit! I’m generally pleased to run into this kind of single male. He just gets it. And then we have cheerios together.
I Can’t Believe I’m Single
The I Can’t Believe I’m Single is the most recent member of our club. He hasn’t been alone since seventh grade when Becky with braces caught his hubbabubba in her teeth. He has trouble functioning as an individual in the world and he’s looking to heal his busted heart and cold bed with as many women as possible. You can easily spot an I-Can’t-Believe-I’m-Single when you go out with one on a Wednesday evening and he says things like, “My ex never let me out on a Wednesday night”.
I’m an Asshole Single
The Asshole Single is pretty self-explanatory. He’s an asshole. Me, you and the waiter he just yelled at all know this. Only the Asshole Single has somehow coasted through life not realizing what a royal nuisance he is to mankind. He may come off as suave, and often has nice hair and very white teeth, but he’s usually mad about something. Best to skip dinner, and town, with this one.
Thoughts on Not Being a Dude, Man
Posted by: annatonic on: September 22, 2009
I found a stray hair on my thigh. Just one little blonde rebel poking out to say HAHA! I promptly plucked it, but now my eye will forever wander that patch. Will the rebel return? Will he be longer and fiercer next time? Is he planning on relocating?
Groan.
Wouldn’t it be nice to be a guy sometimes?
I’ve never been one and have no notions of converting (yes, I like my body bits just the way they are, thank you), but I wouldn’t mind being a dude for a day. Here’s why.
Let the hair grow, hallelujah. No lawn mowing required.
I’d email/call/otherwise harass my love interest whenever I felt like it. No counting down the days til I enter the Officially Not Desperate Zone.
When the hair dryer ignites and smokes at 7:02am, I’d still manage to look professional in my wind-blown version.
I’d run around the city without carrying flats in my bag.
I’d stuff things into my pockets and jiggle them. Yah.
Spreading my legs would be an appropriate position on the subway.
I’d delete all the spare bachelors in my inbox and not think twice about it.
I’d chase all the hot people and not think twice about it. Ok, the one hot person. Even if he can’t spell.
I’d be Funny Guy, not Weird Girl.
I’d buy a house (or something Very Large and Expensive) with all the money I’ve saved not shopping in the feminine hygiene section.
Think I’ll just have a banana cupcake and call it a night. A small one.
Love Happens…Does It?
Posted by: annatonic on: September 20, 2009
When’s the last time you ran into Aaron Eckhart in a hotel lobby? I’m sorry, but if Aaron Eckhart was walking towards me, I’d hardly have my back to him. Hel-lo, beautiful man!
Ok, so maybe I would spontaneously spill my files on him too, or just drop my laptop on his toes. Surely a painful encounter, complete with bruising, would be more memorable…hhmm…
Could that be where I’m going wrong? Think about it – all those business trips wasted at Westins and other places with fancy sheets. There I’ve been, all along, just strolling down that geometric carpeting in a straight line, politely dodging the approaching Mr Handsome Chiseled Jaw.
NO.
Because that doesn’t happen in real life, people. Unless you pay $12.50 (yes, that’s a New York City movie ticket) and another ten bucks for a butter-smothered popcorn.
The Recycled Man
Posted by: annatonic on: September 16, 2009
I refill my water bottles, mend my New York-worn trousers and separate my tuna from my milk cartons. Couldn’t I recycle a boyfriend too?
It’s not just eco-friendly. It’s necessary. Ok, in my head at least.
The bachelors in my radius have been rather uninspiring of late. Maybe my aim is off or I’m just walking down the wrong street all the time, but phew, I’m tired.
I enjoyed one of those staring-out-the-train-window moments today, thinking about 1992. And 1991. What a great years they were. Not just for the big plaid flannel and cut-offs (and could there be a more unflattering, yet remarkably comfortable, outfit?)
No, there were mix tapes, yes actual cassettes! The A side stacked with Blur, Suede and other oh so cool Brit bands, and the B side, dedicated to the I Just Called to Say I Love You compilations.
Those soundtracks were the artistry of the kind of stubble-faced young guys who just made you laugh til it hurts and who would cook you dinner, usually something with a potato in a pan, because they couldn’t afford to have someone else cook it for you.
And then you’d make out until somebody had to go home.
In real life, 1992 and 1991 are probably at home tucking their kids in, listening to the soundtrack of ESPN with one ear and that of a wife with the other.
2009….not so bad after all.
Train Man
Posted by: annatonic on: September 14, 2009
I met my future husband.
Our connection would have really blossomed, if it weren’t for those sweaty people wrapped around the southern pole…of the 6 train.
Dangit! Yah you, meathead, you’re blocking my view.
