A MySpace Dating Parable
By Barbara Bisset
“This is gonna be a goddamn disaster,” Terri laughed as I told her about my new MySpace dating prospect. “I don’t have a crystal ball, but let’s be honest; you, dating, how can this not be a disaster?”
I guess I should confess: I’m always in the process of finding a new disaster. Thankfully, I have friends like Terri in my life to keep me on track. (I think they’re a little glad, at times, just to have me around for the sheer entertainment value.)
It’s been years since I’ve been in the dating world, and even then I wasn’t very good at it. Guys just showed up, or maybe I just grabbed whoever was there, but somewhere in my late twenties, that unlimited selection seems to have disappeared. So I decided to give this MySpace thing a whirl, since all the kids are doing it these days.
My most recent prospect was Greg. His profile said he was 34 and 6’2” – at the top of my height range, since I’m only 5’2”. And he seemed cute according to his picture. He sent me a message noting that we both work in the banking industry and wondered where I worked. Security always being a concern, I wasn’t sure if I should tell him. I’m always trying to walk that line between careful and paranoid, but long story short, I told him. Turns out we work for the same company, but in very different areas, so our paths never crossed. A few messages later, a date was planned for the weekend.
We were supposed to talk Friday after work before finalizing a date for Saturday. My first concern was when I got the voicemail; the sound of his voice made me cringe. Literally. Have an open mind the Voice in my head told me.
Then he called back. His voice was definitely bad. There was a mild stutter, could be just nerves, with such a slow response to comments, which signified that he might be mildly retarded. Be nice. Give him a chance. But then the really absurd comments began.
“I know you love purple,” he says.
What? Now I’m concerned. “Why do you say that?”
“That purple dress you’re wearing in that picture.”
Uh-oh. The comment with that picture reads, “Me in my friend’s wedding. Who doesn’t love lavender?” Seriously, when was the last time you decided what color your own bridesmaid dress was going to be? And a guy that doesn’t get sarcasm – we’re in for trouble. Terri was right, this was going to be a goddamn disaster. He’s just trying to let you know that he’s interested. He’s trying, give him a chance.
So I kept going. I’m really trying, at least, until he says, “And I know you like Jack Johnson.”
What? Who the fuck is Jack Johnson? Luckily the two minutes I spent trying to figure it out was less time than it took him to realize I hadn’t responded yet. You may not believe what trail of logic he used to reach this conclusion, but I’ll tell you anyway.
There’s a picture of me, Terri, and a large inflatable monkey (don’t ask), which he thought was Curious George (it wasn’t). Jack Johnson, meanwhile, is the singer who wrote a song on the Curious George movie soundtrack. Even if it was Curious George, that’s a pretty big leap. Why would a picture with that cartoon monkey mean that I like a singer who wrote a song on the movie soundtrack?
Maybe he’s just a little quirky. Open mind, open mind! But even the Voice was sounding slightly panicked now. And my heart rate had increased. I was too far embedded to back out without being rude, so I set the meeting place – we had already decided on miniature golf – and got off the phone before he could go through any more of my MySpace page and make random conclusions.
I had to tell someone about this, but I was laughing so hard that when
Terri answered the phone, I couldn’t talk. Through laughter-induced tears, I tried to explain the preceding exchange. “This is going to be a goddamn disaster,” I screamed and immediately began to think of ways I could justify canceling. But by then it was too late. The date was the very next day. It was my idea to begin with, and I was a little worried what effect canceling would have on my karma.
We were set to meet at 7. Greg called me at 5 to say he couldn’t Map Quest the fucking directions. Turns out it was because he was spelling the town’s name wrong. As a seventh-grade spelling bee winner, this was almost more than I could handle. Be nice. Everyone makes mistakes. Bad spelling isn’t a deal breaker. So I just gave him the directions. As we were getting off the phone, he informed me that he’d wear a hat so I’d recognize him, but also casually mentioned that he may not need to, “since there aren’t too many 6’4” guys with a limp.”
What? 6’4”? A limp? What if he has a cane? This was not getting any better.
Open mind! Open mind! Open mind! Even the Voice was frantic by now. Everyone has bad dates. It’s only one night.
At the mini golf course, I waited for Greg. 7:05 became 7:10. How long do I stay? At 7:15 the phone rings – he got lost. Shocking. You might think he got lost finding the mini golf course, since he’d never been there. Nope. He got lost leaving the city where he lives before making it to the highway. Another good sign. And now, since he called, I definitely have to wait for him.
At that point, the Voice had lost all hope. You could just drive away and erase your MySpace account. Heart rate back up. Palms sweaty. But my questionable fear of bad karma made me stay. He showed up at 7:30 and, barely making eye contact, we walked to the course. Well, I walked. He hobbled.
“Red course or blue?” the attendant asked, adding helpfully, “Red is easier.”
