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.

Dates 4 & 5: Match Nathan & OkCupid Owen

Match Nathan*: Looking forward to tonight, Stacie! I'm glad that you don't mind that I'm 5'4".

...

Ok, looking at that text now, it doesn't seem so bad. At the time of receipt, that mediocre nugget of malarkey elicited a markedly angsty sigh/nostril flare/eye-roll. Because when I'm doing something I don't want to do, I turn into every mother's tween nightmare.

Why was I was going on a date I didn't want to go on? Because of the stupid rules I made for this stupid experiment. (Apparently my 24-hour break did little for my state of severe sleep deprivation.) Let me back up a bit.

I have to go on thirty dates in thirty days, with at least one originating from each of the five sites I selected - Match, eHarmony, JDate, OkCupid, and Tinder. So far I've got two Tinders and one OkCupid under my belt. Match was proving a bit difficult, the vast majority of its profiles and messages coming across as a little sad, a lot defensive, and sometimes even downright hostile.

"We'll see if you live up to you're (sic) profile." Or maybe we won't, sir. Maybe we won't.

So when Match Nathan opens with a polite inquiry about my Nebraska heritage, I immediately drop all standards and stick to a simple praise Jesus for purported sanity. Appearance-wise he's no John Krasinski, but again - those pesky, pesky rules:

RULE #3: SAY YES TO SOMEONE WHO IS CLEARLY NOT YOUR TYPE

Here goes nothin'. We agree upon a 5:30 p.m. Friday dinner at The Six in Culver City. Why are we dining with the octogenarians? Because I have another date set for that evening at 8 p.m. and I like to leave a sizeable space between man-related activities. (I actually have an entire weekend of double-headers ahead of me, due to a few upcoming scheduling conflicts/the need to squeeze some of these suckers in. Really hoping I come out alive. Definitely not putting any money on it.)

Match Nathan texts two days before our date.

Match Nathan texts the day before our date.

Match Nathan texts again the day of. All of them cheesy. All of them dad jokes. This is not going to end well.

Realizing my neuroses-fueled annoyance is one hundred percent unfair to this guy, I will myself to play nice. Even when a last-minute meeting is thrown on my schedule, because everything in LA is an emergency. Even when I'm stuck behind an accident on Olympic. Even when there is no parking and I am forced to stow my car about a mile away. And even when I arrive, sweating (er, glowing) and panting (albeit delicately), to a greeting of, "I was about to give up on you. There's no way it could have taken you that long to park."

...Isn't there?

The date's fine. We chat easily enough over mushroom tapenade pizza. MN seems like a genuinely nice guy - a business type with an appreciation -- though not quite a soul -- for the creative. He also reveals an appreciation for things of a fanboy nature, eagerly inquiring if I've ever thought about dressing up as Xena for Halloween.

...
...
...

It's my broad shoulders, isn't it.

Post-snacks, we hug it out goodbye and I sprint back to my car...to find it about to be towed. That super convenient spot only 1/26th of a marathon away from the restaurant happened to be located smack dab in front of a grass-covered driveway.

Irate Homeowner: Who would park like that??

Excellent question. Since the only logical answer is, this idiot with these two equally moronic thumbs, I decide to go with profuse apologies instead -- but close with a couple questions directed at the overseeing police officer. How was I supposed to know a driveway lay beneath all that green? And aren't driveways supposed to be level with the street?

Police Officer: It may be hard to see, but it's there, ma'am. And no, not necessarily in a densely populated city like this, ma'am.

Of course not. Not in a densely populated city like this. Ma'am.

IH calms down pretty quickly and removes the evidently incendiary note tucked beneath my windshield wiper.

IH: You're much sweeter than I expected you to be. You probably don't need to read that.

Is it weird that I'm just a little curious?

PO calls off the tow truck, sending me on my way with a simple $69 ticket. Excellent. This is what happens when you try to one-up Cupid. Message received, Arrow Boy. Hopefully I can put this entire situation behind me/pretend it all never happened.

MN: You are seriously beautiful and fun. Thanks for hanging with me! Can I interest you in some theater tickets next week?

Welp.

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

(Also, THEATER TICKETS. This sort of feels like a bribe. Then again, aren't most dates if you really sit down and think about it for a second?)

....

Me: I had so much fun! Thanks for a rollicking good time. And consider me interested!

If you're gonna say yes, you may as well do it with exclamation points.

