Trust Your Instincts

About halfway through the experiment, I began to fear I would never lock down an actual eHarmony date. Even with the experiment’s rules locked firmly in place, I wasn’t even remotely attracted to a single earnest soul. Too pale, too old, too cheesy, too short, too far away. Where were all the easy-going, adventuresome guys next door??

I decided it might possibly be more fruitful in terms of narrative to stop hoping for Mr. Right and start searching for Mr. Very Very Wrong. I didn't have to look very far.

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Date 29: Tinder Oliver

TO:

M'lady,

Dinner is at Lawry's on La Cienega at 9pm. It's at Lawry's (which might seem an odd choice) bc my out-of-town college friend wanted to go there.

I'm going to head toward Beverly Hills around 8pm. I hope this does not come off as either presumptuous or an imposition as regards where I will lay my head this evening, but I thought I'd park my car at or near to your place and we could take a taxi or Uber from there to the restaurant. I'm anticipating enough martinis and wine to make driving a dumb idea.

Here is some weird music: http://bit.ly/1f1oZhZy

Let me know if the above plan sounds ok and I will see you soon.

Me: The above plan does not sound ok. Please revise and advise.

...just kidding. But I'm seriously considering upping my maintenance level for my next experiment. Not that my sanity (or my liver) could survive another one of these suckers.

Dinner with TO's college friends! Excellent impression, here I come. He warns of potentially bland, law-centric conversation and invites me to bring along a friend for reasons of comfort. One of my most entertaining cohorts signs on for the gig, but comes down with the plague the morning of. At this point, I'm pretty sure TO thinks I have no friends. I've met so many of his and he's met...zero...of mine. I'm really active on Instagram? (I am. You should totally follow me here.)

We stroll over to Lawry's and join his friends in the entry. I am immediately overwhelmed. They have all known each other for years and their group seems to be pretty insular, with no one reaching out to include me in convo. Never stopped me before! Heeded or not, I toss my two cents in wherever I see a slot, determined to win 'em over. Conversation picks up over prime rib (them) and fish (me), when I discover the chick seated to my left is hilarious. Fantastic. We have some laughs, take a few photos, and head across the street to Bazaar at SLS to get properly trollied.

A few hours later, Tinder Oliver and I are back at my apartment. I decide to play one of my favorite drinking games: Self-sabotage.

TO is looking a little confused at my lack of, um...protective devices, so to speak. I steal a trick from improv and jump right from A to C.

Me: I just, I don't know, I haven't, like, slept with that many guys.
TO: I haven't slept with that many girls.

Excellent yes and. I press on, determined to make it weird.

Me: This is the point where I usually bail out.

What are you even talking about? Please stop. Please stop now. Thankfully, TO seems to be equally over-intoxicated and counters with a few sweet nothings that fade into sleep zone.

The next morning, we awake to multiple phone calls from one of my nearest and dearest. By the fourth call, I decide it's probably an emergency and he's probably dying, so I answer. It's not. He's not. He wants to have a boozy brunch.

Me: I hate you for waking me up. I thought you were dying.
N&D: You love me. Are you coming? Come now. We're hungry.
Me: Maybe. Hold on. (to TO) Do you want to go to brunch?
N&D: Are you with someone?
Me: Maybe.
N&D: (laughing) You slut. Tinder Oliver?

I'm really happy he throws out the correct name, as my BlackBerry is decently close to TO's ear.

Tinder Oliver agrees to come for a quick bite, but says he must run home to a full day of work after that.

Seven hours later, we've migrated from Pearl's to Rock and Reilly's to Cabo Cantina. Happy Saturday, Sunset. I had been slightly afraid he might think my friends were a little too crazy, due to a couple party-happy out-of-towners, and that my friends might think he was a little too boring, due to his seemingly serious nature. Thankfully, everyone seems to love each other. Er, everyone actually says they love each other.

When Tinder Oliver steps out for a moment, I turn to my friends:

Me: (totally tipsy) Do you like him?
N&D: (smiles up at TO, who, unbeknownst to me, had just returned from the washroom and was standing directly behind my right shoulder) We love him.

Not embarrassing at all.

We have a rollicking good time/plan future double dates/etc etc. TO and I part ways with the group around 7p to get me home and changed for a costume party. As he helps me into 137 hook-and-eye closures, I start to think that it might be sort of really nice (and useful!) to have him around on a more regular basis.

...

RULE #1: YOU MUST BE COMPLETELY OPEN TO THE PROCESS - INCLUDING THE IDEA THAT IT MIGHT ACTUALLY LEAD TO A RELATIONSHIP

...

So many deep breaths.

*not his real name

Date 20: Tinder Oliver

3rd date with Tinder Oliver! Our first was a (few) lovely round(s) of drinks at Chateau and the second an Arctic Monkeys concert at the Wiltern. That was almost two weeks ago. We attempted to calendar a dinner in the middle, but our schedules refused to match up. Distance slash enchantment? Here's hoping.

This third date was to involve both dinner and a haunted house.