“Red,” I quickly answered. I just wanted to be done with the night, even though the Voice had calmed down a little. Open mind. Open mind. You’re here now; might as well make the best of it.
Seventeen holes later (yes, there really are eighteen holes in mini golf), I had discovered no interesting information about Greg. I was a little disappointed by how uneventful this pending disaster was turning out. The conversation was awkward (though his stutter was minimal), and I thought the poor guy really should have gotten a handicap for that limp. (It’s hard to putt accurately when one leg is two inches longer than the other.) Although maybe the difference does explain why sometimes he’s 6’2” and sometimes 6’4”.
On the 18th hole, Greg confessed to me that he was “still upset with his dad.”
What? Where did that come from? “Why are you upset with him?” I asked. Did I just zone out? Should I know what he’s talking about? Should I be asking this question?
“Because he made me a boy and now I can’t have kids.”
What? Whoa! Something had gone terribly wrong.
The Voice went from relative calm to a panic. Get out! Run! Don’t look back! I’m not sure I wanted to know any more, but I couldn’t resist. “I don’t think your dad really had much control over that.”
“I think he did.”
“What, he just wished hard enough for a boy?”
“I don’t know. But now I can’t have kids unless I want to adopt. Although, there was some experiment in Germany …”
Okay, I’m no doctor, but I think there’s some option in between adopting kids and partaking in some bizarre German experiment where men actually carry a baby in their abdomen. I do know one thing, this story ain’t getting you laid anytime soon, buddy.
I did the only thing I could and changed the subject. Thankfully, the game was done at this point and I high-tailed it back to my car.
“Well, thanks. You can maybe send me a message sometime.” Except I’m deleting you from my friends list the minute I get home. We shook hands and I drove off into the sunset, looking occasionally in the rearview mirror to make sure I wasn’t being followed.
I can’t help feeling like I dodged a bullet. I haven’t heard from Greg since the date, and I’m not expecting a call. Only an hour of my life had gone by and I got an interesting story to tell.
But it did give me a new life policy. From now on, I don’t set up dates before I actually talk to a guy. And I think that really poor spelling is officially a deal breaker. I hope I’m not cutting off opportunities with that, but frankly, that’s fine with me if it means avoiding another awkward experience like that.
The good news is that there are still many more MySpace guys just waiting for my message. Good luck guys, I can’t promise it won’t be a disaster but I’ll try to keep an open mind. Unless of course, you can’t spell, walk with a limp, or the sound of your voice makes me cringe. And especially if you’re upset with your father for not making you a girl.
“This is gonna be a goddamn disaster,” Terri laughed as I told her about my new MySpace dating prospect. “I don’t have a crystal ball, but let’s be honest; you, dating, how can this not be a disaster?”
I guess I should confess: I’m always in the process of finding a new disaster. Thankfully, I have friends like Terri in my life to keep me on track. (I think they’re a little glad, at times, just to have me around for the sheer entertainment value.)
It’s been years since I’ve been in the dating world, and even then I wasn’t very good at it. Guys just showed up, or maybe I just grabbed whoever was there, but somewhere in my late twenties, that unlimited selection seems to have disappeared. So I decided to give this MySpace thing a whirl, since all the kids are doing it these days.
My most recent prospect was Greg. His profile said he was 34 and 6’2” – at the top of my height range, since I’m only 5’2”. And he seemed cute according to his picture. He sent me a message noting that we both work in the banking industry and wondered where I worked. Security always being a concern, I wasn’t sure if I should tell him. I’m always trying to walk that line between careful and paranoid, but long story short, I told him. Turns out we work for the same company, but in very different areas, so our paths never crossed. A few messages later, a date was planned for the weekend.
We were supposed to talk Friday after work before finalizing a date for Saturday. My first concern was when I got the voicemail; the sound of his voice made me cringe. Literally. Have an open mind the Voice in my head told me.
Then he called back. His voice was definitely bad. There was a mild stutter, could be just nerves, with such a slow response to comments, which signified that he might be mildly retarded. Be nice. Give him a chance. But then the really absurd comments began.
“I know you love purple,” he says.
What? Now I’m concerned. “Why do you say that?”
“That purple dress you’re wearing in that picture.”
Uh-oh. The comment with that picture reads, “Me in my friend’s wedding. Who doesn’t love lavender?” Seriously, when was the last time you decided what color your own bridesmaid dress was going to be? And a guy that doesn’t get sarcasm – we’re in for trouble. Terri was right, this was going to be a goddamn disaster. He’s just trying to let you know that he’s interested. He’s trying, give him a chance.
So I kept going. I’m really trying, at least, until he says, “And I know you like Jack Johnson.”
What? Who the fuck is Jack Johnson? Luckily the two minutes I spent trying to figure it out was less time than it took him to realize I hadn’t responded yet. You may not believe what trail of logic he used to reach this conclusion, but I’ll tell you anyway.