I head out to Santa Monica for date two of the night. Remember OkCupid Owen* from my first day on the site? We're finally getting drinks. I think it's safe to say he's not exactly getting the best version of me. I again have to park blocks away, this time in a creepy garage. We struggle to find a place to sit/or stand in Hotel Shangri La's rooftop bar as it is unsurprisingly overcrowded with some Silicon Beach happy-after-hours. OkC Owen is not quite as tall as he claimed to be, nor as charming as his messages. (The latter probably holds true for the both of us.) My overworked BlackBerry is almost as dead as my soul at this point, and I really just want to get back home to my Tempur-Pedic. Pretty sure he feels the same way. We clock in the requisite two hours, he politely walks me to my car, and we go our separate ways, never to speak again.

The best moment of my entire day? Realizing tomorrow's dates are both within walking distance of my home. I think I should make that happen more often. For everyone's sake.

*Not their real names

Date 3: Tinder Oliver

Another standard Tinder convo:
Weather? Him: Gloomy/Her: Sunny
Occupation? Him: Finance/Her: Creative
Mutual Friends? A few - we had even met through one of them just a year earlier. Only one of us happened to remember said meeting. Hint: It wasn't Her.
Apartment Location? Him: Downtown/Her: Beverly Hills

They say opposites attract, right? Two days of polite Tinder-chatting with Tinder Oliver* had me prepped and ready to break one of my cardinal rules of dating and meet a PE guy for drinks. (My three years in New York left more than a few fiscal scars, if you know what I mean.)

We agree upon Chateau Marmont at 9 p.m. I'm coming straight from a tutoring sesh. My tutee and her family have known the terminally single me for eight years, and were quite excited to hear about my date/the project in general. Even their 16-year-old-son touted the normality of online dating in encouragement of my efforts. I get it guys; I'm getting old. Your pity-laden support is more than appreciated.

I'm hiking up the drive to Chateau at 8:47 p.m., when Tinder Oliver texts that he's running late. Great, we haven't even met and the man's already stealing my lines.

TO: I'm running ten min behind. Also you know to go to Chateau hotel restaurant versus Bar Marmont downstairs, ya?

Uh, yes. I gathered as much, thanks.

I go to give Tinder Oliver's name to the hostess, only to realize I don't know his last name. Right. About that. I'm just gonna go... check my hair. And possibly do a quick little search for my dignity while I'm at it.

I kill some time in the bathroom before kicking back in the lower lounge area. Nap time, anyone?

...

Fifteen minutes pass. Where the F is this dude? This must be what it feels like to date me.

TO: Did I lose you? The hostess said you were here a few min before me and have disappeared! Very mysterious...

Very mysterious indeed. There's no way I'm heading out to the dining room by myself, as I have no idea what TO looks like in non-photo form, so I head back to the hostess stand, asking her to point me toward the correct table -- really nailing home the fact that I've never met this man before. Just in case there were any questions on that front. (There weren't.)

Things get a lot less uncomfortable when we get around to the actual date part. TO comes across both well-mannered and confident. Two of my favorite traits! We talk for hours, covering everything from our overlapping party years of yore to the magical melancholy of Joan Didion. He does seem to be more of a serious human being than myself, but not to the point of buzzkill.

Coincidentally, a former colleague of Tinder Oliver's is seated directly behind us with his appropriately blonde wife. They pop over at the end of their meal to say hello -- and to let us know that we "look well together." Wingmen never say die.

Four hours, four cocktails, and an order of chilled beets with chevre, citrus, and hazelnuts later, Tinder Oliver gives me a ride home. (I had cabbed there due to issues with my Prius's tire.) The goodbye starts as a somewhat awkward hug/cheek-ish kiss before he pulls me back in for a "real kiss." Heyo.

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I did. I also took a moment to make a sotally tober video journal:

Next up: A Friday night double-header of men from Match and OkCupid, wherein I am reminded that dating in LA is logistically the worst thing ever.

*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.

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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!

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Then again, maybe it is.

Date 1: Tinder James

Mimicking form. Never fails. After that scintillating opener, Tinder James and I immediately (read: two days later) launch into a standard Tinder convo: Current state of mind (spectacular), mutual friends (one -- merely a business acquaintance for the both of us), occupations (web designer and writer, respectively), hometowns (Omaha, NE for him and Lincoln for me.) Just enough in common to feel safe, without intersecting circles. Sounds like a go.

9:50p
Me: What brought you out to LA?

9:52p
TJ: It's kind of a long story. I can tell you all about it over drinks tomorrow night. If you're free.

It is a go. Woohoo! My first online date!! I am both excited and terrified. We agree to meet at Willie Jane, a cute restaurant/bar in Venice.

10:01p
TJ: What time works best for you? I'm free after 7.

