Date 28: Tinder Mason

Tinder Mason requested my friendship on Facebook. I accepted, assuming he was one of the many men I had met at our mutual friend's recent birthday.

That assumption was incorrect.

He was unsure as to whether or not I would give him the ol' right swipe on Tinder, so he cut the line. Conniving. I'm not sure how I feel about this.

...this is a real conversation? No, I do not want to watch something before I crash. I choose to forgo a reply.

"I'll make it for u one day." UGH. THE CHEESE. The whole planning for the future before we've even met thing is so transparent slash nauseating. Also, 'u' is not a word.

"I have already eaten. As you can see." Right. I gathered as much. Thank you so much for the reminder. STABBYSTABSTAB.

This entire conversation is making me want to die, so I go to Yogurtland to suffocate my troubles with bizarrely accurate artificial flavors. The conversation unfortunately continues en route.

Am I really going on this date?

RULE #4: SAY YES TO SOMEONE WHO IS TERRIBLE AT COMMUNICATING VIA THE WRITTEN WORD

I had crafted this rule with grammar in mind, but I suppose douchebaggery counts as well.

Also:
RULE #5: SAY YES TO SOMEONE WHO IS 39 OR OLDER

Cutting it close on getting this one in.

Old man creepy douchebag, here I come! There is not not enough cookie dough in this toppings bar to quell my anxiety.

As he continues an inane one-sided chat right up to our date, I begin to gather that he thinks he's much more charming than I think he is. This should go smashingly.

Spoiler alert: It doesn't.

From intro to exit, every word out of his mouth is laced with condescension.

I inquire about his work, his family, his hopes and dreams - searching, nay, BEGGING, for one nugget of earnest decency. Fruitless.

I finally realize what this is. He's that guy. That stereotypical LA guy on Tinder. Get in, get buzzed, get out, get busy. Gross. This is the worst.

When he has tired of picking apart my every word and attacking my idealism, TM heads to the bathroom. I brace myself for his return. The bartender cringes in commiseration. He's been privy to a few of my less memorable dates, thanks to the Duplex's close proximity to my home. Really digging our rapport.

TM's return is delayed as he pauses to lay it on thick to some girl at the other end of the bar. I might vomit. How did I end up here?

I prepare for a quick exit. TM is completely amenable. We walk outside.

TM: See you on Facebook.

At least we're both on the same page - er, newsfeed - here? Stomach. Churn. He heads back in, presumably to track down his post-washroom prey.

I trudge home, inexplicably upset by the date. On one hand, I am so happy this disaster came at the end of my experiment. On the other hand, I am so disgusted and disheartened. After such a good run of genuinely nice guys, I had almost forgotten about the other shoe. Thanks for dropping that fungal reminder, Tinder Mason.

I call my best friend to cry out my general disappointment in boykind. Can I stop dating now please thanks.

*Not his real name

​Date 27: eHarmony Gabe

Day 3: 
eHarmony Gabe: Hi, it's Gabe from eHarmony. How is your week going? Hopefully not too crazy.

Day 24: 
eHG: What does your Wednesday look like?

...It took us awhile to get here. (Turns out scheduling thirty dates in thirty days is every bit as onerous as it sounds like it would be.)

Me: Wednesday's pretty open ☺

eHG: Can you do lunch on Wed. Or would later work better.

Me: Lunch is perfect.

THANK GOD. This means I'll get an entire night to myself. Oh happiest of happy days. (So few men seemed to be up for afternoon adventures during this experiment. I'm guessing that was largely related to their desire for a cocktail-fueled meet and greet. Either that or they have real jobs to attend to during the afternoon. But this is L.A., so I'm going to go with number one.)

eHG: Let's say Literati Café on Wilshire at 1. I think that's sort of close to you, and it gives me a good reason to leave the valley ☺

eHG: Oh and I just realized my beard is pretty full right now compared to the pictures on eh. Grew it out for a costume party.

Part of me wants to tell him that's a total deal-breaker/the date's off just to f*ck with him, but I (grudgingly) restrain myself.

Come Wednesday, I'm a little nonplussed at the idea of driving out to the Westside for lunch with a stranger, but I'd like to get my eHarmony numbers up, and lunch with a seemingly kind soul seems like a very non-threatening way to accomplish that goal.

eHarmony Gabe's soul is every bit as kind as I had anticipated. There is also every bit as much chemistry between the two of us as I had anticipated -- er, every bit as little? There is zero chemistry. Just zero.

