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Recently, I read this really great book written by a former personal ads editor from Chicago. It’s true, I can read. I just can’t write good.
“I Know You’re Out There” by Michael Beaumier wasn’t just about people who place personals, it was more about romantic and familial relationships and experiences.
The book made it seem as if placing a personal ad wasn’t the most desperate move one could make. Plenty of people have been flocking to dating Web sites recently. If they weren’t, I wouldn’t have to see disgustingly happy couples flaunt their HTML-based love on the television every night. Surprisingly, though, those couples only seem slightly happier than the couples trying to avoid herpes outbreaks.
Oh, advertising, how you’ve ruined the way I understand love.
The book got me wondering if I would ever want to meet anyone with the aid of some go-between like a classified ad, a Web site or just wait for some catastrophic event that would leave just me and her to repopulate the Earth. I began to wonder about the legitimacy of such dating intermediaries. As you can imagine, I’m pretty bad at meeting women on my own unless I’ve had a little liquid courage (Red Bull, Jolt Cola, etc.), which then leads me to speak about anything from beach volleyball to the time I high-fived wrestler the Big Show at the Mall of America.
If I did get into that, which is admitting I’d hit rock bottom, I’d have to find a decent picture of myself (something at least 5 years old, or from when I was 5 years old), think up a catchy profile name (masculine
feminist11) and scrounge up some ends to invest in my love life.
More likely, though, you’ll hear the words “Rosie O’Donnell, playmate of the year” before I find a cyber-date.
It’s probably too much work, anyhow. I’d rather get through this with as little effort as possible because, according to sitcoms and stand-up comedians, dating is really exhausting and expensive. And the whole thing where you have to put on a show and present the best version of you is unnerving and makes the situation even worse. I don’t want to find out six months into a relationship about some girl’s borderline personality disorder. I hate surprises.
Just get everything out of the way from the start; take your Zoloft with dinner, explain the the teardrop tattoo next to your eye and show her the wrinkled picture of your high school girlfriend you keep in your wallet (never give up hope!).
by Tim Rawal, trawal@citizen-times.com
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