...

F. What's a normal date time?? 7:30p is so early. Is 9p too late? Does that seem slutty? It's been a haute minute (and about six years) since I've been on a proper dinner date out on this coast. I decide to Facebook chat my trainer. He's a judgy man in a committed relationship. He should know these things.

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...

Perhaps a bit too judgy. I settle on 8:30.

The next evening, I'm in my car, running about 20 minutes late, before I realize we never exchanged numbers. I don't have the Tinder app on my BlackBerry, so it looks like I'm just going to have to hope Tinder James hasn't given up on me by the time I make it out there.

Because it's Venice, I spend another 10 minutes arguing with some skateboard kids over the one open parking spot on Abbot Kinney. (They're trying to keep it clear for their "indie-street video shoot". Obviously.) Sorry, TJ!

Finally at the door to Willie Jane, I pause, prepping myself for an awkward entrance. Thanks to slight nearsightedness and bizarrely terrible facial recognition skills, I can barely pick my friends out of a crowd half the time, let alone a virtual stranger -- especially when working off a hazy memory of five inconclusive photos.

He spots me pretty quickly, thank God, and we head to a communal table. First things first: Drink orders. Second thing: Conversation. I decide to launch into a story about our mutual friend, stopping only when it becomes quite clear I'm referencing the wrong mutual friend. Apparently I've been having a few too many chats with a few too many men in my outer circle lately.

Tinder James speaks very softly and seems almost shy at first, until a surprisingly harsh bite of sarcasm punches in, knocking me a bit off-kilter. I respond by vacillating between inquisitive I'm sorry's, incessant rambling, and stilted laughter. Gulp. Cringe. Grimace.

Because this is still Venice, we look over at one point to find ourselves seated next to a semi-decent friend of TJ's, and the friend's entire family. Everyone is just dying to know how we met!

...

From the depths of silence that follow, you would think we had first locked eyes over a dead body or something. Tinder James eventually eeks out a, "We have a few friends in common..." and then we decide it's time to get that check before anyone asks any more questions.

Out on the sidewalk, I have absolutely no clue how this date is going -- and I'm usually pretty adept at gauging the waters. He suggests another (quieter) bar down the street. I take that as a positive. He likes cars and hates sports, so we have about zero things in common at this point, but as I always say, there's nothing that more liquor and even more conversation can't cure. Because quantity. (And Venice.)

When the clock strikes midnight, he unexpectedly nudges to continue on -- and this Tinderella is never one to leave the ball early! We amble into The Victorian on Main Street, only to find ourselves surrounded by small children. And by small children, I mean college freshman. Mkay. This might be our cue to call it a night. Though it does feel like he's finally starting to loosen up.

...He was.

Back at the cars, TJ skips right over the kiss, and goes in for the full-on, old school, 30 minute makeout sesh. One of my favorite hobbies! Maybe we have more in common than I thought?

Probably worth finding out.

7:38a

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Oh, right. That too.

...

*Names have been changed to protect the possibly not-so-innocent

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:

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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...

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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.

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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:

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...

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.

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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.

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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....)

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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.

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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.

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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...

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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: 

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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!)

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Math puns always work. 76% of the time.

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I think there is in Europe?

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

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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:

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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.

The Night I Met My Match

Matchy match Match. The baseball and Cracker Jacks of online dating. Really excited to get a few home runs? Hey-o.

"The email address you have entered cannot be used to register. Please enter another email address."

Great. They won't even let me onto the field. I fruitlessly attempt to reenter the same information several more times -- you know, just in case they're suckers for persistence - before remembering that a concerned friend of mine decided to surprise-profile me five years back using this email address. Apparently Match never forgot. I have them send that login info my way and roll up my sleeves for some major editing. Starting with the username. Sorry, MsKatieScarlett, your antebellum flounce was replaced with a solid dose of sardonicism at some point during the past half-decade.

Match has a cleaner, more modern appearance than JDate, but there is still so muchgoing on. "Someone's interested in you!" "Profile Power Ups: Get 3x more views." "It's peak time. Try Top Spot now!" "Who do you like?" "Get dating advice here!" I feel like I've walked onto the set of an infomercial.

I thought I'd be able to copy-paste pretty heavily from my JDate profile, but Match has its own set of who-what-where-when-how-and-whys. The "In her own words" section, which is supposed to be a mini bio, requires a minimum of 200 characters. You have got to be kidding me. Like that's ever going to fit on a tombstone. I steal the "ridiculously witty, seriously charming and more than slightly neurotic" line I used on my Jewish suitors and fill the remaining 188 character spaces with periods.

