Kicking Match.com To The Curb

Despite everything that happened, it was a remarkably peaceful weekend.
Which leads me to believe that I did the right thing, and when you’re doing the right thing, right things happen.

Follow me?

Excellent.

I didn’t do anything as daring as run with scissors, but I did run around with matches and gasoline and burn (figuratively speaking) every romantic bridge that was in the process of being built.

As I mentioned earlier, I had a profile on match.com. Key word there: had.
Took it down. It’s now in the ether, never to be seen from or heard from again.
And that’s a good thing.

I made a decision, and that decsion was that match.com wasn’t good for me and it wasn’t good for the women who were contacting me.
It wasn’t good for me, because I was, in the words of Brian, engaging in the very same cafeteria mentality that I was accusing others of engaging in.

Hello, goose. Hello, gander.

I would judge them by their picture. I would judge them by their grammar, their capitalization, their music, their books, what they did for a living, how much money they made. Superficial snap judgement and they are either relegated to the yes stack or the no stack.
And I’m sure that they were doing it to me, too. So many women who went into the yes stack, I emailed, never to hear anything back. Evidently, I went into their no stack.
This turns us into cattle. Into a channel to be changed on the television.

This turns us into shoppers looking for a great bargain, rather than people looking for love and connection.

Also, it was draining. Women would contact me, and I’d start an email correspondence with them, and eventually it would die, for lack of nourisment, attention and caring. Sometimes from my end, sometimes from their end. Hail Mary, sign of the cross, and throw the dirt on the coffin, that sucker’s dead.

I remember thinking to myself this weekend: I just can’t be bothered.
I don’t know if it’s because I didn’t find or bump into the right person at the right time, or I was just damn exhausted from running around trying to find or bump into anyone. Someone.

How’s that saying go? “Eight to eighty, blind, crippled or crazy”?
Anyone would have fit the bill.

So that’s what you mean by rebound.

Got it.

So I packed up the profile, cancelled my membership, emailed everyone individually, apologized and told them they wouldn’t be hearing from me again. Have a great life. Good luck with that whole dating and looking and searching thing.

I’m sure I could have gotten laid.
Without a doubt.
That’s easy. That’s like fishing in a barrel.
I’m not ugly, stupid or an abuser.
Tell them what they want to hear, lie to them, them hey presto!
Three dates later, it’s your place or mine, what time should I set the alarm, and what do you like for breakfast.

But no.

Karmically and energy-wise, it would have just killed me.

Me, I’m outta here. Everyone out of the dating pool.
It’s too deep, and I don’t have my life preserver.
Okay, I’m too lazy to put it on.

I think I’d rather not have to think about it.
Too much work. Too much worry. Too much second-guessing. Too much wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Too much judgement.
Too much “Oh bloody hell, not again.”

Maybe I’m supposed to be single this time around. Maybe I was Ward Cleaver last lifetime.
Maybe it’s just supposed to be what it is.