When eHG ducks into the restaurant to place our orders, I check my phone for messages. When he returns, he asks how many questions I have conjured up for him.

...

Oh, right. I was supposed to be thinking about you. (The novelty of the first date as a concept has definitely started to wane at this point.)

...

eHG shares some personal tales from the Internet dating world, and my oh my does he have some doozies. Apparently, I've been lucky to encounter a generally sane lot of suitors. His gold medal winner is a woman who threatened to pull a gun on him, out of nowhere, as they sat on the couch in her home. On their third date. Welp. I'll never feel safe on one of these suckers again.

We somehow manage to stretch our meal over two hours. He says he'll take that as a good sign; I don't have the heart to tell him that I'm sort of just a really good (read: excessive) talker sometimes.

Somewhere along the way, the topic of post-date etiquette is broached.

eHG: I think, in this day and age, if you don't get a reply to a text message, it's safe to assume the other person isn't interested. No harm, no foul.

Excellent. Duly noted. eHG texts the next day, inviting me to the Sunday night Kings game. I uh... don't reply. There goes that whole being a grown-up thing.

I do definitely appreciate the sentiment though, and sort of wish I could like one of these really, really, really nice guys. If they were just a little more confident. A lot more confident. And witty. Just a lot more confidence and wit.

RULE #6: NO BAILING ON A DATE OR A GUY UNLESS THERE IS A REALLY, REALLY, REALLY GOOD REASON.

ZERO CONFIDENCE AND NEGATIVE WIT IS A REALLY, REALLY, REALLY GOOD REASON.

...

I don't have to explain myself to you?

*Not his real name
**As handy/painless as this non-confrontational brush-off seems, it can also be the worst thing ever. Like when your BlackBerry decides to malfunction just two weeks into a new fling and you have no idea if he's been replying to your text messages/you haven't received said replies or if he's just attempting to Irish-exit on the whole dating situation. But that's a purely hypothetical story for another post. Seriously. Totes hypothetical. And it definitely didn't end with me coming off like a stage-five clinger. *hypotheticalfacepalm*

Date 18: Tinder Blake

Good-looking guy from Calabasas. Friends with some of my closest USC buddies. Right-swipe. Immediate match. Immediate hello. We've barely exchanged Konnichiwas when Tinder Blake asks if we can switch to text, as he is mere moments from deleting his Tinder account. Feeling really special to be his last hurrah?

I give him my number on a Monday. He waits until Friday to text. How underwhelming. We chat about my week, his dogs, recreational water activities in general, the usual. Sunday evening, he checks in for the actual date-making.

TB: Hey! Good weekend?
Me: Hi! It's been great. How'd yours end up?
TB: Good thanks! If you want to grab drinks this week lmk.
Me: This week's a little crazy, but maybe over the weekend or early next week?
TB: Ya let's do next week. Tuesday!

Friday he asks about my weekend plans. I answer. I ask about his weekend plans.

...

No answer.

His silence rings like a procedural sound check. Courting by numbers over there, TB?

Monday we set up the whens and wheres for Tuesday. Tuesday I reschedule to Wednesday.

Shuffle shuffle. Shuffle shuffle.

Our date eventually happens over beer and wine at 3rd Stop. He is very attractive and very my type, aesthetically speaking. Conversation is easy, if not remarkably simple. "Let's start from the beginning." Seriously, though -- what handbook are you reading from, TB?

His friends are having a joint bachelor-bachelorette party that weekend, complete with matching T's. He's less than excited about it. What he is excited about is the@abikiniaday Instagram he recently discovered. I get to see pictures. Somehow, we manage to keep this conversation going for two and a half hours, at which point my brain gives up. In the midst of answering one of his standardized questions, my train of thought completely derails.

Me: Wait. I have no idea where I was going with this.
TB: It doesn't matter. Should we head out?

Yes we should. But also... it doesn't matter? How... abrupt.

TB: We should do this again.
Me: Yeah, that'd be fun.

Should we? Would it? Did that go well? Why do I feel so off-kilter?

The next day...

TB: Had fun last night. I look forward to my blog article.**

Welp. Here it is!

