So you’re sitting in a packed stadium mindfully appreciating the perks of it’s magnitude only to have the guy next to you stand up, strip free of his clothing and run the field naked. Your jaw drops. Security comes. Probably weeks of preparation and less than eight seconds of show. So much hype, the crowd goes wild… and then it’s over.
My online dating experiences lately have been a lot like streaking. Not in that I like to protest by way of nudity, but that some conversations are the coolest thing to happen to me all week and then just like that, he’s gone. Don’t get me wrong, I can make any conversation entertaining. Put a bot on the other end of a laptop within my radius and you bet your sweet as I’ll be sure to have a giggle. But these guys are topping charts, and then quickly becoming one hit wonders.
Men lately have been perfectly wrapped boxes of shit. On the outside they’ve ‘been looking for commitment’, and love a ‘woman with curves’ and always wanted ‘little dogs named after a delicious beer’. Like, stop it. You’re too good to be true. That’s because, as it turns out, nothing about you is.
I religiously watch the show Catfish on MTV, so I know that the amount of dates I go on would statistically put me at a higher risk for fishing in this pond. But even after a year of sifting through profile after profile and giving out my number I’ve always had enough female intuition to weed out the fakes. I’ve been on (roughly) 40 dates in the past 12 months, and not one of them looked any different than what I took away from their profile. That’s some pretty good luck on my end. The kicker is that these “catfish” are luring me into a false sense of excitement before I can catch on and then I’m dropped faster than a testicle. This is undoubtedly the worst feeling in the world. Next to bleeding through your tampon.
He’s 6’3. He has a house that he can’t wait to share with the right woman. He likes to work out. He travels. He makes abortion jokes without blinking. He wakes me up with “Good Morning Beautiful”. He sends me photos of “the hiking trails were going to take together”. He says “Marry Me?” when I share something that makes me vulnerable. Swoonville: Party of one.
It’s been 72 hours of non-stop textual stimulation. It’s time to meet, you know…face to face. Mano y mano. Naturally, his profile has disappeared. He won’t answer a phone call. The guy refuses to text me back. This fucker is officially gone from existence. What kind of balls must a man have to take three days out of his work week to make someone fall head over heels for them, just to bounce?
My insecurities are at a ten when this kind of awful exit strategy arises. I often wonder what I’ve done to be so highly anticipated and then so quickly forgotten. I used to think it was something I did. Or a picture I sent. Or the way I used “fuck” and “your mother” in the same sentence. It’s not. I’ve analyzed conversations and photographs like a god damn detective. Nothing I do is wrong. I am the crème de la crème. These morons are either scared, fake or married. None of which makes them a viable option anyway.
I’m glad we got to play house with my feelings for a weekend, but when I say ” I really want to meet you” it doesn’t translate to pull the love-rug out from under me and run. If I wanted to play games, I’d break out the dice. Whoever you are, whoever you were, I hope you return some day to tell me the real reason why you left open-ended. Because as it stands, I assume it’s because I’m way-too-much woman for a way-too-less man. That, or your wife took away your cell phone privileges.