Virtual Reality

I did a crazy thing today. Okay, maybe not so crazy, but to me a little bit, and it’s all because of Jon’s mom.

Now, Jon’s mom rocks, I mean, she freakin’ rawks in the bestest way, and this weekend, sipping martinis we had a nice chat about life, kids and dating. And, perhaps it was the lycheetinis, but I fessed up that I’d been thinking about it and it would be nice to have a boyfriend.

Now, you may think that’s nuts in itself: who doesn’t want a boyfriend, girlfriend or both? But, as those of you who know me know, I’m not exactly the best judge of character, and my past experiences have been less than successful. As have the boyfriends. Thus, the boyfriend-by-committee requirement was instated on my behalf by my former roommie, who, unfortunately, now lives back on the west coast. Thankfully, Darrell, Jon, my brother, my roommates and the dude who works at the coffee shop where I live my life have all agreed to form the requisite voting bloc.

That said, I’m still a bit gun shy. I mean, I’m f’ing 34 years old, and the fish in that sea are, for the most part, the kind that can be found in the wastewater pond next to the Springfield Nuclear Plant: freaks.

But, I’m a total, stupid and pointless optimist, sure that somewhere out there there’s a place…er…. boy for me. It’s just a matter of running into him, hopefully not literally. Thing is, I work for psychos who expect me to be in the office a minimum of 9 or 10 hours, I hang out with totally cool people in places where there aren’t a lot of choices (no, I will not date Veal Boy, Brown Boy or Girl Boy, Jon, no matter how many times you point them out to me!!! ;-)), and the other places I go—the gym, the store, hanging out with my friends—aren’t exactly the hottie hot spots.

So, what to do in this crazy modern world where we all live and work in bubbles? That’s where Jon’s mom comes in, with her advice that if she were my age, she’d go online. She also said she thought I was a catch, which is sweet, especially since she’s not my mom and therefore not umbilically bound to say so. So, on this other site that shall remain unnamed where a slightly anemic mirror version of this blog lives (all names have also been changed to protect… me) I listed myself as “looking,” whereas before I was just hanging out, checking out my friends’ profiles and having a grand old time.

Unfortunately, this opens up a whole host of problems, the least being that the last time I did that every “outtie” seemed to think we were destined to be together, if for the sole reason that I’m an “innie.”

“Hey babe, my only exercise is lifting fried food and beer to my mouth, I’m all for the war, my highest education was in juvie, and I’m only 45. Let’s fuck!”

Ew.

Not that education, age and matching interests are all that important, but when you get carded for alcohol, lottery tickets and cigs, have spent the bulk of your life in school because you like it, don’t believe in capital punishment and actually enjoy getting all sweaty outside the bedroom, it’s a recipe for disaster.

Plus, I’ve had some terrible experiences in the short time I was listed there, like the dude who met me for a drink and only brought $11. Now, I’m totally independent, I was unemployed and brought plenty of cash and will offer to pay for myself every time, but to not even bring enough for your two rounds? Lame.

And, I always feel compelled to respond, no matter how ridiculously obvious it is we’ve got nothing in common—otherwise I feel rude. But, it seems also that that’s de riguer for the online thing these days. I actually did once find someone really cool on there, or rather, they found me, someone really cool, interesting, and, at least on paper, seemingly an ideal candidate for at least hanging out with (when can you ever have enough of those?). Unfortunately, asshole stopped writing.

Okay, so maybe it’s me. I’m nuts, when I find people I can connect with I have a blast, let it all hang out, forget I don’t actually know them. But, then again, considering everyone else I email I know, it’s tough. And, yeah, let’s admit it here and for all to see: I’m neurotic. Fucking insane, probably—all you have to do is read the last few posts with the spontaneously combusting retinas and whinging about how much I hate working and wish I’d taken the job with Frank Kozik after all to know that I’m destined to be cat food in about 60 years.

But I refuse to believe that’s it. Goddamn it, we’re all crazy in our own ways, and if you’re not I don’t want you—friend, lover or otherwise. And, fortunately, I’m not ugly or deformed, nor do I have strange twitches or nasal sounds that emit at the most inopportune moments. But I am picky, and that’s where the problem lies.

My own mum says I’m too picky, but how can you not be? Again, first off I need to find someone the committee can agree on, but more importantly, someone I can agree on. And therein lies the catch: Where do you find the male version of yourself, someone who’s just been hanging out, doing your own thing, figuring out what you want to do when you grow up, going all the places you want to go, doing all the things you want to do, living life by your own rules and actually enjoying the ride when that other version is doing the same as you? Is that where this whole online thing comes in?

Does that mean the male version of me is doing the exact same thing? One can only hope…