(In case you're wondering how this one ends -- he texts through the weekend... and then I never hear from him again. Guess I'll have to find someone new to chat with about my new favorite Insta account.)

*Not his real name
**The guys did not know I was doing this as part of a social experiment, but I did tell them that I have a blog where I often dissect my dating experiences. You know, for like a sort of heads up and stuff without completely coloring the whole thing.

Date 15: eHarmony Andrew

eHarmony Andrew* suggests we start our second date by watching the Nebraska game at Q's Billiard Club. The only downside is the 9a kickoff time.

8:45 comes very early, but eHA swoops me up in all my yawning glory, smile on his face and black tea in hand.

eHA: Outside when you're ready.

Mirth n' cheer, caffeine and zero pressure. He gets me.

We claim a couple stools amongst fellow Cornhuskers, get our hands on a couple Bloody Mary's, and have ourselves a couple-a good ol' times watching UNL win. Somewhere in the middle of the cheering and nail-biting, a decently deep conversation transpires. Hopes, dreams, dangerously boring hobbies -- nothing's off the table.

Victory secured, we hop in eHA's Jeep for a sun-kissed ride into Malibu. His roadtrip-ready soundtrack spurs a musical gabfest and the promise of shared Spotify playlists. I feel like I'm getting little life gifts from every date -- and I really love gifts.

We make our way through the back roads to a rustic, Western-inspired restaurant called the Old Place that is 100 percent charming. Wine, apple crumble, a guitar player in the corner strumming serenades. At one point, a motorcyclist powers through the front door, pulls a harmonica out of his pocket, and joins the guitarist for a delicate duet.

Standout second date, eHA. Job well done.

Since I'm still working on that whole growth and self-improvement thing, I make note of everything about eHarmony Andrew that bothers me. He's a loud talker, an over-explainer, a bit stodgy...but then he stodgily buys a round for the impromptu musical duo, with such a zest for life, and it's just so...endearing. Really loving his love for everything. And his impeccable manners. Such a sucker for old-school etiquette.

Valerie June and Townes van Zandt take us back to my place in a pleasant groove. eHA walks me to my door like the gentleman he is, and I immediately fall into bed. Is it really only 4 'o clock?

*not his real name

Date 14: Tinder James

Second date with Tinder James*! Notchy notch notch. Er - notchy notch. It took a lot of effort to get here.

Our first date occurred on a Friday night. We texted all weekend and made theoretical plans to hang out again the following week.

TJ: If you're not to (sic) busy this week would you want to get together again?
Me: Yeah, that would be fun ☺

I don't hear from him again for another week. 

TJ: Hey, sorry I had a crazy week and yesterday I had a housewarming party. How are you?

Thanks for all that extra information?

Me: No worries! I'm good - just heading back from the fair ☺
TJ: Cool. What do you have going on tonight?
Me: I'm actually heading to a concert in a bit. What about you?
TJ: Cool. I'm grilling at a friend's. Was going to see if you wanted to join. What's the rest of your week looking like?

Ah, now the over-explanations make sense. Nothing like a last minute cuddle request. 

Me: Beginning of the week's a bit of a disaster, but it clears up around Thursday.
TJ: Sounds good.

Sounds good? What does that even mean.

I don't hear from TJ again until Wednesday night, at which point we solidify plans for Thursday night. Another round of cocktails, this time at Blind Barber. TJ's lack of effort is really entertaining. And by entertaining, I mean I would have disappeared about seven text messages ago if it weren't for this experiment.

Night of, I'm running about nine minutes behind, and he's already calling to find out where I am. I thought under-ten was still in the safe zone? He's standing outside the bar waiting for me when I arrive. We grab a table inside, and appraise our surroundings. Meh. Ho-kay, conversation it is. The conversation proves to be equally meh - TJ still speaks at a shockingly quiet decibel and hears nothing. Just as I'm about to give up on the whole thing, he dishes out a nugget of sarcasm/personality.  This guy's definitely more of a closer than an opening act. And close he does.

One second we're walking me to my car and the next we're making out on the street. The kid's good. He then grabs my hand and walks me toward...his car? What are we going to do - go to his place? Make out in the car again? His tiny BMW convertible hardly seems conducive to that sort of activity. Instead of actually using my words, I just trail along complacently, keeping my anxious thoughts to myself. 

