Sat here, with Lovemenot, scaring ourselves with Crimewatch’s tales of premeditated gang robberies and other such attacks, I wonder what I am putting myself through. Most of it is going on approximately 80 miles away from us, but one can never be too sure. You see, as it has transpired, I have had quite enough scares for one week…namely my worst fears realised in the form of a social Internet-dating experiment.
I admit to having ‘bespoke’ and ‘interesting’ taste in menfolk. From the ginger-bearded and gnome-like, to the skinny-jeaned and hairy. There are the tattooed, the pierced, the paunched, the Garfield-photofits, the strangely alluring, the increasingly-strangely alluring, the grumpy and the downright shy. All of whom are beautiful. Most of whom could quite happily reside, convincingly, in The Shire. I have become quite accustomed to the looks of bewilderment and shock on the faces of my nearest and dearest when I am drooling over my latest crushes/enamourments, whilst they are trying to work out whether I’m joking or not. I never am. People expect it of me…after all back in the day when everyone was fawning over Dec, I was all about Ant. And his massive forehead.
Though the one trait in yummy menfolk I have always disliked and yet seem to attract , in the midst of usually trying to get the attention of the shy, cute friend, is arrogance. No matter how fluttery-eyelashed and Bambi-like I try to be, it’s always the arrogant or the chancers who approach little old me. Quelle Surprise!
So I decided to test this theory of arrogance. Considering this notion of arrogant chancers approaching me in a social setting, I wanted to investigate the idea that the same would happen in a far less intimate, cyber setting. So, for one week only, I put aside my personal feelings about online dating (in short - fairy tale princesses rarely sign on to the Internet to find their happy-ever-afters – see http://skinnymochamusings.blogspot.com/2010/07/serpents-of-serendipity-rear-their_27.html for more of my drivel), and set up a free profile. All in the name of research you see.
I put together a rather witty profile highlighting a few of my favourite things, tattoos, writing, shopping, a few lesser-known bands to really get the thinking caps ticking and posted a recent photo of myself in The Rose Print Dress (it works). And, amongst playing the new Adele song on Youtube far too much and trying to assemble some Christmas present ideas for friends and family, I waited with baited breath to see what sort of response my little social experiment would bring.
The Pantera-reject was first, with a ‘hilarious’ tale of a Cure concert he went to round about the time I was learning to join my letters together in Reception class. His timeless tale, where he pretended to be blind in order to get to the front, included a wonderful anecdote of him being escorted to the bathroom by a steward. Yup some poor gigging bastard could have been kicked to death, unseen by ill-informed security, during ‘Friday I’m in Love’ just so some long-haired idiot, could fulfil his dream of trying to lick Rob Smith. I would have had to be blind, deaf and dumb to reply to him.
Next up…someone I’ll simply call ‘Mr Illiterate’. The sad truth is he turned out to be one of many. His simple one-line ice-breaker of ‘Hi Lukin NYC’, somewhat baffled me. Was his name Luke? Did he live in New York? Oh no, wait, he’s just thick. Even the Google language translator couldn’t save me this time, so I engaged Lovemenot in some detection. And, much like a Whistles-clad Sherlock and Watson, Lovemenot and I concluded that he was simply trying to type ‘hi, looking nice’. Not the hardest three words in the dictionary is it? It’s even worse than text speak, it’s no speak. So I’m afraid Mr Illiterate, unlike Cheryl Cole, three words will not change your life, unless you learn (and may I add hastily) how to spell. Then and only then can you consider conversing with women, or members of the general public, over the age of three.
Speaking of which, I very much appreciated the compliment from a certain ‘Specialist UK’, more like ‘Special UK’, who simply said I was ‘Beartfuli’. I resisted, but very much felt the urge to reply ‘I’m sorry I don’t understand you, it must be something to do with BEING BORN IN THE 90s?’ For the record Mr ‘damn your cute (apostrophe followed by R and E you retard), fancy a chat hunni’ would also get no response on principle. Since when did it become ok to chat women up like you’re singing a Will Smith song?
