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I haven’t taken the leap to see anyone I’ve chatted with on the dating site since. Not only because I’m leery of what kind of craziness I might find sitting across the table from me next, but because I have very little time for anyone but Spencer.
Trust me, I’m not complaining. Between my decision to gain sole custody and the upcoming hockey season, I have more than my fair share on my plate as it is. Having to break down and ask my mother for help in watching Spencer while I attend practices has been hard enough, but I’ve come to admit that I can’t raise him without her right now. He’s four months old, for God sake.
The boy needs a mother. That mother sure as hell isn’t going to be Charlotte, though. For now, he’ll be just fine with my mother.
I settle into my recliner, sighing as my back and thighs sink into the memory foam of the chair. I hadn’t realized how tense I’d been all day until I finally sat down and took a tentative sip of scotch.
Maybe the idea of legal proceedings in the name of Spencer is having more of an effect on me than I thought.
To take my mind off it, I pull my laptop from the floor and boot it up. Sure enough, six messages glare back at me from the dating site’s inbox, all from women with big smiles and perfectly curled hair or skimpy tops in their profile pictures.
It surprises me more and more every day that women even pay attention to my profile, mostly because I refrained from posting an actual picture of myself, instead choosing to be more mysterious and only using a closeup of my eye in the picture.
Ridiculous, yes. But it still gets t
heir attention. Maybe it gets more attention than if I’d used an actual picture of myself. Call it a social experiment, but the results have left me astounded.
The profiles of the women who have messaged me, however, have left me anything but. They range from simple “Hello, how are you?” to more blatant “You have sexy eyes, let’s meet up” messages.
I delete every one of them.
I lean back into my chair and click the Your Personalized Matches button. This has become a pastime of mine, mostly because I usually spend the next hour scoffing at the fact that, despite using real information to fill out my profile with regard to my likes and dislikes, strengths and weaknesses, blah blah blah, the supposedly highly accurate algorithms of LookingForLove.com still manage to somehow pair me up with a daily list of women who, for the most part, make my eyebrows furrow and make me say “What the actual fuck?” out loud to myself.
I mean, I can’t possibly have put something in my public profile that truly signals how amazingly compatible I would be with a woman who is ten years older than me, owns thirteen cats, and states that her favorite quote is “Love is patient, love is kind.”
No, lady. Love is far from kind. It’s a cruel bitch that makes even the strongest people break at some point...especially when that love is real.
I don’t know that because I loved Charlotte. I had feelings for the woman, but do I think it was love that kept us together for a year and a half before she decided to move on to someone—oh, how did she put it?—less serious? No, it wasn’t love I felt for Charlotte, I know that now.
And the only reason I do know it is because I never truly felt real love until I held Spencer in my arms. That’s love. I just didn’t realize it until that little boy made me realize it.
The list of matches for me today is longer than usual, but just as laughable. There’s a woman who might be attractive, but I can’t tell over the six pounds of makeup on her face and the duck lips she’s sporting, and another woman who claims she is a psychic and just knows she is going to find her true love on this website.
I can barely hold back my snickering.
Toward the bottom of the list, there’s a profile that makes me stop scrolling. Not because it says anything overly interesting, but because the woman has also used a picture of an eye as her profile photo. If it is really her eye, then the woman has very pretty hazel eyes, with flecks of gold that make them look more like something that should be in jewelry rather than someone’s physical attribute. She’s wearing mascara, but no other makeup, which is a welcomed change from the clown faces and nightclub makeup I’ve seen on this site so frequently.
Her profile is also refreshing. Not because of what she says exactly, but because of what she doesn’t. She’s not trying too hard, not attempting to sell herself like a car salesman. She admits to working a lot and loving her job, though she doesn’t state what that job is. She also admits to enjoying quiet nights in more than the nightclub scene. She describes herself as loyal to a fault, but not willing to play games.
“Hmm,” I mutter aloud. She’s even listed herself as looking for a long-term relationship.
There is nothing wishy-washy about this girl, I can tell. She states she won’t play games, and she doesn’t dance around the subject of commitment—she wants something that will last, not just “Let’s have some fun and take the casual approach” like so many others are interested in.
It makes me wonder what she looks like. There’s a physical description—dark brown hair, average height, slender build—but that tells me nothing.
I stare at the eye in her profile picture, taking in the slant of her eyelids and the length of her lashes. For the first time since I joined this ludicrous website, my interest is piqued.
Maybe it’s the comfort of my own home and the scotch in my hand. Maybe it’s the quietness of my house and allure of the fireplace in front of me. As I watch those flames across the room as they dance and flicker, I do something I haven’t done since I created my LookingForLove.com profile.
I send the first message.
Her username is interesting, too—LaughLoudLiveQuiet. I wonder exactly what it means, but instead of asking, I keep it simple.
Hey there. Another person hiding behind their profile picture. Glad to see I’m not the only one. Hidin’ from anything in particular?
Even as I press Send, I know the woman behind the eye image could easily misconstrue my message or just dismiss me completely as one of the scumbags who trolls these sites looking for their next lay. But, if I’m reading between the lines correctly, I have a funny feeling this kind of girl isn’t going to miss the opportunity to tell me exactly what she’s hiding from.
Men. Presumably men just like me. And it’s up to me to change her mind and make her see I’m different. Because I am. At least, I’d like to think I am.