Perched on the edge of the passenger's seat, sans seatbelt, I'm clearly waiting for quiet little mystery man to reveal our plan. Don't worry, I'm just a mere follower on this road to paradise?

TJ: Are you coming to my place with me?

Sardonic discomfort plasters itself all over my face.

Me: Uhhm. Maybe? I uh - um, I need to read the street sign.

RKL@SJX$FKD. Can someone please point me in the way of my comfort zone?

He drives us over to where my car is parked to check the rules and regulations. No parking between 4a and 7a. There is an actual, outward sigh of relief from my side of the vehicle. It's so nice when the city of LA takes the lead on your life decisions. 

Me: (halfheartedly) Damn Los Angeles. 
TJ: I can drive you back before 4.

It's currently 1am. Yeah, I'm just gonna go ahead and say no to the whole South Bay quickie on a Thursday night situation. But thank you so much for your kindness and generosity.

Fast-forward twenty minutes, and I'm exiting the miniature vehicle with mussed-up buttons and a slow-forming knee bruise. Really should have gotten this kind of thing out of my system in high school, when I was at least half an inch shorter and guys were driving, like, their parents' minivans and stuff. 

*not his real name

Date 9: Tinder Oliver

My second date with Tinder Oliver.  Our first had been a lovely evening of drinks at Chateau Marmont just four days prior. Four days in which I managed to go on five more dates with five other men. I have never been so tired of talking about myself. 

Despite my exhaustion, I am quite excited for the evening at hand -- an Arctic Monkeys concert at the Wiltern. TO knows I spent the afternoon at the fair, though he doesn't know it was a date. Somehow I felt like that might have been a bit of an overshare. 

TO: I hope you are eating weird fried things. Set time is 945. Want to meet for a drink beforehand? 830ish?

Perfect. I proceed to pass out on my newly acquired, enormous stuffed Nemo for an hour before pulling myself together. 

I'm strangely nervous as I tip-toe into the Beer Belly, meekly joining Tinder Oliver at the bar. He's got a great rapport going with the bartender, which I take as a good sign, personality-wise. We chat the fair, Breaking Bad, and music, with me stumbling over every third word and confusing half my facts. Pretty sure this experiment is destroying brain cells by the thousands. 

Seemingly unfazed by my flounder, Tinder Oliver gathers my splintered proclamations in one kindly swoop after another, adding his own intriguing insights to the heap.  How gentlemanly.  

We trek over to the Wiltern, grab a couple cocktails, and settle into our seats for a delightful show -- bras thrown onstage, half-naked streakers and the like. I take this time to showcase a few of my Taylor Swift-approved, shoulder-heavy dance moves. TO pretends to be amused, which I decide to take as another good sign.

Post-concert, we slip into a dive bar, where I insist upon a mini darts competition. TO warns against this move, as the game of darts just so happens to be his special secret talent.

TO:  Choosing a different form of competition will be much more fruitful, I assure you.

...

I throw some cash on the counter.

I lose. We keep playing until I lose less badly.

Our fellow patrons are a touch rough and tumble, but remarkably welcoming. One man requests a photo with me. Another attempts to hop in our game while Tinder Oliver is in the restroom. A third won't quit asking how tall I am. Seriously, won't quit. 

Irritated and tipsy-verging-on-tipped, I turn to him: 

Me: Do you know how tall you are?

He nods. 

Me: Then don't you think you could make an estimated guess?

...
...
...

In my head, I started with 'estimate it' but then switched to 'educated guess', and I ended up lost somewhere in the middle. Grool. Tinder Oliver gently cups my face in his hands, laughing while correcting me. Great. Now he thinks I'm an idiot.  

Five minutes later, he's making out with my face. Guess that dumb girl act really does work? Also, why do I get the distinct feeling that he feels like we're slumming it.

We continue this act out  by my car with a lovely little eighties style, hand-in-the-back-pocket makeout sesh next to the meter. Because everything I know about dating, I learned from a Calvin Klein ad. 

TO had taken the Metro there, so I give him a ride home. Downtown. When I live in Beverly Hills. I really have lost my mind. This is where things start to unravel, courtesy of my Spotify starred list. Any façade of cool I had manufactured vanished the second Jennifer Paige's voice came blasting out of my speakers. Followed by a who's who list of late nineties one (barely) hit wonders. 

TO: Seriously. WHO are these people?

...

