I do a quick search and click on the first service that pops up. I assume if they’re on the top of the search results, they’re either spending a lot of money to be there or they’re really popular. That means there will be a lot more candidates to choose from, and having a greater pool of candidates sounds like a good idea. I click the mouse around the site, trying to get to the meat market area. Time for Momma to go shopping for some prime beef. Wakka wakka.
Unfortunately, it won’t let me search for anyone unless I have a profile started. Knowing what I know about marketing and getting website users to engage, I’m not surprised. They want you to stick around, and in order to do that, they ask for a little commitment.
I shrug. What the heck? What’s the big deal? I can just put up a little profile. No harm in that. I don’t have to make it public so people can see it. I’ll just use it to do a little surfing.
I start the process by giving my name. They promise to only reveal the first initial of my last name. W. Then I get to the part where they ask for a credit card. I’m wary about putting my financial details anywhere online, because being a computer engineer puts me in the perfect position to know how easily that information can be accessed by the wrong people.
I could take the time to test the vulnerabilities of this site to hackers, but why bother? I have my own less-intrusive and less-illegal way of handling those turds. I’m using my special credit card—the one that has a minuscule credit limit, the one I use for all of my online purchases. If somebody gets the details of this card, they’re not going to get very far. They might enjoy a night out on the town at the dollar movie theater with a box of popcorn and a Coke if they’re lucky and I’ve paid it off recently.
Now that I’ve entered my information, I have full access. I’m being asked whether I’m looking for a man or woman, whether I’m a man or woman, the age of the person I’m interested in, and whether certain peccadilloes bother me, like smoking or being overweight.
I snort. So many choices. What the heck. I’m used to sizing a guy up with a glance and deciding whether he attracts me or not. I’m not sure there is a profile I could choose on here that would result in a list of men who’d definitely be my cup of tea. Shouldn’t personality figure in here somewhere?
I don’t know what I’m looking for other than, yes, a man. I scan my choices. Should I be a cougar? Should I look for somebody young, who wouldn’t mind playing with my kids because he’s a kid himself? That seems like a bad idea. The last thing I need is another child in my household. How about a guy my age? We could be at the same point in our lives. Maybe he’ll have kids like me. That could work. Or it could be complete and utter chaos that pushes me over the edge into insanity. Maybe I should go for an older man. A guy who’s already fixed financially. A guy who’s been there and done that, who can teach me the ways of the world. A guy who has high blood pressure and an AARP discount.
This whole process is already frustrating. I click over to the part of the site that allows me to put in my own profile, thinking maybe I’ll have more luck with that. Several boxes are presented to me, and all I have to do is click on the ones that describe me.
So far so good. I am a woman—click—and I am between thirty and thirty-five years old—click. Now the computer wants to know if I’m fit, if I’m athletic, or if I’ve gone a little soft around the middle.
Ack! This is horrible. Soft around the middle? I look down at my waist and then risk pinching the front of my belly. Egads! Soft? I might as well call myself Pudding Wexler! Why did I think this would be a good idea?
A noise in the doorway behind me makes me jump. I turn around, shocked to find Dev the giant standing there.
I speak before thinking. “I thought you’d left.”
“Oh.” He tilts his head in confusion. “Did you tell me to go? I must have missed that.”
I have to think about that for a second. “Well . . . I guess I didn’t specifically say it, but I did say that I had some work to do.” Now I feel terrible that I’m having to explain that I attempted to kick him out and he didn’t take the hint.
“Oh. Damn. Heh-heh. Awkward.” He reaches up and rubs his bald head.
“No, no, don’t worry about it.” On top of feeling bad about making him feel so embarrassed, now I’m not even sure I want him to go. “Stay if you want. Just . . . I’m . . . in the middle of something.”
He steps farther into the room. “What are you working on? Stuff for your regular job, or freelance work?”
I quickly minimize the dating site window. How embarrassing! He totally just caught me on a singles site, and I’m doing it right after having pizza with him. Will he think that he inspired this activity? I wish I were one of those turtles on Animal Planet. I’d pull my head into my shell and not come out until he was gone.
Unfortunately, I’m not a turtle and I have nowhere to go. “No. It’s neither of those things.” I want to roll my eyes up into my head at how stupid I am. I totally could’ve just lied and thrown him off the scent, and he would’ve left me alone. Now I see the light in his eyes that tells me he’s not going to just let this go.
“Why are you so embarrassed?”