Online Dating: Tales from the Front Lines

Love's greatest cynic gambles her heart online

-Nicole Christie, BettyConfidential.com

I said I would never do it. Never would I sink so low. Never would I throw myself into the tureen of desperation bouillabaisse, lie prone on the Singles Smorgasbord, and dish myself up for a taste - all in the pedestrian hope of living happily ever after with my personal Prince Charming.

Never, never would I try online dating.

But in the four years since my divorce, I've been a drunk driver on the Singleton Highway, making wrong turns and veering off course en route to Spinsterville. Having subscribed to a supposedly infallible strategy - devised through grilling countless people about how they'd met their true love - I've dated people I met while pursuing my passions, at my job, and through trusted friends. But this has only brought me into contact with the emotionally unavailable, socially retarded, and potentially gay. (Sometimes all three.) After four consecutive head-on collisions, it dawned on me that I was embodying the definition of insanity: pursuing the same course of action over and over, and expecting different results.

So I surrendered and said "Enchanté" to eHarmony and its "29 Dimensions of Compatibility." The mission: One month. Sixty bucks. Two dates.

Of the roughly 200 matches I received over 30 days, I communicated with five. Lest I appear impossibly picky, I should note that, after two weeks, most of my matches were designated "flexible" - meaning, "Sorry, we've run out of people who are even remotely compatible with you. But perhaps you'd like to meet this gentleman anyway. He enjoys pizza, HBO, Miller Light, and setting his farts on fire. True love awaits!"

Despite the torching tooters, I did achieve my two-date minimum. My first was with Jack - a smoking hot outdoorsy type who was tight with his family, had a bright, inviting smile and who, unfortunately, left me cold.

My second was with Dan - like me, a business owner and improvisational comic actor, who'd written an insightful and engaging profile and totally fit the bill in terms of the "boyish cute" type I'm typically drawn to.

Dan organized an ideal first date - a Saturday afternoon stroll around Seattle's Green Lake, equivalent to roughly 50 minutes of getting-to-know-you conversation and plenty of nearby options for a post-walk dine or drink.

One of my goals in succumbing to online dating was to simply get better at first dates - for instance, ask lots of questions and let the man do most of the talking. But after about a mile, I realized Dan had been carrying on a conversation almost entirely solo, even answering some of his own questions and making assumptions aloud about me ("You know us comedy people, Nicole - always looking for validation!). And then I caught Dan looking pointedly in the direction of two women stripping down for a run.

"Hey Nicole!" Dan shouted, elbowing me, "Wouldn't it be funny if that woman took off her shirt and starting running and realized she'd forgotten her sports bra and was, like, flopping around in the wind, while all the guys were staring at her?"

"Uh, somehow I don't think that would happen," I replied, wondering if this 45-year-old man was reprising Tom Hanks' role in a remake of Big and if so, when someone was going to yell "Cut!" and let me in on the joke.

Two miles and endless Danprattle later, I felt tremendous relief as we approached the parking lot. As I prepared to wish him well, Dan asked if I'd like to have lunch with him. Both intense hunger - and apparently temporary insanity - made me agree.

"Great! I'm just going to change into jeans," Dan noted, heading toward his SUV.

"All right - I'll grab my bag," I said, making my way to my car.

"Or you could ... come with me," Dan suggested.

"I'm sorry?" I asked, utterly confused.

"Well ... I have tinted windows"

I know. I should have bid him adieu, driven home, and joined the Witness Protection Program. But I was so stunned by this turn of conversation, I could only muster, "That's OK. I'm just going to get my bag."

Dan shrugged and ducked into his car. Where he spent 10 minutes changing into his jeans. When he finally emerged, it took every ounce of restraint to keep from asking if he needed a tissue.

At lunch, Dan continued his Dance of the Moron by snatching the menu from my hand and ordering a dish for us to SHARE, asking so-not-his-business questions about my ex-husband, and spending an inordinate amount of time staring at my breasts.

He finally settled the bill. I caught a glimpse of the heavy gray clouds outside the restaurant and suggested we head back to our cars before the sky opened up. As I pondered joining a convent and dedicating my life to God, bread baking, and gardening, Dan piped up enthusiastically.

"Hey Nicole! Wouldn't it be funny if it started to rain really hard, and we had to hide in that barn over there, and your shirt was totally soaked and you were like, 'Oh my God, I'm so embarrassed - it's like a wet T-shirt contest!'"

And suddenly I understood that I wasn't in this to find Prince Charming. I was in this because I was being showered with material that gave true meaning to You Can't Make This Sh*& Up. I thanked Dan for lunch and furiously pressed the "unlock" button on my car's remote as I approached the beloved chariot that would take me away from the crazy prince, back to my castle, where I could live happily ever after ...

Alone.

Read more about dating from BettyConfidential.com: Dating Tips: Don't Say It! and Finding an Old Love on Facebook