When I entered online dating purposefully about six months ago, I had an open mind to what I would encounter. More than anything, I sought to increase the amount of positive feedback in my personal life. Parenting teenagers doesn't always afford that sweetness, and since my free time had recently doubled to two whole nights a week, I thought I could manage an influx of socialization.
I had been on a handful of truly blind dates in the prior four years, strictly relying on the acquaintances of people I knew. As might be predicted, that turned into a second date just once.
Mathematically speaking, 20% of the time.
His name started with J.
With the first six months of intentional online date dabbling coming to a close, there's a new round of statistics oddly interesting to me:
Two of my first four dates had names that started with the letter J.
To date (and to the best of my memory), 36% of the men I have agreed to meet have J names.
(There are other multiples too; 2 had M names. 2 had A names.)
(Given my family naming practices, this is also slightly fascinating).)
100% of my J dates I saw three or more times.
Typical span of other dates: 1
Number of dates without J names I went out with more than twice: 1.
Number of men I was on the fence about meeting and then didn't because I learned his name also started with a J: 1.
The J thing is what, a coincidence? A generational likelihood?
A similar phenomenon happened at my birthday event this year, a congregation of K names. At one point, 14 people were in attendance and 50% of them had names that started with the letter K. (Mostly female, one of them was male). Weird, right?
To qualify for the math olympiad of my dating stats, how many men have I met?
;)
(Yes, I do know there's not enough information provided to answer that).
Tuesday, August 16, 2016
Monday, August 15, 2016
From the Dating Files of..... a Unicorn of the Pacific Northwest
As a guy I barely know once said, dating is a great reflecting pool for yourself.
That's true, most often, but it's also great because collecting the stories is much, much more gratifying than whatever it was we collected as kids in the '80s (what comes to mind are those plastic charm necklaces, Garbage Pail Kids cards, cute stationery and what I called 'special' pens and pencils. I also had a thing for unicorns, now that I think about it).
It's not the reason I got in the water in the first place, but it seems to be the reason I keep treading it.
I've learned a few things about myself, some unexpected, and I've learned a few more about the grievances I have with recurring factors of online dating. Loosely, they have informed what you might call my Rules.
1) I can't do tall. I'm 5'2". Why are most of the men filtering through to me 6' and 6'2"?
I tried, I went ahead and met someone a whole foot taller than me, and it was odd and rapidly awkward. Really nice guy. Really too tall. Really not for me.
2) You can have my phone number if I've met you and I want you to have it.
You can't have my phone number just because you ask for it online and don't even offer your own.
3) Re-branding is a fair marketing strategy. I see men periodically reinvent themselves with new profile names, new written profile information, but the SAME photos.
As if this makes them unrecognizable. Re-branding is probably a pretty good idea after some amount of time, but it doesn't really change the first impressions that have been made, especially when you come lurking at my profile all over again.
4) "Instead of trying to talk on here, can I have your number?"
Almost always, no. Because I don't really want you to send me photos of your body parts.
Pro-tip: offer yours first and you might dupe me.
5) The jury is still out on Space Camp. This shows up in a lot of men's profiles. I really wanted to go to NASA Space Camp when I was a kid. As I understand it, there's the Space Camp we all wanted to go to when we were kids that cost a fortune, and there's a contemporary version for adults. I don't know anything about that one. Maybe I'm wrong, but it seems really surprising that all these guys in Portland, Oregon are characterized by having been to NASA Space Camp. Right?
6) Lying on your profile and then admitting you've lied on a first or second date is ... off-putting.
Sure, lying to get a different kind of attention works. But don't most people value honesty pretty highly, or is that just my unique adult behavior? Why lie about your age, smoking and drinking? Most of it belies itself.
7) Dating profiles have provided me with new vocabulary. I'm still not convinced sapiosexual is a thing.
I probably won't be interested in meeting you on the merit of you claiming this, because let's face it, I like to like what I see.
8) I'm sad for the people that use or respond to any version of this: "You're too beautiful to be single."
It's probably supposed to be a compliment, I know. This kind of sentence makes me want to shake my head violently and cry all at the same time. Please give me something better to work with than some kind of a comment suggesting something is wrong with single.
9) "Native Portlanders Rock. We're the unicorns of the Pacific Northwest."
It's hard to say the right thing. It really is.
That's true, most often, but it's also great because collecting the stories is much, much more gratifying than whatever it was we collected as kids in the '80s (what comes to mind are those plastic charm necklaces, Garbage Pail Kids cards, cute stationery and what I called 'special' pens and pencils. I also had a thing for unicorns, now that I think about it).
It's not the reason I got in the water in the first place, but it seems to be the reason I keep treading it.
