Meeting My Match
In case you missed it, the Wall Street Journal reported in late September that the FTC was suing Match.com for:
allegedly using fake love-interest advertisements to trick hundreds of thousands of users into buying subscriptions.
This is the rough equivalent of reporting that the Vatican is suing Pope Francis for being Catholic. What the hell did anyone expect? If you make money by selling subscriptions, you sell subscriptions, no matter what you have to do to sell them. And from what I can recall, I don’t believe the word, scrupulous, appears in any of the contractual language Match.com uses with any of its hornswoggled customers. Caveat emptor, indeed.
Chapter One: Bless Me, Father, For I Have …
Yes. I confess it. Before I was fortunate enough to meet my lovely wife (thank you, God!), I was on a dating site. Okay. I was on two dating sites. The first one was Match.com. That’s where I started to learn the online-dating ropes.
I won’t go into all the details here. Suffice it to say, online dating sites have a peculiar code. Nothing can be taken at face value. And you have to endure a few disasters before you start to understand that this (whatever this might be) actually means that (and that is initially unexpected and always disarmingly unpleasant).
While I never posted it, my experience on Match.com inspired me to compose the ultimate dating-site profile. I offer it here as a public service and grant universal permission to use it, with two caveats:
- Do NOT give me a footnote.
- Make sure you’ve wiped it clean of my fingerprints.
Here it is:
After swimming in the lake and digging for clams on the sandbars at high tide, I love to have a fire in the fireplace on the beach while I snuggle up with that special someone during a thunderstorm to hold hands and watch a romantic movie or the Red Sox as the first snow flies and cherry blossoms bloom from beneath the autumn leaves while the Giants beat the Celtics with a good book and my cats run through the bright sunshine toward the paddock where I keep my horse next to the shed in which my canoe waits for morning paddles following Bikram yogalates and re-reading The Power of Now on my bike with my dog panting behind me and my canary silhouetted against the full moon in an inky sky brilliant with starlight and a glass of wine accompanied by smooth, classic country jazz/rock symphonies on my iPod, on which I’m running a planning app to regiment to the nth degree my next spontaneous weekend getaway to cross-country ski Antarctica after snorkeling in the BVI and going into the City for coffee and/or a show on the way to Florence or Paris for gourmet food and having good friends come over.
That captures all of the rapturous bullshit people routinely fall for on dating sites. The only thing you’ll need besides that profile is the appropriate fake photo, the obtaining of which is now easier than ever, thanks to sites like this.
During my brief tenure on Match.com, I was guilty of (being accused of anything on a dating site is the legal equivalent of being guilty) (1) misleading a woman I’d never met, who was looking for a surrogate for the son she’d just sent off to college, into thinking we were already married (I didn’t and we weren’t); (2) stalking a woman who’d posted photos of herself in her underwear, posing in her bathroom (I didn’t and didn’t want to); and (3) stealing the identity of a fictional character in an alleged attempt to get into a movie that was being produced about that fictional character (in hindsight, I actually wish I’d done that one).
My short Match.com experience came to a none-too-soon end after the one and only date I ever arranged through the site. I invited a woman to join me for dinner and a theater performance. During dinner, I asked her how long she’d been on Match.com. She told me nine years.
“That’s a long time,” I said. “What do you want?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “But I know what I don’t want.”
“Check, please!”
Chapter Two: New Meanings
The second dating site I was on, which I joined when I was older but demonstrably none the wiser, was OurTime.com. (Yes. I also confess I’m a glutton for punishment.) In case you’re curious, there are two distinct differences between Match.com and OurTime.com:
First, unlike Match.com, which has no age criteria, OurTime.com is a site for people over 50. The good news is if you’re over 50 and looking for someone in your chronological neighborhood, you might find someone, factoring in the heavy odds against success with online dating, of course. The bad news is there’s no limit to the over 50 part. So, you may very well find a dating candidate older than your Mom, who’s looking for that special someone to take her out of the home on weekends.
Second, on OurTime.com, no means yes and vice versa. That means you’re likely to hear from people you contact in inverse proportion to the rudeness with which they rebuff your initial overtures — or you’ll never hear another peep from those who seem most enthusiastic at first blush. Go figure.
My experience on OurTime.com hit closer to my heart than did my experience on Match.com — but only if I carried my wallet in my left breast pocket. At the end of the relationship with the one and only woman I consented to meet from my sojourn on OurTime.com, my bank balance was almost as low as my self-esteem and my IQ.
I later met other people who’d interacted with the woman I met on OurTime.com. Those people said things about her like, “I’d never met a real con artist before meeting her” and “She has no conscience.” I’m sure you know people like the ones who made those comments. They’re the ones who, if you’re too stupid to figure it out for yourself (guilty), won’t tell you you’re being fleeced while you’re being fleeced. But they’ll line up to tell you you’ve been sheared to the skin after you’ve been sheared to the skin.