As I pull up to his place, I secretly wonder if he's going to invite me in - not that I would accept if he did (Hi, Mom). Just, you know, curiosity. 

He doesn't. 

Note to self: Hold off on the Spotify shares until at least the third date.

*Not his real name

Date 7: Tinder Edward

Tinder Edward, 3:50p: Hey it’s Edward. So, I just bought a house today and I have been sent a million things that need to be done by tomorrow. Can we reschedule? Sat or tue?

God, I hate when that happens. I was slightly annoyed – 3:50p on the day of? Really? I’m trying to squeeze in 30 dates over here. I was also slightly relieved. I may or may not have been dying for a night off.  I take him down off the hook and switch the date to Saturday.  Saturday between my 1p coffee date and my friend’s 9p birthday party, to be exact.

He texts me a photo of his mangled leg that evening, stating that he should have skipped his soccer game and gone out with me. I thought you were busy with brand-new-house things? I am both confused and underwhelmed, and reply in kind:

Me, 11:36p: Ouch.

Two days later, we meet at 6p at Duplex on Third. Love a date within walking distance.

He’s a little rough around the edges, but attractive. Add one Australian accent to two Tito’s sodas, and drinks quickly turn into dinner. We do our very best to out-charm and over-friendly one another, but tragically remain a Bunsen burner short of any chemical reaction.

His next stop is a boys’ night at No Vacancy – the exact location of my girl’s shindig. I return from the restroom to catch him texting as much to one of his buddies. We make theoretical plans to bump into each other there.

Fast-forward to later in the evening when I think I see Tinder Edward across the room, but I’ve already spotted a starving artist in the corner with my name on it. (So refreshing to have a bit of real-world serendipity come into play!)

Don’t stop believing?

Date 6: Tinder Lucas

I wake up exhausted from the prior day’s double-header of dates and sigh grudgingly at the thought of doing it all over again.

Dark circles under my eyes. Excessively large pores. Super excessive bloating from carbs and liquor. I better lock one of these guys down quick before this experiment wipes out my aesthetic value.

Today’s schedule:

9a: Wake up, breakfast, etc.

10a: Check messages/reply – all sites (This step always includes a brief meditation period prior to delving in. And by meditation period, I mean several deep, measured breaths accompanied by a full body cringe or twelve.)

11a: Find ­SOMEONE on eHarms. A N Y O N E. (I like to think of this one as less desperation and more…opening myself up to new possibilities. The 5’ 11” and over crowd has proven to be quite sparse on eHarmony and most of my suggested matches are distressingly pale. Our children would never stand a chance against the sun.)

11:45a: Update pics on JDate. (The only chosen people choosing me thus far are around 5’ 4” and seem to speak solely in Hebrew characters – a joke that does, shockingly enough, get old. I mean, it’s hard enough figuring out what guys are trying to say using the English alphabet.)

12p: Read Lucas chats/walk to Le Pain. (After that mutual friend gaffe on my first Tinder date, I’ve taken to reviewing all correspondence prior to each meet ‘n’ greet.)

3p: Recap, etc.

4p: Workout/or nap. (Let’s be honest, we all know how this one ends. I am going to be so out of shape at the end of this month.)

6p: Refresh on Tinder Edward/Walk to Duplex.

9p: No Vacancy for A’s birthday.

This is going to be the longest day ever.

The Scene: Le Pain Quotidien’s outdoor patio. I’m about to enter into a coffee date with TINDER LUCAS*.

I’m casually strolling up to the restaurant, jamming out to something embarrassing on Spotify, when I spot him. Holy sh*t. You gotta be...kidding me. This dude’s hot. Those Tinder pics did him not one iota of justice.

Great, now I’m, like, nervous and stuff. And this stupid idiotic grin-smirk won’t remove itself from my face. Please Lord let me be cool.

TL stands as I stumble toward the two-top.

TL: Stacie?

Of course he has an accent. I nod a little too eagerly. Seriously -- calm yourself, woman.

TL: (In an almost comically soothing tone/cadence) Wow, you’re beautiful.

Is this real life right now?

Me: Ha. You’re one to talk. Did you, like, hire that halo of light to follow you around all day?

TL: (Amused eyebrow raise. Piercing stare.) I don’t like leaving things to chance.

Gulp.

