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If Mr Right cares about punctuality, he should probably know I have a stellar capacity for getting lost.Although, with factory-installed GPS navigation systems de rigeur and knowing there is most certainly an app for that, I am much better today at finding my way around the greater Phoenix metropolitan area.We know nothing about the methodology behind establishing these numbers, and also, it’s from a freaking online dating site.Still, lying about the car you own is probably better than lying about how much you weigh. But who would want to read any of this in an online dating profile? About a year later, after a period of offline dating which left me thinking my remaining days would be better spent alone, my best friend told me to take one more field trip online. Let me just digress to tell you that there are more than a few men in the land of online dating who claim to live in the desert - but also enjoy moonlight walks every night - on the beach.Let’s face it, Nora Ephron would probably not have described herself the way her son’s documentary characterised her, “She had a luminous smile and an easy way of introducing herself, but a razor in her back pocket”. Obediently, I touched up my profile, uploaded a recent picture in which I was wearing a favourite green shirt, and waited to see what would happen while also weighing the benefits of spending my golden years in a convent. I had no expectation that he would remember my name, anticipating instead the possibility of being number five or six in “the dating rotation”. I had sent a breezy text suggesting we meet at 5pm at a well-lit bar.He was sitting at the bar, staring ahead, and I watched him watch me out of the corner of his eye as I walked the plank all the way from the front door to where he sat. In spite of all the tactics and algorithms deployed to make sense of our checked boxes and declare us a 100 per cent match, and being declared “official” by Facebook and the young bartender who thinks we’re photogenic enough to be “the desert Obamas”, we are making this match right here, right here where angels fear to tread, in the messiness of the middle of two lives that collided at the best and worst of times.
My hearing isn’t what it used to be either, which I would rather blame on my attendance at concerts over the past 40 years than on something as graceless as aging. I can tell you what I wore and with which handbag on June 5th 1984, but not where I’m supposed to be tomorrow evening.
The report also says profile photos with BMWs get 143 percent more messages, and Toyota photos see 73 percent more messages.
In fact, simply having any sedan, van, or truck in the photo also nets an increase in messages, though we’ll go out on a limb and say you should avoid using creepy windowless murder vans at all costs.
For me, she shines brightest in a scene that snaps me back to the young woman I used to be, the one who still shows up to remind me how little time I have to become who I am supposed to be. Opera doesn’t do it for me either, and I only went to the ballet once because all the other mothers were taking their daughters to see for Christmas.
Life, she asserts, is what happens in between the beginnings and the endings - in the middle -and in the twinkling of an eye. I resent the aging process and the way it sneaks up on me at the most inopportune times.
Over beers and banter, we sized each other up and over-shared, checking off those boxes our middle-aged online personas had created. First dates that are too long (or turn into second dates on the same night) are deemed more likely to create a premature and false sense of intimacy. They’re probably right, but I’ll be damned if we didn’t do it again the next night and most nights since.