I've learned a few things about myself, some unexpected, and I've learned a few more about the grievances I have with recurring factors of online dating. Loosely, they have informed what you might call my Rules.
1) I can't do tall. I'm 5'2". Why are most of the men filtering through to me 6' and 6'2"?
I tried, I went ahead and met someone a whole foot taller than me, and it was odd and rapidly awkward. Really nice guy. Really too tall. Really not for me.
2) You can have my phone number if I've met you and I want you to have it.
You can't have my phone number just because you ask for it online and don't even offer your own.
3) Re-branding is a fair marketing strategy. I see men periodically reinvent themselves with new profile names, new written profile information, but the SAME photos.
As if this makes them unrecognizable. Re-branding is probably a pretty good idea after some amount of time, but it doesn't really change the first impressions that have been made, especially when you come lurking at my profile all over again.
4) "Instead of trying to talk on here, can I have your number?"
Almost always, no. Because I don't really want you to send me photos of your body parts.
Pro-tip: offer yours first and you might dupe me.
5) The jury is still out on Space Camp. This shows up in a lot of men's profiles. I really wanted to go to NASA Space Camp when I was a kid. As I understand it, there's the Space Camp we all wanted to go to when we were kids that cost a fortune, and there's a contemporary version for adults. I don't know anything about that one. Maybe I'm wrong, but it seems really surprising that all these guys in Portland, Oregon are characterized by having been to NASA Space Camp. Right?
6) Lying on your profile and then admitting you've lied on a first or second date is ... off-putting.
Sure, lying to get a different kind of attention works. But don't most people value honesty pretty highly, or is that just my unique adult behavior? Why lie about your age, smoking and drinking? Most of it belies itself.
7) Dating profiles have provided me with new vocabulary. I'm still not convinced sapiosexual is a thing.
I probably won't be interested in meeting you on the merit of you claiming this, because let's face it, I like to like what I see.
8) I'm sad for the people that use or respond to any version of this: "You're too beautiful to be single."
It's probably supposed to be a compliment, I know. This kind of sentence makes me want to shake my head violently and cry all at the same time. Please give me something better to work with than some kind of a comment suggesting something is wrong with single.
9) "Native Portlanders Rock. We're the unicorns of the Pacific Northwest."
It's hard to say the right thing. It really is.
Sunday, August 14, 2016
Mass on Dementia, Dementia on Mass
I couldn't have guessed at 40 that I'd return to Mass with my dad. Until this year, my adult Mass aerobics have been primarily reserved to weddings and funerals, places that have the merit of feeling familiar from childhood but foreign by virtue of absence. I say aerobics because the mechanics of a Mass - all that standing up, sitting down, kneeling, turning one's torso for peace and greetings - en masse - is a phenomenal testament to the power of ritual and practice.
Writing this I'm even thinking about the aerobics of what Mass would look like without sound in a time-lapse video. The more estranged I was from the experience, the more powerful the oddity. Since going more regularly, it feels less strange, but lately my dad has had a harder time with all the ups and downs. I imagine it's a little like what I feel if I get off track with yoga - the unfamiliarity of intentionally working my muscles makes me grimace too.
To make it to my late Sunday morning yoga class, that means we go to the 8 a.m. Mass, which also means I am out of the house early on Sundays to get to North Portland on time, earlier than any other day of the week. I dreaded going as a kid. It was boring, and of course there was the unforgettable day as a young teenager that I saw a grown woman's white skirt flush with her monthly blood over the course of a Mass a few pews ahead of me that scarred me into thinking I could suffer something similar. I enjoy going to Mass because it's so clear how my great affinity for group singing and the power of ritual have shaped me, and because my dad lights up. Even if we walk away from the house and he's grumbling or upset, it dissolves once we've walked to the church. He sings everything - although rarely does he know the words. I try to make it easier by finding the hymns in the missal (because the task of finding a chronological number in a book is a task rendering defeat with dementia), though only sometimes can he follow along the words as I track them with my finger.
My dad grew up in a large Catholic family. A non-negotiable tenet of my parents' marriage was to raise us five kids Catholic, yet it was my Lutheran mom who escorted us to Catholic Mass on Sundays and traipsed some of us to Catholic grade school. I really don't remember attending Mass with my dad as a kid, but in his childhood he was an altar boy and even considered priesthood. (Side note: I am fascinated how many men I meet who have considered this as well.) I realized he was missing Mass about a year ago and going was one of the best ways I could integrate my rare free time into spending time with him on a schedule.
