I’m not “just your average girl,” so if your Tinder profile says “just your average guy” … swipe left.
Look at my photos. Little black dress. Cutoffs. Wet suit, snowboard, business suit, sundress, heels, Grateful Dead Blues t-shirt … Look closer. Hair wild, knees skinned. I always look like I’m up to something.
“Try to keep up.” That’s what my profile says. I’ve given up trying to write something that makes me seem desirable.
“There is nothing in life better than laughing until I’m gasping for breath and my side hurts, active seeker of laughter” blah blah blah. What’s the point. Don’t we all like to laugh?
You should probably go find a nice girl at church. A PTA mom who bakes gluten-free brownies. Maybe a guidance counselor. Men love guidance counselors.
If I laid it all out there before we ever met, well, we’d never meet. I have a huge heart. A hard shell with a soft middle. I’ve been stepped on a few times but I don’t wear it like a badge, and I don’t carry my baggage with me. It’s way too heavy and I like travelin’ light. (It’s the only way to fly.)
And I have a wicked temper. If I walk away, don’t follow me. My tongue is sharp, my aim is true , and my eyes will burn a hole right through you. It takes a lot to make me lose my temper but when I do, things get broken. (Usually just my own hand and my own windshield, but it’s still best if you just walk away.)
I cook, I sew, I can be quite the domestic maven. Most people don’t guess that about me. I can also analyze medical conditions, pop start a car, set up a home entertainment system and lots of other useful things.
I guess what I’m trying to say is I don’t need a man. As my daughters will tell you, I’m kind of a dude. I like to fish, shoot guns, and I have my own tools. If you’re in my life, it’s because I want you in it. Don’t force the day to come when I decide I’m better company than you are.
I’m a reporter. Read 8 Reasons Why You Should Never Date a Journalist. It’s a nice little summary of why it’s not for everyone.
I’m also psychic. Not like on TV or some party trick. Sorry in advance for when that time comes that it freaks you the fuck out. Or, you’re welcome. Your choice.
I don’t sleep. And when I do, I don’t sleep well. Or I sleep like the dead, or sleep walk, or sleep talk, or sleep eat. I just polished off a whole jar of jelly two nights ago. When I lived in the Keys, I slept through the first half of Hurricane Katrina. On any given day, I set seven different alarms. I work strange hours, and sleep even stranger ones. I know you hate me when I hit the snooze button 47 times. Trust me, I hate myself for it, too.
My life reads like a B-rated movie script. Stuck in Cuba with no passport. Marooned in Mexico. Stranded roadside in Waco while the Branch Davidian burned. I always make it home somehow, and just so you know, I hate coming home. I would cash it all in and live out of a backpack forever, just me and my gypsy feet.
Don’t even get me started on dependency issues, feral children, spoiled children, mommy issues, daddy issues … really, any issues. I have abandonment issues. Don’t leave me by the roadside in Mexico and you won’t have to deal with them. Easy, see? And jesus lord if you live in your mother’s basement, just don’t. (If your ex lives in your basement, also not okay.)
While we’re talking about exes, if yours is prone to batshit crazy maneuvers, like leaving voicemails for my boss telling him what a horrible person I am, watch me run for the hills like the devil is on my back. I’ve played that game before — nobody wins.
And maybe I should have put this up at the top, but if you’re gay, please, for the love of all that is holy, figure that out before we date for seven months. Stop blaming your sexual inadequacies on ADD. No one’s buying it.
Have passion. Be fearless. Note that I said fearless, not stupid. You should also have a soft spot for puppies and babies. I’m pretty tough, but I like a little tenderness to go with that 20-mile bike trail, that 120-foot wreck dive. Your hand on the small of my back. Hot tea in bed when I don’t feel good. A random text telling me you’re thinking of me.
You probably can’t keep up with me, and I don’t expect you to. I’m an Aries. I live life firing on all eight cylinders. When I am forced to sit for too long, I fidget.
For god’s sake, man, swipe left! Now’s your chance!
You’re still reading?
OK then, moving on — please never attempt to bullshit me. I’m looking through you. (You might want to refer to the article I posted earlier.) I’m a journalist with a photographic memory. It’s my job to sift through spin and political posturing to get to the truth. The carryover in my personal life can be brutal. By date two, I have already looked you up on Case net, I know that your sister lives in Ohio, (she just filed for divorce, by the way, her husband was cheating on her), what you drove when you were 16, and plenty of other things you didn’t know was public record.
I found my biological parents … it took me 17 years, but I found them. I had no names, no identifying information, just a date, and age and a hospital that had been torn down years ago. So my detective skills are pretty sharp. You’re sister who lives in Ohio? She also just switched jobs. Seems like she’s going through some stuff, you should probably give her a call.
Now ask yourself again, can I handle all of that?
If your answer is “yes,” go ahead and message me, and make it something good. I’m all or nothing. Black and white. I’ll trade cruise ships and resorts for a sailboat and couch camping with the locals any day of the week.
Someone once told me “Adventure has a way of finding you.” Indeed. Adventure doesn’t find folks who play it safe. It finds those who don’t hesitate to hop the train and explore the seedy underbelly. Those who look serial killers in the eye, stick a mic in their face and ask without flinching, “Why’d you do it?”
Online dating is tricky. Sometimes I feel like I’m shopping at Lowe’s. You know, that aisle with the huge sign that says TOOL WORLD. But, I’m a hopeless romantic and I believe that somewhere, somehow, there is someone for me.
And if not, I’m OK with that too, because loving myself can be so much more fulfilling than loving someone else.
I’ve had a lot of first and last dates, and I’ve met some really nice guys. Sometimes they lack passion, or lack the intelligence or fortitude to back it up. Sometimes there’s just no chemistry. More men my age than you would ever believe want to have children. These are the ones I want to grab by the collar and shake and say to them, “Life is not a sushi menu. You don’t get to check off a box of what you want, and if it’s not what you expected, you can’t send it back. You get what you get. You deal with it with as much grace and dignity as possible and you move forward.”
I do believe in true love. Really, I do.
But for now, I’m going to listen to this song one more time and envy the fools that fall in love. Those of you who are doing it right help the rest of us keep the faith.
Off the record 