I’ve been relatively lucky when it comes to online dating. I’ve never been stalked, molested or deceived. I’ve never met a 63 year old grandfather trying to pass himself off as a 28 year old personal trainer or a teenager trying to get a laugh by making a date with a 30 year old woman. For the most part, the men I’ve met have been who they said they were and have had at least a moderate resemblance to the pictures they had posted online. For the most part.
Rick was 37, lived at home with his parents and didn’t exactly work. He could have been a politician the way he skated around the issue of employment. He had never been married and had no kids. To put it more accurately, it sounded as though he had no friends either. Funny how he seemed to neglect mentioning these things in his Match.com profile.
Rick had two pictures posted to his online dating profile. Both appeared to have been scanned and uploaded to his computer using a scanner circa 1989. They were so unclear and fuzzy he probably should have just done a self portrait using an Etch A Sketch.
He was more pathetic than sexy yet persistent and sweet in only the way a lonely perpetual, late 30’s bachelor looking for a wife could be. It was apparent to me he was looking to fulfill his folk’s dreams of becoming grandparents before he had settled himself into their basement permanently.
Despite the overwhelming knowledge that this guy clearly wasn’t for me, I decided to meet him anyway. Knowing that he was probably broke and paying with coupons I suggested we meet at the Rose Bowl for a walk. It was public, it was free and at least I’d get a little cardio in should he turn out to be the poor schmuck I already knew deep down he was.
When I spotted the pregnant 40 year old, I knew it had to be my date. I’m lucky that way. He may not have known how to post a decent picture but he certainly knew how to use Photoshop. Reaching for a hug, I almost asked for a cigarette to go with the cocktail I had just been given second hand. I guess mommy and daddy didn’t mind him getting wasted in their basement on those lonely Saturday nights.
Not only was my faux pregnant date hung-over but he was also sporting the latest fashion in booger couture. It just hung there, mocking me in my disgust. Blowing to and fro in the slight breeze that accompanied us as we exchanged trivialities. Like a car accident, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the dried nasal mucus hanging on so desperately from my blind date’s nose. Considering the size and windblown activity, I found it remarkable that it didn’t seem to be impeding his ability to breathe.
I had only been in contact with Rick for four minutes and was already wondering if I was capable of a 3 minute mile. Thank God we would be walking side by side and not face to face. I made sure there was enough distance between us to make any 1950’s school dance chaperone proud or I’d never be able to concentrate on the action of placing one foot in front of the other.
Moral of this story? Well, there really isn’t any except that if you are going to show up to a blind date reeking of Jack Daniels and cloves, you should probably consider wiping your fucking nose.