TO: Before the day gets away from me, am thinking we will do dinner downtown tmrw if that works. I have a hodgepodge of friends going to the spookhouse who may also join beforehand to eat.

Excellent thought.

I meet TO at his place downtown and we walk to meet his crew at the newly opened Peking Tavern. Dinner is delish, friends are welcoming, drinks are plentiful. Enchantment indeed.

We Uber over to Echo Park for the "spookhouse," but find we have about 20 minutes to kill. We also find that they don't serve liquor at their "bar." None of us are trying to remember our death by fright, so we hit up a Mexican restaurant down the street for tequila shots. And then we hit up the liquor store next door for portable flasks of vodka, because apparently none of us are trying to remember anything. I, personally, am attempting to self-medicate my severe case of nerves slash social anxiety. Third date. Meeting friends. Trying too hard to be cool. You know, the usual.

The haunted house is tons of fun. It's wonderful to have a hand to hold through the dark, winding hallways and someone to laugh at me when I get dragged up onstage to the guillotine. Look how good I am at couple-y things!!

Post scare-fest, TO and I separate from the group to get some late night grub. Lord knows my over-intoxicated liver could stand to see a few nutrients float by. We have another one of our slightly too deep and one hundred percent too personal chats over food I probably couldn't taste at Pacific Dining Car before stealing the rose from our table and heading back to TO's for a decently PG sleepover. (You're welcome, Mom.) Notably, the first sleepover of this experiment -- though, possibly only notable to my super classy guy friends who can't believe that I've, "like, gotten, like, twenty different dudes to take [me] out and, like, pay for sh*t without putting out. What a bunch of suckers." Like I said, supes classy. And it's only been 13 different guys thus far. Ahem.

One home-cooked breakfast, a mini Ryan Adams tutorial, and an awkwardly lengthy parking lot makeout sesh (sorry, parking attendants) later, I'm heading home -- secretly super happy I haven't heard back from Tinder Lucas about our possible second date tonight.

TO: You left a sweater here lovely. Just so you aren't worried you lost it. Will bring it next time I see you.

Love next times.

*not his real name

Date 19: Friend Zone Ryan

In the midst of my experiment, who should appear, but a blast from the not-so-distant past. Friend Zone Ryan and I have been pals for a few years now, starting back when we used to be neighbors-ish. We sort of hooked up a couple times that first summer, with me pumping the brakes pretty swiftly. FZR stopped trying and I proceeded to pine away. Because there's nothing more addictive than that oscillating trifecta of affection, ambivalence, and disinterest.

A few months ago, he skipped my birthday for a stupid reason and I decided we weren't friends anymore. The next week, I ran into him at a mutual friend's party and decided his reason was totally valid and we were totally still friends. A few shots, one very platonic sleepover, and a room service brunch later, FZR was dropping me off at home, saying he was going to take me out for a birthday dinner.

And then I never heard from him. We were so not friends anymore.

Until last Monday.

Walking home from a writing session, I hear my name being shouted from a familiar vehicle. Oh, hello stranger. Brief catch-up sesh. We're still friends.

FZR: I still owe you dinner!
Me: Oh, that's right - you totally do. [So much nonchalance.] 
FZR: Just let me know when and where...

He continues on to his office; I head back home. We may still be friends, but I have zero expectation of a follow-up to this conversation.

A few hours later...

FZR: Where/when are we dining?

Well, color me surprised.

I slot him in for Thursday (So weird how calendar space can open up like that!) and suggest a smattering of restaurants that run the gamut from casual/trendy to fine dining. He makes a reservation at Hatfield's -- or, as the LA Times termed it back in 2010, a gracious restaurant for grownups. Look, Ma -- I'm a grownup!

Really excited for this best friends forever reunion dinner. Right? This is a friend thing. Totally a friend thing. Not a date. Why would it be a date? That'd be weird. Gross. No way.

...I'm a child.

FZR's house is pretty dead center between my place and Hatfield's, so he sends an Uber to grab me, with further instructions to swoop him up en route. Belted in the backseat, it doesn't take FZR long to inquire about my personal life. I pause. We've never really talked about our personal lives before. Is this his way of making it clear that this is a BFF situation? Or is this him attempting to get a clearer view of the landscape before the night's momentum kicks in?

I decide he's asking because he heard about my 30 Days of Online Dating from one of our mutual friends, and is just trying to make conversation without coming off like a stalker. I delve in real deep to the stories of my multiple suitors. He hadn't heard about my project. Oh, that's cool. NBD. This is just me cementing my feet in the friendliest of areas.

FZR is all manners and charm every step of the way, as per usual. Be still my etiquette-obsessed heart. We cozily settle into the back corner table -- my favorite spot in almost every restaurant. (Feel free to pocket that piece of information for future use, gentlemen.)

Over the Croque Madame, we chat recent trips, etc. Just a month before, I had travelled to his hometown for the very first time. "Why didn't you tell me you were going?" Because you said you were going to take me to dinner and then you never called, so I decided we definitely weren't friends anymore? In lieu of way too much truth, I fumble out something about not knowing why I didn't, but I should have, and would absolutely hit him up for the phone-guided tour next time around.