Me: I totally know what you mean. Huge fan of making my own luck. You know, bare hands, dirt, knives, the whole frontier kind of thing.

Please stop talking.

TL: (Two amused eyebrows raised. Piercing stare has become almost penetrating.) I don’t know too much about the frontier, but I do believe in creating your own future – and I’m not afraid to use my hands.

I’m sure you’re not. I feel myself flushing. Everywhere. Where’s that waitress? Can a girl get an iced tea up in here?

...

Me: So, how ‘bout those Knicks?

(Yes, it is sometimes hard to have this much game.)

TL: (Laughs and suddenly seems to get a little shy.) So, uh, I know this is a little strange, but I feel like I should get this out right at the start. I haven’t been completely honest with you.

Welp, that was quick. This is real life.

TL: My name isn’t really Lucas.

That's...not what I was expecting.

Me: It’s about to get really weird, isn’t it.

TL: Ha it’s not that weird, I promise. Well, it’s a little weird. Basically, I just – well, not just – but earlier last year, I ended a really long relationship. And my ex’s friends are still my friends on Facebook, and they can be pretty ruthless. So I didn’t want them coming across my name on Tinder and having it get back to my ex. So, I created a fake profile and linked it to that. My real name is actually George.

Hesitantly detailed in that delicate European accent of his, this is, somehow, the most adorable story ever. We can get around to color-sorting flags a bit later on.

Turns out, TL is more than just a man of many names (and presumably stellar abs) – he’s also a man of multiple occupations. The first of which is professional triathlete. (Swoon.) He generally doesn’t drink due to training requirements, but thanks to a recent Achilles injury, he’s down to hop off the wagon for our next date. (Yes, please!) The second through eighteenth or so of his occupations are of a more entrepreneurial nature. He’s a little vague on the nitty-gritties, but I’m pretty sure they sound legitimate. And I’m one hundred percent sure he sounds passionate about them. Hearing so much passion.

The old me might have balked at the quiet demeanor and Euro-ish qualities, but this is a new Stacie. A new, open-minded, lookin’-a-little-deeper Stacie. And today I’m stepping out of my comfort zone and into a pair of perfectly toned arms. (You know, for, like, a super sincere, post-date hug.)

I think this is what they call a moment of growth?

* Not his real name.

Date 2: OkCupid Taylor

Some things you can never unsee. For me, most of those things have come courtesy of OkCupid. Smarmy pick-up lines, over-sexual innuendo, offensively poor grammar – you name the Creep tactic, I’ve shuddered tigerishly at it. And I’ve only been on this thing for a week. So when my eyes finally land on a normal, “Hi Stacie, How’s your day going?” I write back with almost gleeful abandon. Meaning, I babble nonsensically for about five lines too many.

Fortunately, OkCupid Taylor seems to take my nerdish excitement in stride, countering with all the typical get-to-know-you questions.

I try my best to scare him off, mentioning red flag modeling years, waxing poetic on the merits of green juice, and linking him to my blog.

Man, can nothing deter this guy? According to OkCupid founder, Christian Rudder, interactions that exceed four messages are likely headed straight to the friend zone, and OkC T and I are capping off at a hearty fourteen, but I’m willing to play through to see if we can prove him wrong. Dinner it is!

OkCupid Taylor offers to make the drive up from Sunset Beach for a mid-week meal at Sugarfish in Beverly Hills. I graciously accept. Being a girl definitely has its perks when it comes to the logistical side of dating.

With everyone presenting the best version of themselves online, I find myself unconsciously building these guys up in my head before we meet. Walking over to the restaurant, I realize I’ve got OkC T pegged as tall, witty, charming, sweet – and a perfect match in the chemistry department. But, you know, my expectations are totally, reasonably low.

He meets me outside, thankfully alleviating that whole, hi-I'm-here-to-meet-a-stranger-like-a-high-class-hooker hostess stand situation, and we cozy up to the bar for a plateful of sushi and a couple shots of sake.

OkC T is tall, witty, charming, and sweet – the chemistry is questionable. Maybe Rudder was onto something with his BFF metrics.

Conversation is easy and entertaining. OkC T works in the superfoods industry, but doesn't believe in superfoods. I proceed to make him tell me all about his company, attempting to discern the exact number of dates it will take for me to qualify for the friends and family discount. Because I definitely believe in superfoods. He does offer to send me the files for the complementary P90x workout regimen. I choose to not take that as a hint.

