Live From The Grayish Carpet

Life on the Other Side of Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll

OK, Stupid

OKCupid

I reactivated my OK Cupid account last week. It may be because I’m bored, or it could be that I need something to think about other than how much I hate the holidays.  I’m not sure. I can’t really explain it.  I didn’t think I had any interest in dating or coupling up.

I was last on OK Cupid four years ago, when I lived in San Francisco, and I know exactly why.  I thought that if I had someone new to obsess on,   I would obsess less on the then-object of my desire,a 27-year-old felon who loved America like he loved guns, God and visiting days.   At the time I was suffering from the residual impact of prolonged pharmaceutical abuse.

My first go round with OK Cupid was satisfactory  — I got over the felon  — but I was ultimately scarred by the experience.   I  didn’t know that I’d be popular simply by merit of my gender, and with a deluge of suitors,  I  started to feel pretty good about myself.   I took new pictures rather than using my go-to — a headshot from 1995 — and fed a few of them into a program called MyBestFace.   It was a mistake. MyBestFace suggests the most appealing photos to use  based  on click data generated through a side-by-side comparison of similar users.   The algorithm determined that users similar  to me were thin-lipped ladies in their 70s who posed with cats and puddings.  Several men chose  a one-eyed mustachioed woman missing an eye and two teeth over me.

I was crushed. My self-confidence evaporated, and I deleted my profile.

On Tuesday, when I reactivated it, I replaced the 1995 headshot with a recent (albeit soft-focus) photo, and  added a muscley picture which I hoped would convey that men looking for breasts would be disappointed.  I wrote that I didn’t drive, smoked like a chimney and ate like a three year old, and  I noted that I could be on OK Cupid in search of material for my blog.   It was a statement that was both  true and strategic — I  figured that if I wasn’t flooded with interest,  I could tell myself that it was because desirable men would know better than to make themselves a target.

I signed off after I updated my profile and went about my day, carrying on like I always do. I responded to emails,  returned phone calls,  and finished some overdue copy.  I played 47 rounds of Words with Friends, added 14 {{citationneeded}} templates to Wikipedia, went to the gym, and dicked around on Facebook.  At around 10:00,  I logged back on to OK Cupid.  I was thrilled! 252 people liked me,  and I had 25 messages.

Unfortunately, 18 of them were from men who fell into the not-with-a-forty-foot-pole category.   Three were from a guy in El Segundo, who sent the OK Cupid equivalent of a form letter.  ( “So what if I was the right guy for you …” followed by “Tell me why, you would be so Amazing in a Relationship” and finally “Let’s meet for a drink! Bet we have chemistry!”)   There was a message from  Carpentry147, who wrote “Just wierd,” and a  message from a 26-year-old in Alhambra inviting me to attend a results-guaranteed  transformational self-improvement seminar.   There was a smart message from a stunningly  handsome and  age appropriate man, but it was marked with a bot-generated warning not to  transfer funds to someone you met on the Internet and to keep conversations safely on OkCupid.

I was disappointed but not defeated. I  gamely scrolled through the hundreds of guys that OK Cupid suggested, and read the profiles of men who were considered  at least 80% likely to be a  match. They included  a  fellow who chose the screen name “Farter,” a 23-year-old who listed Dumb and Dumber as his favorite movie and,  at 93%,  “ToBeYourBitch,” a chubby man in black satin knickers, a lace camisole, and a Marlo Thomas circa That Girl wig.

I was about to give up when I came across a good looking writer.  A  90%  match!   We exchanged messages, and he got in touch with me on  Facebook.  He seemed promising:  we  were both friends (or, y’know, “friends”) with Jennifer Egan.  But when I asked how he knew her, he was stumped.   He didn’t know her, and he didn’t know that she had won a Pulitzer Prize for fiction.  I found this far more troubling than his request that I send him photos of my nipples.

In the time it’s taken to write this post,  I’ve gotten nine more emails.   One is from a 94%er looking for a woman interested in the HotWife lifestyle,  and another is from a guy in Ohio who really admires  my beauty and “will like to know more about you and see if we can work out our differences.”   I may not know why I’m on OK Cupid,  but I’m suitably distracted, and fully entertained.  And as RonnieC (42 in Carson) pointed out,  “Life ends when you stop dreaming, hope ends when you stop believing and love ends when you stop caring. So dream hope and love.  Or whatever.”

5 comments on “OK, Stupid

  1. Karen Davidson
    November 24, 2015

    I love your candid writing – so powerful and ahem..:funny . There’s always hope; dear Julie!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Karen Woods
    November 24, 2015

    Funny as hell, as usual.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Andy Schwartz
    November 25, 2015

    The “HotWife lifestyle” — could that be what “the chubby man in black satin knickers, a lace camisole, and a Marlo Thomas circa That Girl wig” is searching for?

    Like

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This entry was posted on November 24, 2015 by in Life, Sex.
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