But all was not lost …
Chapter Three: Luck O’ the Irish
In March of 2000, I’d gone to work at an ad agency. There were two (and only two) people in the agency who were bulletproof — so talented that they’d never be fired. One was the Creative Director. His name was Dan. (Still is, I’d imagine; although, we’re no longer in touch.) The other was a copywriter. Her name is Judy. (Still is, I’m sure, because we’re still in touch.)
I left the agency in 2004. Judy left before I did. But we maintained our contact over the ensuing years. During the entire time I was quixotically and masochistically enduring my online-dating travails, Judy would be saying, “You really need to meet my friend, Anne.” Because I’m an idiot, I’d routinely reply, “No. I don’t think so.” At the same time, Judy would be calling Anne and saying, “You really need to meet my friend, Mark.” Because Anne’s extremely intelligent and a very good judge of character, she’d routinely reply, “No. I don’t think so.” And so it went, until …
My OurTime.com debacle ended in January of 2015. I was despondent, horrified by my own stupidity, and quite unable to process the extent to which I’d let myself be taken advantage of.
Judy called again. Again I begged off. I told her about the disaster and my staggering naïveté. I told her I needed some time to lick my wounds.
Judy called again in late March. She explained to me that she’s the Queen of Rationalization (she is). She told me she could find the silver lining in a septic tank (she can). I thanked her and told her I’d let her know when I felt a little more steady.
In a conversation shortly thereafter with my friend, Chuck, I shared all of that — the OurTime.com fiasco, the calls from Judy, my reluctance to come out from under my bed or to expose myself to sunlight, my reticence to meet Anne. He told me I was taking everything way too seriously. He suggested I look at the opportunity to meet Anne as an adventure, as a way to get out of the house, out of my head, and to enjoy some simple social interaction. In April of 2015, I decided Chuck was right. I called Judy. Then I called Anne.
We agreed to meet on Saturday, April 18, at noon, at R.J. Julia. I told Anne I was fairly certain I knew what I looked like but was a little less certain I’d be able to recognize her. She said, “I’ll be the one in the leopard shoes.” And sure enough: As I sat on the bench in front of the bookstore that day, apprehensively, I saw a beautiful woman approaching from my left.
She wore blue jeans, a blue Oxford shirt, a tasteful blazer, and leopard flats. She walked as if she didn’t have a care in the world. She smiled as if she knew the world smiled back. Her eyes shone from within. And they were completely clear — no guile, no avarice, no artifice, no pretense, no expectation — radiating only innocent joy and a very contagious peace.
After chatting our way through R.J. Julia, we carried the conversation across the Connecticut River from Madison to Niantic. We had lunch in the village, after which we went to the Book Barn. (The four words you never say in the Book Barn are, “It’s time to leave.”) We continued the conversation back across the river to Westbrook (where I lived at the time) to sit on the beach and talk some more. Then we went back to Madison, sat in an ice cream shop for a while, and jabbered on as if we’d known each other for years. We parted company at 9:30, thus ending our nine-and-a-half hour first date.
On Anne’s birthday in July of 2016, I asked her to marry me. In a monumental lapse of her otherwise unerring judgment of character, she said yes. We were married on the 11th day of the sixth month of 2017 (because I wanted to be a June bride). Anne’s cousin, Tom, performed the ceremony. I wore Anne’s late father’s tie. Judy gave the toast at our reception.
Chapter Four: New Beginnings
From September of 1979 to January of 1982 (when I finally woke up and went to college), I worked in an appliance-distribution warehouse. I spent my days unloading trailers full of TVs, console stereos (remember those?), refrigerators, dishwashers, microwave ovens, and more. I was lost, directionless, unsure of myself, and less sure of my future.
One day, a gentleman named Ernie Santoro from the Sales Department — a big, garrulous fellow with a walrus mustache — came walking through the warehouse. Without breaking stride, without taking is eyes off me, and all the while keeping his left index finger pointed at me, he said: “O’Brien, you lead a charmed life.” I thought, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Ernie. In all likelihood, neither do you.”
But he was right.
Some people take longer to bloom than others. I’m one of them. I’ve always known it. I’ve come to a comfortable co-existence with the knowledge.
The little I have learned about the world, and, more important, that I have learned about myself, has been absurdly expensive, but I have always thought it more than worth the price. There is no other way. The miracle of the world, the miracle of a rebirth of the senses, the miracle of an accepting heart can only be paid for with blood and bone. No other currency is acceptable. (Harry Crews)
I told Anne two things when I came to know her well. First I said, “I haven’t met my match. I’ve met my equal.” Then I said, “It didn’t take me 60 years to find you. It took me 60 years to be able to recognize you when I did.”
The woman is like the tide: she comes and goes.
She knows the things that I can just suppose.
(Dan Fogelberg, “Comes and Goes”)
Charmed life, indeed.