Post-dinner, OkC T insists on walking me home. This is where things start to get weird. I live close, but not that close. I just happen to be one of approximately three LA residents** who actually enjoy a pedestrian lifestyle. He pauses every few blocks thinking this is finally going to be the one we turn at.

Me: Oh no, just a little up this way still. You really don’t have to walk me the whole way.
OkC T: No, are you kidding? I’m having a great time. It’s such a nice night for a walk.

(Repeat six times.)

Finally outside my building, we chat awkwardly for a bit, with him standing just a touch too close. Are we just talking here, or are you working up the nerve to kiss me? He reaches for my hand. Uh, ok, we can do the whole romantical thing, I guess. Oh, nope. Nevermind. Going for the BlackBerry. Right.

OkC T: How does this thing even work?
Me: You just swipe up!

I demonstrate on the phone he’s now holding in his hand. The screen glows out with messages from Tinder Brandon, OkCupid Kevin, and eHarmony James. Welp.

…

We hug it out goodbye.

He walks back to his car. Alone.

Two dates in, two decent guys. Maybe this online dating thing isn’t so bad after all!

Then again, maybe it is.

Tone-Deaf on eHarmony

Me: (In a whining sigh.) Hi.

Boy BFF: Hey, what's up. Everything alright?

Me: (Still whining. Still sighing.) I don't want to do this anymore.

BBFF: What are we talking about here.

Me: ONLINE DATING.

BBFF: Ahh, right. Yes. Hasn't it only been, like, three days?

Me: Five. It's been five. And today's eHarmony Day. And it's just so bright and shiny and smug and judgy. Like, I feel like it's just sitting there all ready to f*cking marry me off, like, tomorrow. WHAT IF I'M NOT READY, EHARMONY. WHAT IF I'M NOT READY.

BBFF: Ho-kay. I think we need to calm down here for a second. It's just a website.

Me: Is it ever really just a website?

BBFF suddenly realizes he has to go, citing a call on "the other line". Because apparently it's still 2001.

I take a deep breath, glare into my MacBook, and resign to get this last little sucker all set up.

Out of all the sites, eHarmony takes the most rigidly scientific approach to matchmaking. First there's the profile, which boxes you in with awkwardly earnest fill-in-the-blank action:

Next comes a series of questions, similar to those proffered on OkCupid, only slightly more political and definitely more pigeonhole-y: What do you think about America's insanely high medical costs, do you put more stock in science or faith, in which direction do you cut your PB&J's...

Maybe I will when I'm 30? Maybe I'm not old enough for this site.

When it comes to setting the parameters for your dream man, they stick pretty close to the basics. Smoking: No. Drinking: Few times a week. Ethnicity: White. Age:27-41. Children: None yet, but want kids. Religion: Any. Income: Important.Education: Important. Match Distance - uhhh. Thirty miles is the shortest distance they'll allow you to select?? Anything over seven in LA might as well be a long distance relationship. (Sidenote: There does appear to be a disproportionately large number of single men in Woodland Hills. Wink wink nudge nudge, ladies.)

Finally, I get to the actual talking-to-people part. Sort of. There is, thankfully, no chat option available on eHarmony - though you can "send a smile", which sort of looks like one of those stickers your first-grade teacher used to give you for meeting your reading goal. There is also no quick message option. eHarmony has devised a very controlled get-to-know-your-potential-stalkers process called Guided Communication:

Stage 1: Quick Questions

You pick five questions from their list of fifteen or so and send 'em over to your Prince(ss) Charming. In answering their selects, you can either choose from the pre-fab A-D or compose your own response. I tend toward the latter as most of their options are a little cut and dry for my taste.

Note: The above-pictured responses do not reflect the views of the author. I am always competitive.

One question I include in my batch is, "What is your opinion on your mate having opposite sex friendships?" First of all, the word mate makes me cringe. Second of all, I expect most men to quell their weirdly jealous side for at least the pre-first date formalities, but the replies I get range from, "It makes me uncomfortable" at worst to, "I'm comfortable with a few well-established opposite sex friendships" at best. How...generous and trusting of you.

Stage 2: Exchange 10 Make & Breaks

These are pretty straightforward. You pick your top 10 from each list and send 'em over to compare and contrast. Kind of interesting, but fairly predictable.