Thankfully, the next course arrives to alleviate my awkward. Momentarily. Just as I'm about to take a bite of buttery black cod, FZR launches into a story about a girl he was recently set up with by a friend of ours. Apparently, she is just as smart and witty as I am, and he totally f*cked it up. Of course she is. Of course you did. Did I mention this cod is delicious? The topic of my brainy twin somehow bleeds into 50 Shades of Grey, a book I have not read and refuse to endorse. FZR says he has encountered more than a few senoritas suffering from post-Christian Grey syndrome -- they come into the bedroom hot, but not necessarily in a good way. Oh man! All this talk of whores has me dying for another cocktail.

...
...
...

We're still friends. Just friends.

The LA Times said we were not to miss Hatfield's "sugar and spice beignets shaped like soft little pillows and served warm with a complex Venezuelan chocolate fondue and a charming milkshake shot dressed up with preserved ginger". So we don't. FZR immediately spills the charming milkshake shot, attempting to slice into one of those soft-ish pillows. The server's there in seconds to clean it up, assuring us that it happens all the time.

FZR: Thank you for that; I appreciate you trying to make me look better in front of her. Isn't she the best date ever -- didn't even skip a beat.

My pathetically slutty lashes flutter at the D word. Calm yourself, children; it's merely a polite turn of phrase. Seriously, stop that. You're making us all look bad.

We Uber me home; FZR walks me to my door; we say goodbyes.

FZR: If you feel like going out and getting really drunk, you know who to call.

Right. Yes. Yes, I do. I might just go ahead and wait a few weeks for my dignity to piece itself together, though, if that's cool with everyone.

We're still totally friends.**

*not his real name
**We really are, though. FZR, if you're reading this -- don't make it weird.

Naughty by Nature

Coming up on the halfway point of this project, I find myself surprised and, admittedly, almost a bit disappointed by the wealth of nice, normal guys I've met online. Sure, it has required a serious time commitment and thousands of messages/swipes to suss out the ones I might actually connect with -- and there have been plenty of grammatical errors and insecurity-ridden pick-up lines along the way -- but, on the whole, most of the men I've matched with have seemed to be some variation on the average Joe.

Where are all the creepers, crazies, and pervs?? Where is all the hilarious fodder for my blog??

Fortunately, just as I'm about to let down that guard I've been white-knuckling since puberty, Tinder Phil* steps in to pick up the slack for misogynists everywhere.

TP and I have been chatting on Tinder for a few days - a fairly bland tête-à-tête bolstered by the fact that we have several friends in common. Apparently, TP decides our convo could use a little spice:

I gag with repulsion.

Me: Has that line ever actually worked for you? Just out of queasy curiosity...

TP: I don't know. I've never tried it before.

So happy I could be your first.

I immediately screenshot our convo and send it to one of our many mutual friends, subject line: YOU KNOW THIS MAN??

Turns out, TP is her manager. Classy. She fwds the email to her co-manager, who sends it back TP's way, indubitably warning of forthcoming Tinder-shame.

I awake the next morning to an email -- nice of him to go to all the trouble of tracking down my address:

Long story short. My buddy Jason* got on my tinder account last night when I was in the other room and wrote that spanking response to a bunch of girls. So not my style. I'm so sorry. We have friends in common and I would never write some sleazy response like that. I got really pissed at Jason. So sorry. Seriously, sorry.

Fine. Sure. Whatever. No big deal. Sort of hilarious. I reply in kind:

Oh man - I was definitely a bit taken aback. No worries - I appreciate the message. That's kind of hilarious and slightly tragic. Hopefully your buddy's line worked on one of the chicks.

I think we are done here. I am incorrect. Our mutual friend, who -- God bless her motherly soul -- loves the both of us, thinks that, despite this little misstep, TP and I might actually get along in real life. She asks TP if she should ask me if I would be interested in a set-up.

TP: No, that's ok. She sounds a little uptight for my taste. Regardless if it was a joke email from my buddy. I need nothing but fun girls in my life right now.

...

Uptight. Fun girls.

Please excuse me while I go on a syntax-driven feminist rage spiral. Because I'm uptight like that.

Sidenote: The word 'naughty' seems to be seeing a resurgence amongst a certain demographic of men. Remember the forty-year-old British NPR/BBC contributor I met via OkCupid? Judging from his photos, he wasn't really my type physically, but I'm a sucker for people who are good with their words. Unfortunately, he decided to pull one out from the bottom of the gross barrel just five texts into our first conversation:

BritInLA: What time are you thinking tomorrow?
Me: 4:30 or 5?
BritInLA: That should work...where are you thinking?
Me: Somewhere in Beverly Hills? (Yes, this is me being completely and totally selfish haha)

...

BritInLA: You're naughty...

...

What? Ew. Where did that even - How does that - never mind. Just please stop.*shudder*twitch*shudder* I'm suddenly busy forever. Xo UptightInBH

*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 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.