Adventures In Mid-Life Dating, Part 1: I Wish I Was A Lesbian
Q: What do lesbians do on the second date?
A: Rent a U-Haul!
This is the first of what will probably be an ongoing series on....how the human race is doomed :)
I detailed in my previous post about men who self-select out of the pool on a dating site like Spinal Tap (my fictitious name for a real online dating service) by not filling out the profile information.
Women find this incredibly important, but men rely on their insane hotness to sell us on why we should encourage what amounts to a total stranger walking up to us and saying, “So, want to go out for coffee?”
“Go ahead, ask me anything!”
I mean, even if you’ve got sex appeal that could stop a speeding train, smart women will still want to know more about you than how you look in a shirt. Or even worse, as a shirtless headless torso.
For a well-written explanation as to why men have a near-zero chance of scoring a strange woman they approach in public, unless she’s the sort that wants to wind up as the lead story on Channel Four tonight as a missing person, please read Schrodinger’s Rapist by romance novelist Phaedra Starling.
In a nutshell, a stranger could be dangerous, or at the very least a huge pain in the ass to deal with, so remember this before you approach a woman on the subway platform and start in with the you’re-so-beautiful stuff. Or if you do, have your brief biography and background criminal check in hand. She’ll need something to read on the way home anyway.
So as part of my ever-evolving dating strategy based on tech sales methodology, I did some more research. In marketing parlance it would be called ‘competitor research’, but I don’t actually regard other women as competition. It’s because I’m so insanely hot!!! Ha ha, just kidding. I was just looking for good ideas I could incorporate into my own profile and message.
What were my sisters in singlehood doing? I changed my search criteria to Men Looking For Women.
These chicks were hot!
Every single one of the dozen or so results were of good-looking women from 35-60. Okay, I expected the younger ones to be babes but I figured there’d be more mixed results for the older ones. There were none. These babes were bitchin’!
What a contrast to the middle-aged men’s photos - out-of-focus, schlumpy, badly-dressed, and often scowling or unsmiling. I sift through, knowing looks aren’t everything and in all honesty, I really am more interested in how closely we match. There was a new one this week, an actual good-looking guy, 57 years old. Unfortunately, he looked like a total wanker. His shirtless torso was at least not headless but he was looking for someone who was as much of a gym rat as he and he was doing one of those Hercules poses that looked like he was about to kiss his own bicep.
Just one more reason to not regard these women as my competition. They’re way too bitchin’ for most of these bozos. Well, maybe not Hercules. But they can have him.
I’m looking more for a Barnes & Noble kind of guy than Gold’s Gym.
Not only did the women look attractive, happy, confident, and fun, but they all had profiles. Fun profiles. Women have apparently learned to write them better since I last performed this exercise fifteen years ago.
I scrolled through their other photos and not only were they great pics but they had funny, clever captions. Cadge that idea! The profiles were specific about what they were looking for in a man without sounding psycho or desperate or damaged, like with a long list about what they want and a longer one on they don’t want, based on their own past bad decisions.
And that’s when I thought, Damn, I wish I was a lesbian! It would be a veritable smorgasbord of hot, alive, fun babes. While I didn’t actually want to date these women, I wanted to be friends with all of them. They just looked so cool.
<Sigh> Back to the men.
hopes her photos are just as bitchin’ on Spinal Tap, and even if
they aren’t, they’ve got better captions now. She researched the
biochemical process of falling in love this past weekend so she’d
know it when it happened and wouldn’t mistake it for, say, a case
of acid reflux. She lives and works in Toronto from her artist’s
hovel in the sky when she’s not bitching about the weather.