I have to admit, I rather enjoy going to Mass with my dad now. There's the Mechanics of Mass, but there's also the Songs. I'm pretty sure it's my dad's favorite part of going. Catholic hymns are a conundrum to me. Half the time, the words are absurd to me but the melodies are so catchy or so familiar from my youth that I can't help singing them. It doesn't really matter if my dad isn't singing the right words, because he also sings that special brand of sing that makes mumble words sound appropriate. I believe he sings because it fires up something in his brain that gives him peace and clarity. I've made an effort to really listen to the readings as well, and to think critically about how clever the priest is or isn't about his homily (today is still a toss up, as he was comparing the natural conservation management of forest fire to Jesus' division in families to prune out what won't survive). But I also try to hear what my dad may or may not be hearing. On Father's Day this year, I caught sight of my dad's face during the homily and saw that tears were streaming down his face. I won't ever know if something he heard is what made my dad cry that day, but I do know that the space of the Mass made it more comfortable. The clarity of the familiar ritual and place, the Mass on dementia, the dementia on Mass.
Writing this I'm even thinking about the aerobics of what Mass would look like without sound in a time-lapse video. The more estranged I was from the experience, the more powerful the oddity. Since going more regularly, it feels less strange, but lately my dad has had a harder time with all the ups and downs. I imagine it's a little like what I feel if I get off track with yoga - the unfamiliarity of intentionally working my muscles makes me grimace too.
To make it to my late Sunday morning yoga class, that means we go to the 8 a.m. Mass, which also means I am out of the house early on Sundays to get to North Portland on time, earlier than any other day of the week. I dreaded going as a kid. It was boring, and of course there was the unforgettable day as a young teenager that I saw a grown woman's white skirt flush with her monthly blood over the course of a Mass a few pews ahead of me that scarred me into thinking I could suffer something similar. I enjoy going to Mass because it's so clear how my great affinity for group singing and the power of ritual have shaped me, and because my dad lights up. Even if we walk away from the house and he's grumbling or upset, it dissolves once we've walked to the church. He sings everything - although rarely does he know the words. I try to make it easier by finding the hymns in the missal (because the task of finding a chronological number in a book is a task rendering defeat with dementia), though only sometimes can he follow along the words as I track them with my finger.
My dad grew up in a large Catholic family. A non-negotiable tenet of my parents' marriage was to raise us five kids Catholic, yet it was my Lutheran mom who escorted us to Catholic Mass on Sundays and traipsed some of us to Catholic grade school. I really don't remember attending Mass with my dad as a kid, but in his childhood he was an altar boy and even considered priesthood. (Side note: I am fascinated how many men I meet who have considered this as well.) I realized he was missing Mass about a year ago and going was one of the best ways I could integrate my rare free time into spending time with him on a schedule.
I have to admit, I rather enjoy going to Mass with my dad now. There's the Mechanics of Mass, but there's also the Songs. I'm pretty sure it's my dad's favorite part of going. Catholic hymns are a conundrum to me. Half the time, the words are absurd to me but the melodies are so catchy or so familiar from my youth that I can't help singing them. It doesn't really matter if my dad isn't singing the right words, because he also sings that special brand of sing that makes mumble words sound appropriate. I believe he sings because it fires up something in his brain that gives him peace and clarity. I've made an effort to really listen to the readings as well, and to think critically about how clever the priest is or isn't about his homily (today is still a toss up, as he was comparing the natural conservation management of forest fire to Jesus' division in families to prune out what won't survive). But I also try to hear what my dad may or may not be hearing. On Father's Day this year, I caught sight of my dad's face during the homily and saw that tears were streaming down his face. I won't ever know if something he heard is what made my dad cry that day, but I do know that the space of the Mass made it more comfortable. The clarity of the familiar ritual and place, the Mass on dementia, the dementia on Mass.
Wednesday, August 10, 2016
My Kingdom For That Deeper Version of Herself
Last night in Quito, a 5.1 earthquake shook the airport and put waves in the windows 5 minutes prior to my daughter boarding her flight for home after 6 weeks living in third world community. We got 4 straight hours of story and conversation upon her return, I'm sure the tiniest sample of the experiences that reshaped and returned this incredibly calm, even more independent, present 17 year old being.
A deeper version of herself. The one I've been ready to know.
I'm 100% satisfied with that!
She lived at 12,000 feet with no running water in a community of 250 that had no prior program experience and perhaps doubted the purpose of the program, without major illness (just one episode of food poisoning from eating guinea pig intestines), scabies, peril or tough temptation, unlike most of her fellow volunteers.
There were days she hated it, I am sure. Her initial partner left almost immediately, her replacement partner resented being reassigned where she had to bed in a cheese-making closet.
I can probably never tell this story, her story, in a way that would be agreeable to her. But this I know - mama pride is a given, and I give my kingdom for this and the deeper versions my daughters grow in themselves.
A deeper version of herself. The one I've been ready to know.