Stage 3: By now, you're probably starting to lose interest in this person you've never met and who means nothing to you yet, and you're probably considering dropping out of this lengthy, lengthy process.

But then you take a deep breath and proceed to Dig Deeper. In this stage, you exchange three open-ended questions with one another. You can create your own or select one of eH's, like, "Tell me about your closest friend. How long have you known them, and what do you like best about them?" (Sorry, Cindy, I caved and told them everything. Really hope our friendship can recover.)

Stage 4: Welcome to eHarmony Mail!

On the off chance you are both in any way, shape, or form still invested in this thing, you are now allowed to send a normal(?) message via their safe, anonymous email system. The funny thing is, as tedious as eHarms' regimented communication feels, I find myself creeped out by the guys who "request to skip straight to eH Mail". I mean, if we're here to play the game, we may as well play by the rules.

A stance solidified by this special little confabulation:

...

Nothing good ever comes of Googlaging people.

P.S. According to eHarmony, I like pale, Christian teachers who reside in the South Bay. Want to know your type? Find out here!

That Is So Not Ok, Cupid

OkCupid. Match's cheap little cousin. Free, actually, which means there are about zero barriers to entry. This should be interesting.

I get my profile set up pretty quickly, stealing/or reworking both answers and pictures from other sites:

The six things I could never do without: Wit, sarcasm, charm, favorable aesthetics, coconut water and music.
I'm really good at: Standardized tests. And Mad Libs.
What I'm doing with my life: My father asks me this very question every single day.
I spend a lot of time thinking about: You. And I mean that in the creepiest way possible.

The 'Staff Robot' forbids "full nudity, extreme close ups, pets, cars, baby photos, artwork, images you've added yourself to, etc." Welp. There goes my Instagram.

Fortunately, they've taken no clear position on unenthusiastic model shots from horrifically cheesy Bravo reality shows. (Bottom row, center.) Just trying to showcase my industrious nature?

Next up is the 'Questions' tab. According to co-founder, Christian Rudder, 50 percent of your OkCupid matches come from commonalities. They suss out said commonalities in this section via an optional series of make-or-breaks. These topics range from super basic (Do you believe in showering, can you perform simple math calculations, would you date a smoker, are you a homophobe) to super personal (Would you have an abortion, what's your greatest motivation in life, how long do your romantic relationships usually last, how open are you with your feelings....)

I decide to put that latter half on the back burner for the time being and head over to browse my matches. Like any shopping site worth its e-commerce salt, OkC allows you to filter your results by SO MANY THINGS. Though height is capped at 6'4", which feels a little awkward -- almost as awkward as the "used up" body type option. I decide to let that one lie.

According to OkC, 153, 812 users are online right now. Holy mother of Hades. I brace myself for an onslaught of potential suitors.

17.

There are 17 potential suitors.

You try broadening your search settings. Jerks.

(And no, sexxxysaurus, I don't want to chat right now. On a little bit of a mission here. A mission that doesn't involve frosted tips/or Ray-Bans.)

Perhaps my inbox will yield some unexpected gems??

Unlike Tinder, you don't have to give a green light to someone before they are allowed to message you. This leaves you with a lot of sh*t to sort through.

I expect this to be a lot of creepy sh*t. It's more just sort of a lot of...weird. Cheesy pick-up lines, corny jokes, false bravado, intrusive questions...

If anything, it nails home the fact that hitting on girls is really, really hard for some guys -- usually because they're trying too hard. (I can say that because I'm always trying too hard.) It seems more productive to highlight a few I found decently charming, rather than to highlight the many misfires: 

I like this one because he could secretly be insulting me and I wouldn't even know it. (Just looking for a healthy relationship over here!)

Math puns always work. 76% of the time.

I think there is in Europe?

l will call out this misfire, because he brought kittens into it and that's just not ok:

Gross.

Out of all of these men, I reply to two. The first is a 5' 10", forty-year-old who is not really my type (yay for hitting three of my rules!), but he did work for both NPR and the BBC, does have a British accent, and did call my profile adorable....

The second is this guy, whom we shall call OkCupid Owen:

A 6'2", thirty two-year-old volleyball player who lives in Santa Monica. He describes himself as a kind, considerate, competitive dude with a dry, sarcastic sense of humor.

Game on.

...Not that kind of game.