|Perils of Online Dating #74
||[Sep. 6th, 2016|02:02 pm]
So, there comes that moment in every online dating exchange, when you've exchanged enough semi-awkward social pleasantries via the dating app and now it's time for the next step: running away from the computer and swearing off dating forever.
Wait, no. That's sort of what I'd LIKE to do...but then I calculate the odds of me just running into someone that's going to fit my criteria (available, not a recovering alcoholic, not allergic to cats, willing to date a smart 50 something woman who leans a bit on the fierce side of her personality, enjoys the company of women, oh, and poly.) are extremely slim. It's happened once...I'd be an idiot to not try to stack the odds a bit.
No, what I mean is: THE EXCHANGING OF PHONE NUMBERS.
I tend to like to leave that as step three, right after arranging a meet-up. Then comes the phone number -- as a logistical tool, really. The "running late" or "here, left hand corner of the bar" thing.
But I've come to realize that I'm letting my personal feelings about phones drive that. I'm getting better at using my phone for all sorts of things...but still, I'm wont to leave it at work or at home by mistake. I'm pretty sure no one under the age of 40 ever does that. And most of my generational cohort doesn't either. But I've also hated phones...so it's been an uphill climb developing a facility for texting, and actual chatty conversations...well, let's just say I can do that if I know someone really well.
Anyway, so I'm trying to not be so resistant -- I mean, sometimes the guy will suggest moving off the app into e-mail, which is great, totally my medium. But more and more, it's hey, here's my phone number, what's yours.
So, in the interest of embracing the 21st century, and once I've gotten a pretty good feel for whether the guy's likely to be sane, serious, and safe, I take a deep breath and type out my phone number.
No, I'm not worried about phone stalking or harrassing...I'm pretty good at shutting that stuff down. You're talking to someone who unleashes the fury of a thousand suns on people who are rude to waitstaff or retail workers.
No, a much more mundane reason. So, I'm taking a break from work and chatting with a work friend who lives vicariously through my dating, now that she's safe on the other side. And I tell her that I've been e-mailing back and forth with this guy, seems pretty cool, but now we've exchanged phone numbers. And some pleasantries via text. So far so good.
And while we're talking, he sends a text. And I have the phone on vibrate, and my internal comedian just can't play it cool and has to go for the overreaction. Which shouldn't be funny anymore...but hey, when y'all stop laughing at it, I'll stop doing it.
"So, what'd he say?" she says.
"I dunno. I'm sort of afraid to open it".
"Why not?" she says, clearly forgetting her until just-last-year dating experiences.
"It's a picture" I say.
"Oh, God" she says.
"I know, right?"
"C'mon, open it up" she says.
"What if it's a dick pic? I'll be so disappointed. As long as I don't open it, I won't be disappointed."
"Promise you'll show it to me if it's a dick pic!"
"Do you really want to see it?" I ask.
"No, not really. Well yes, but then I'll regret it."
"Okay, let's do it." And then we both lean over the phone as it loads, softly chanting "don't be a dick pic, don't be a dick pic, don't be a dick pic".
Thankfully, in this case, it was not. A lovely innocent picture, actually. For which I was grateful.
Because here's the thing. I haven't even met YOU yet, much less your private parts. Even your less than private parts (that's me giving you the side-eye again, Ab-Guy). Hey, maybe we'll get to know each other and then maybe I'll be fond enough of those parts that I might like an occasional reminder. But not until then.
For now, you send that crap and I'm deleting you so fast, I might chip a nail. And what you just did? Clearly telegraphed that you have a poor understanding of women and even poorer understanding of consent.
Not to mention, we're totally going to make fun of it. Seriously.