Match is unimpressed with my brevity:

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Fine. I use my fluff-piece writer bio instead:

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The rest of the topics are short answer or multiple-choice, which is much appreciated by my now tissue-thin patience. What is less appreciated is how boring my life looks on paper:

Political Views: Middle of the road
Favorite Hot Spots: La Conversation, Dominick's
College: USC
For Fun: Read, DIY, write, belt out embarrassing songs in my car, beach volleyball, vintage shop, brunch
Last Read: Island of Vice

I swear I'm much cooler in person?

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"Ask her about playing cards." Maybe not that much cooler.

Sign - For some reason, I suddenly get shy and select, "Don't display my sign." Starting to feel a little exposed over here, guys! (I'm a Taurus, by the way, in case anyone cares.)

It's pretty easy to upload photos from Facebook. They have twenty-six open slots. I go with 11. As with JDate, people can like/or comment on your photos, which I guess is ok, but it feels a little weird. Mostly because the comments are all a little weird.

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*whose

...

As they'll be suggesting matches, the final step of the set-up process is a little quiz to discern my type. Love quizzes.

"When it comes to style, I like a man who dresses like this..." Ew. None of the above?

"I prefer this hair style on a man..." This one's interesting. I'm usually a fan of longish hair, but I find myself gravitating toward the more prep-perfect cut on here. Does this mean I'm growing up? I think this means I'm growing up.

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OldSoul4OldSoul?? I'll keep mine, thanks.

I close out this session with a quick trip to my inbox.

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What do you mean we're not getting any younger?

Thankfully, genteeel pops up to end the night on a puntastically high note:

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No -- thank you, Sir. Thank you.

Hey JDate, This Shiksa's Willing to Convert

Ahh, JDate. The blessed bastion of matzo-loving mensches. I'm really excited to test the waters on this site. In large part because this little Catholic loves the Jews, and has been told by many of their most devoted that she would be quite welcome in the tribe.

Fun fact of the day: You don't have to be Jewish to be on JDate. Hellllooooo, John Krasinskis, your shiksa awaits! You don't even have to be "willing to convert", but I go ahead and check that box anyway.

My excitement wanes the moment the screen loads. The website is an OCD nightmare. What year was this built? Why is it so cluttered? Which section do I click on first? And where, for Yahweh's sake, are my adorably pale little schlemiels??

A few deep breaths and several brown bags later, I make my way to the profile section. Unlike Tinder, the people of JDate want to know everything about you. Describe my life and ambitions?? I refuse to put my dreams in a box. Past relationships? "None" doesn't feel like a real crowd-pleaser, so I go with, "Minus the one I murdered and the three I'm currently stalking?" You with me, balebostes?

The virtual interrogation continues:

A brief history of my life: Born early. Bred over-achiever. Socialized sarcastic.

My perfect first date: It involves an Uber and John Krasinski and me making out.

On our first date, remind me to tell you the story about...: Don't worry. I'll remember.

The things I could never live without: Wit, candor, and crossword puzzles.

I'm looking for...: ...Perfection. Preferably with a solid sense of humor. And stellar bone structure.

I begin to tire of this very deep and very personal probing and head to the details portion of my profile, thinking it will be a quick hit of basic stats. Oh how wrong was I. Height, 5'11"; body style, lean and slender; hair, dark brown; eyes, green; ethnicity, cauc -- uh. Where's the caucasian?

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Three quick Google searches later, I settle on, "Will tell you later".

'Likes & Interests' is a multiple-choice sort of deal, so that section flies by pretty quickly, setting me up for the Kibitz tab. I'm beginning to think there should be a separate shiksa membership to this site -- dictionary included.

The Kibitz Corner proffers a question of the day. Your answer will show up alongside your profile photo in this chat room of sorts, and people can comment, like, or click to send a little love tap your way. Open myself up to an onslaught of unvetted creepers? We'll go ahead and save that for another day.

I head back to my profile and click on the final notch -- Compatibility. This sector asks you to take a color code test, which will determine and define your core personality traits. I love these kinds of things.

Question 1: "When I failed as a child, I felt...". Failed as a child? Let's not be ridiculous here.

Perhaps it's time to browse those recommendations.

5'7". 5'8". 5'4".

5'4".

Oy vey iz mir. As I'm contemplating a future filled with flats and neck pain, an irksome, Nokia-esque noise begins to ping from my screen. Oh holy night. The face of a 55-year-old man is leering at me, asking if I would like to chat. HE'S IN MY HOME. "JewGotSoul has viewed your profile." I feel so violated. I X his face away, but it's immediately replaced by three more. At the same time, I see my inbox numbers rise.