There were gig-goers and all that. Men who, I am thankful, had actually bothered to look past the first line of my profile, or the cut of my dress, to try and find some common ground on which to start conversation. Some liked The Black Keys, others were keen to know what the best gig I had ever been to was (Michael Jackson, Wembley Stadium 1996 – Ha). Sadly though, there wasn’t a ginger beard in sight, so the social experiment continued, though full marks to the curly-haired one who spotted the Jimi Hendrix poster in my photo background.
This one interested me, so I thought I would give it a go and reply. The responses were quick and painless. He seemed fairly normal and quite keen to take me out on a date. I threw caution to the wind and gave him my digits. One photo, a few emails and some text messages later, he was suggesting how much he might like to ‘curl up on the sofa with me’. Yup sure, being that you don’t know what I look like in person or what my voice sounds like, I really didn’t feel this is appropriate behaviour. I gave him the benefit of the doubt for a few more days before deciding to cut it off as his texting and neediness, quite frankly, scared me. Am strong, independent woman seeking strong, indie-pendent man, not wet mop.
Some of the responses were shocking. Some of them want to use you. Some of them want to get used by you and some of them just want to get to ‘no you’. Um ‘Know way’ I say (I told you Mr Illiterate was not alone). They were blocked quicker than you can say ‘resign resign resign’. Plus there were a couple of mobile numbers thrown in email numero uno…desperate? A tad!
All in all I felt more and more disheartened by the whole process. By the end of the week I had received something in the region of forty emails, all of them charmers, most of them chancers and more than half wanted nothing more than to strut their ‘manliness’ in a ‘safe, Internet environment’. I believe I proved myself right. Obviously I feel it’s important to add, once again, if the world of Internet dating works for you, then do go forth and prosper. Date to your heart’s content, scroll through the profiles of exciting potentials and enjoy every single minute. But it still left me cold, and devoid of all hope of a Prince Charming on my interests and intellectual level. I concluded the experiment dying for a long, hard talk with someone ambitious, capable of more than one line sentences and who can preferably spell. But maybe that’s asking too much? I prefer to think not, and hope not.
Well in amongst all that harsh talk, I have great festive news fellow musings…after much deliberation between the powers that be at that magical land of ‘Head Office’, my store WILL indeed be closed on Boxing Day, much to the excitement of yours truly who can now OFFICIALLY go home for Christmas! Yes it’s going to be Mince Pies and Crackers all round this year once again as I sit at my rightful place around the dinner table with Christmas Top of the Pops blaring in the background. I can’t wait…though fear my bad side may get the better of me when negotiating the train journey home.
Although my momentary elation of Christmas cheer has been somewhat shattered with the news that Dream Boy, yes the one I have dreamed of and fawned over for the past God-knows-how-long, actually has a girlfriend. And discovered, quite by chance, on a recent fun, Jagerbomb-downing, bar-crawling night out with him and his mates; when one had every intention of making one’s feelings known. It was like taking a bullet, the kind that even a secret hand-squeezing from Lovemenot couldn’t quite retract. I’m surprised I didn’t fall off my chair, instead I gracefully died inside and wore an ear to ear smile whilst shamelessly flirting with The Banned One (TO). Nobody was any the wiser. But, alas, that is life, and if it’s not meant to be then there is nowt can be done. And if you like someone, then you want the best for them, so if he is happy then that really is all that matters. We are friends and that’s nice (trying to muster up some sort of positive mental attitude here), I can’t keep living with my head in the clouds. So long Dream Boy…the dream is over.
Alas, not one to want to ruin anyone else’s festivities I shall simply take the opportunity to wish you all an incredibly Merry Christmas. May we see this year out in truly fabulous fashion with friends, family and frolicking in the snow.
Mwah x
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