Bake me a future husband cake, Mr Lovely on the Train, because you have all the ingredients. Those nutmeggy eyes, warm and smiling right at me. We’re already joined – by our ability to withhold a gaze through the bobbing heads of strangers.
And the way your gently rippling arms grasped that, uh, thing you hold on to – so unwavering, like you were focused on staying steady, just for me. Even through that nasty turn into Grand Central, when all those sticky people flung to the left and that lady in the diamante flipflops sprinkled her Starbucks on your thigh.
Oh future husband, that beautiful nose. I bet the Roman section of the Met would like it back sometime, but don’t worry, it’s stunning on you too. I see where you got those statuesque features, from your mom. She taught you well, you kind man.
“Hold my coffee,” she said and sat down. You did.
You beamed an Andy Samberg grin, down at her, then at me, and we all rode uptown together.
I returned your gesture and exposed a dimple. Perhaps two, if I hadn’t been so busy making babies with you in my head. Oh and that grimace was to the pink polo guy, his armpits were just too close.
Bye, my lovely!
MTA, go ahead and increase those fares.
Just bring my hubby back.
Oh Honey, You Looked So Good…at 4 am on Friday
Posted by: annatonic on: September 10, 2009
News just in from the great gods of matching! The gaggle of men in your inbox think you look really hot at 4 am on a Friday. And not so hot at 9am on a Sunday.
Excuse me as I clear my throat, a-hem. This news flash, courtesy of an unsolicited eHarmony Advice newsletter, made me think, well, duh!
The article, When Are Your Matches the Most Attractive?, looked at the way thousands of users rated the hotness or notness or their matches during the course of a week.
In practice, this meant you were given the option of pointing an arrow in either direction of a new guy’s photo on a scale of Super Hot to Dog Ugly, with those Just Average types somewhere in the middle.
The science bit revealed that people found their matches to be fairly neutral during weekdays, i.e., no great change in perceived attractiveness either way. Oh, wait a second – here comes the weekend. Peaking at 4 am on a Friday, apparently even that mulletheaded guy with the nostril gaze view will start to look….good. By Sunday breakfast time, however, the same guy looks like he just really needs a haircut and a nose trim, bad.
I happen to have dragged that arrow in either direction, and I have a few questions.
Exactly who is out there hunting online profiles at 4 am on a Friday morning? S/he must be a) drunk, b) an insomniac, c) drunk, or d) getting up to milk cows. And if you are, can you get me some fresh froth for my cappuccino, please?
Profile scouring activities on a Sunday morning, on the other hand, are those of someone who is likely a) hungover, b) eating pancakes, and therefore happy, c) skipping church, or d) hungover. The sun is out and you have eggs to eat. What do you need a wo/man for now anyway?
It’s Thursday night, so I guess I have, oh, about seven hours until my 371 men start to look georgeclooneylicious. Even you, Mullet Man.
Think I’ll need a drink first.
Single, Removed
Posted by: annatonic on: September 8, 2009
I’ve relocated. Single person on vacation – hold on to your tables for one! Two days ago, I packed my DVF on wheels and amtracked it to Mystic, Connecticut, home of a movie famous pizzeria and a drawbridge that pulls up for people with expensive, and very tall, sailboats.
The mission: to detach both brain and body from New York, and online, for a few days. Aaah, fresh air! Boats! People who say hi!
My B&B promised views of the Mystic River. I got the ground floor room in a building called the 1865 House. Yah, it was old. And my view was of a little stony patch of backyard, where garbage cans and crickets vied for attention, one smellier and one louder than the other. Still, it was floral and laced and no place like home. O blessed rest.
Alone with my thoughts (and believe me, it can get a bit Being John Malkovich-y up here), I indulged in one of my favorite pursuits, people watching. Sunshine enforces this activity, for big sunglasses are the perfect guise for optimum ogling.
Perhaps my observations were a bit skewed, given that it’s Labor Day weekend, a time for normal people to spend with family licking popsicles and ice cream. Among the melting desserts, I spotted two dominant types: The Married and The Really Married.
Most of them appeared to be competing in the most colorful polo shirt and checkered shorts ensemble. Some rebelled and wore their Yankees caps the wrong way around. And a few looked a bit lost, like it was wrong to be outside at 2:30 on a Monday, and so they yelled at the kids: “Kayla Elizabeth, get back here right now!”
Oh married people, I enjoyed the outdoor entertainment and tried my best not to seem like the single blonde female on the bench. And thank you, too, for luring me with your oozing cones to that Gourmet Ice Cream Shop place.
There was just one chocolate chunk in my single serving, though. Your kids ate the rest.