Do I even want to know?

The messages are overwhelmingly earnest. These men are nice. These men are serious. Suddenly my ideal first date that "involves an Uber and John Krasinski and me making out" feels childish.

...

Welp. I think that's enough JDating for one evening!

I'll leave you with this gem that I plan on cherishing forever:

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THE NEIGHBORHOOD YENTA. I've been waiting my whole life to read those words.

Million. To. One.

The Night I Lost My Tinder Virginity

I decide to kick off this experiment with Tinder for a few simple reasons:

1. Cost. It's free!

2. Social acceptability. I can actually talk about it in public. Quite a few of my peers, so to speak, are already taking part in its hormone-ridden festivities. Just trying to fit in here!

3. Amount of pressure. Zero. It caters to a commitment-shy community. This one works as both a pro and a con. I am less than enthused by the prospect of entering the world of "GrindR for straight people," but I do enjoy the whole, you-can-get-out-at-any-time-and-pretend-the-whole-thing-never-happened aspect.

The set-up process is bizarrely simple:

1. Log in with Facebook. I halt at this initially -- not quite ready for people to know I'm doing this. It swears it won't post anything to FB; I choose to believe it. (It doesn't. Link away, little one.)

2. Add 6 pictures. Ahh decisions, decisions. I select a smattering that I think properly showcases my sense of humor, adventurous spirit, adorable personality, excellent style, and oversized eyes. Ahem.

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3. Tagline. Pithy and witty is the way to go in Tinderland. Thank God. Mine goes through a couple changes in the beginning, but I eventually settle on a quote from my favorite book,  Point Counter Point -- along with a note about my height. You're welcome for saving you from the very public humiliation of hugging my waist? 

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4. Set your age and location preferences. If you don't do this right away, you'll find yourself wondering if it's legal for you to be feeling certain feelings about a 19-year-old's shirtless selfie. Hypothetical situation.

5. Swipe away! Right swipe means you like 'em, left is a solid pass. This takes a bit of getting used to, and can lead to some unfortunate mis-swipes on both ends. I'm lookin' at you, Mr. Oxford Comma. Our conversation would have been so straight-forward. Alas, I accidentally swiped left and then frantically swiped right to go back, but in Tinder there is no going back. Instead, I ended up giving a big ol' heyo to this guy:

...It's a sloth.

It doesn't take long to figure out why this "game" is so addictive. As girls, we're accustomed to doing a quick sweep of the room, scouting potential options, and generally being disheartened by the fact that we can see over every man's head. Just me? The point is, there are a finite number of options at any given locale. On Tinder, the options are seemingly endless. Your dream guy is just one to seven million swipes away! And the inexplicably validating ego boost that comes with every "You have matched!" is not something to disregard.

It also doesn't take me long to figure out that I am much pickier than I originally thought. And that pore size is a total dealbreaker. Left swipe, left swipe, left swipe, PAUSE.

The man I'm currently sort of crushing on in real life is staring back at me from my iPad's screen.

For some reason, I thought Tinder avoided your first-degree friends. Apparently, I thought wrong. Cue: Panic mode.

Like any normal person, I immediately BBM a screenshot to my best friend and close the app -- and then open the app to amend my profile to try to make it a little funnier. Why is his tagline better than mine? Ugh. I would bring nothing to this relationship.And then close the app again.

BFF: Is that CRUSHFEST MATT??

Me: Hahaha YES. I don't know what to do. I closed Tinder LOL. Why don't they have a skip option?

BFF: Omg. You have to say yes. Obviously.

5 minutes pass...

BFF: Did you??

Me: It's still sitting there.

BFF: You like him! And it's Tinder.

Me: Haha exactly! Those two things weren't supposed to go together.

BFF: Worst-case scenario, you find out he likes you too.

Me: True true. Thank you voice of reason.

BFF: You're ridiculous.

Me: Ahhh it matched! Hahaha. This game is too stressful. 

BFF: Hahaha! Yay! Now you can go on a date! He liiiiiikes you. He wants to kissss you. I love this game!

Me: Hahaha now we can pretend this never happened? 

BFF: What are you so afraid of?

Me: Oh god. So many things. If there is one thing I have learned in this twelve-hour period of online dating, it is that I am terrified of SO MANY THINGS.

BFF: I mean I see that now! This could be a really great experience for you.

Crushfest Matt sends a cute, friendly message. I overthink my reply in attempt of greatness and land depressingly on mediocre.

...

I hate this game.