There’s a picture of me, Terri, and a large inflatable monkey (don’t ask), which he thought was Curious George (it wasn’t). Jack Johnson, meanwhile, is the singer who wrote a song on the Curious George movie soundtrack. Even if it was Curious George, that’s a pretty big leap. Why would a picture with that cartoon monkey mean that I like a singer who wrote a song on the movie soundtrack?
Maybe he’s just a little quirky. Open mind, open mind! But even the Voice was sounding slightly panicked now. And my heart rate had increased. I was too far embedded to back out without being rude, so I set the meeting place – we had already decided on miniature golf – and got off the phone before he could go through any more of my MySpace page and make random conclusions.
I had to tell someone about this, but I was laughing so hard that when
Terri answered the phone, I couldn’t talk. Through laughter-induced tears, I tried to explain the preceding exchange. “This is going to be a goddamn disaster,” I screamed and immediately began to think of ways I could justify canceling. But by then it was too late. The date was the very next day. It was my idea to begin with, and I was a little worried what effect canceling would have on my karma.We were set to meet at 7. Greg called me at 5 to say he couldn’t Map Quest the fucking directions. Turns out it was because he was spelling the town’s name wrong. As a seventh-grade spelling bee winner, this was almost more than I could handle. Be nice. Everyone makes mistakes. Bad spelling isn’t a deal breaker. So I just gave him the directions. As we were getting off the phone, he informed me that he’d wear a hat so I’d recognize him, but also casually mentioned that he may not need to, “since there aren’t too many 6’4” guys with a limp.”
What? 6’4”? A limp? What if he has a cane? This was not getting any better.
Open mind! Open mind! Open mind! Even the Voice was frantic by now. Everyone has bad dates. It’s only one night.
At the mini golf course, I waited for Greg. 7:05 became 7:10. How long do I stay? At 7:15 the phone rings – he got lost. Shocking. You might think he got lost finding the mini golf course, since he’d never been there. Nope. He got lost leaving the city where he lives before making it to the highway. Another good sign. And now, since he called, I definitely have to wait for him.
At that point, the Voice had lost all hope. You could just drive away and erase your MySpace account. Heart rate back up. Palms sweaty. But my questionable fear of bad karma made me stay. He showed up at 7:30 and, barely making eye contact, we walked to the course. Well, I walked. He hobbled.
“Red course or blue?” the attendant asked, adding helpfully, “Red is easier.”
“Red,” I quickly answered. I just wanted to be done with the night, even though the Voice had calmed down a little. Open mind. Open mind. You’re here now; might as well make the best of it.
Seventeen holes later (yes, there really are eighteen holes in mini golf), I had discovered no interesting information about Greg. I was a little disappointed by how uneventful this pending disaster was turning out. The conversation was awkward (though his stutter was minimal), and I thought the poor guy really should have gotten a handicap for that limp. (It’s hard to putt accurately when one leg is two inches longer than the other.) Although maybe the difference does explain why sometimes he’s 6’2” and sometimes 6’4”.
On the 18th hole, Greg confessed to me that he was “still upset with his dad.”
What? Where did that come from? “Why are you upset with him?” I asked. Did I just zone out? Should I know what he’s talking about? Should I be asking this question?
“Because he made me a boy and now I can’t have kids.”
What? Whoa! Something had gone terribly wrong.
The Voice went from relative calm to a panic. Get out! Run! Don’t look back! I’m not sure I wanted to know any more, but I couldn’t resist. “I don’t think your dad really had much control over that.”
“I think he did.”
“What, he just wished hard enough for a boy?”
“I don’t know. But now I can’t have kids unless I want to adopt. Although, there was some experiment in Germany …”
Okay, I’m no doctor, but I think there’s some option in between adopting kids and partaking in some bizarre German experiment where men actually carry a baby in their abdomen. I do know one thing, this story ain’t getting you laid anytime soon, buddy.
I did the only thing I could and changed the subject. Thankfully, the game was done at this point and I high-tailed it back to my car.
“Well, thanks. You can maybe send me a message sometime.” Except I’m deleting you from my friends list the minute I get home. We shook hands and I drove off into the sunset, looking occasionally in the rearview mirror to make sure I wasn’t being followed.
I can’t help feeling like I dodged a bullet. I haven’t heard from Greg since the date, and I’m not expecting a call. Only an hour of my life had gone by and I got an interesting story to tell.
But it did give me a new life policy. From now on, I don’t set up dates before I actually talk to a guy. And I think that really poor spelling is officially a deal breaker. I hope I’m not cutting off opportunities with that, but frankly, that’s fine with me if it means avoiding another awkward experience like that.The good news is that there are still many more MySpace guys just waiting for my message. Good luck guys, I can’t promise it won’t be a disaster but I’ll try to keep an open mind. Unless of course, you can’t spell, walk with a limp, or the sound of your voice makes me cringe. And especially if you’re upset with your father for not making you a girl.
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