I'm 100% satisfied with that!
She lived at 12,000 feet with no running water in a community of 250 that had no prior program experience and perhaps doubted the purpose of the program, without major illness (just one episode of food poisoning from eating guinea pig intestines), scabies, peril or tough temptation, unlike most of her fellow volunteers.
There were days she hated it, I am sure. Her initial partner left almost immediately, her replacement partner resented being reassigned where she had to bed in a cheese-making closet.
I can probably never tell this story, her story, in a way that would be agreeable to her. But this I know - mama pride is a given, and I give my kingdom for this and the deeper versions my daughters grow in themselves.
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
Dating Makes Me Boy Crazy and Man Discouraged
At age 40 I could still count the number of blind dates I had endured on one hand. I know I'm not the only one that had to convince myself mightily that entering the moxie and mystery of online dating was going to be a productive method to the madness. My online profile went live before I really understood what and how the process worked, and sure enough it only took hours to get roped into an online chat with someone who proceeded to invite me to coffee - after his kids went to bed. Not being a regular coffee drinker and not one who drinks it after noon (not to mention thinking more about who was going to be at home with those sleeping kids), I felt my sense of flexibility immediately hanging in the balance, and asked where he had in mind. He said Shari's.
In Portland, Shari's might have passed muster in high school. Not now.
I got out of that conversation right then.
Several months later, dozens of conversational misfires, many solid first dates, a few wacky experiences and (thankfully) some pleasantly memorable companionship, my experience reveals some commonalities among eligible men:
1) Emotional intelligence isn't a given in men over 40.
2) Most men bring an ex (or two) into the conversation on a first date. And I don't mean in the explaining their history way, I mean in the I'm-going-to-talk-about-my-ex way.
3) Seeing where and how men live sooner than later is a darn good idea.
4) The inner teenager of men (and their exes) is alarmingly vital. And vitally alarming.
(This last is the revelation of being texted by an ex-girlfriend who stole my number out of my (really darn lovely) date's phone).
And in my experience (by which I mean men I've met more than once), men largely fall into one of three basic categories:
1) Nice but uninspiring
2) Inspiring but arrogant
3) Hot
Sadly, they rarely fall into positive multiples.
Lately, third dates seem to be the hangup.
Accepting or offering a third date with someone means there is some kind of clear connection, chemistry or just plain good fun. You know, worth the time, or at least reverencing a plan made a week in advance. I have a little courtesy reminder for the folk who find themselves at this stage in the game.
1) When you send the text that cancels the plans made with advance consideration, take care you're not immediately after also sending me the "I cleared my schedule!" text meant for someone else.
2) When you spend a weekend waffling between me and the ex that suddenly wants you back, just figure out what you want without expecting I'm going to get involved. I'm not.
3) Keep your phone to yourself - so my number doesn't get stolen by that ex who actually acts on her own insecurities to text me late at night!
I don't think I could make up this stuff unless I tried.....or was writing bad young adult fiction.
Yes, I am still dating.
In Portland, Shari's might have passed muster in high school. Not now.
I got out of that conversation right then.
Several months later, dozens of conversational misfires, many solid first dates, a few wacky experiences and (thankfully) some pleasantly memorable companionship, my experience reveals some commonalities among eligible men:
1) Emotional intelligence isn't a given in men over 40.
2) Most men bring an ex (or two) into the conversation on a first date. And I don't mean in the explaining their history way, I mean in the I'm-going-to-talk-about-my-ex way.
3) Seeing where and how men live sooner than later is a darn good idea.
4) The inner teenager of men (and their exes) is alarmingly vital. And vitally alarming.
(This last is the revelation of being texted by an ex-girlfriend who stole my number out of my (really darn lovely) date's phone).
And in my experience (by which I mean men I've met more than once), men largely fall into one of three basic categories:
1) Nice but uninspiring
2) Inspiring but arrogant
3) Hot
Sadly, they rarely fall into positive multiples.
Lately, third dates seem to be the hangup.
Accepting or offering a third date with someone means there is some kind of clear connection, chemistry or just plain good fun. You know, worth the time, or at least reverencing a plan made a week in advance. I have a little courtesy reminder for the folk who find themselves at this stage in the game.
1) When you send the text that cancels the plans made with advance consideration, take care you're not immediately after also sending me the "I cleared my schedule!" text meant for someone else.
2) When you spend a weekend waffling between me and the ex that suddenly wants you back, just figure out what you want without expecting I'm going to get involved. I'm not.
3) Keep your phone to yourself - so my number doesn't get stolen by that ex who actually acts on her own insecurities to text me late at night!
I don't think I could make up this stuff unless I tried.....or was writing bad young adult fiction.
Yes, I am still dating.
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