“I tell you how I feel,
But you don’t care.
I say tell me the truth,
But you don’t dare.
You say love is a hell
You cannot bear.
And I say gimme mine back,
And then go there,
For all I care.
I got my feet on the ground
And I don’t go to
Sleep to dream…
You got your head
In the clouds
And you’re not at
All what you seem…”
So, it’s been just about 24 hours, and already, eHarmony is behaving like that dude you gave your number to when you were bored, lonely and two-drinks-past-tipsy at the party last night. In other words, it’s #DoingTooMuch.
So far, I’ve received over a dozen emails alerting me that (one) dude “can’t stop smiling” at every single picture of me (which isn’t creepy at all); overtures from two clearly unsuitable matches (both well outside of my setting limits), and an extremely limited crew of other dudes (who seemingly have nothing to do with anything I’ve indicated that I’m looking for).
To make matters worse, I still haven’t figured out how or why eHarmony has retained my email since my first month-long trial — in 2006 (CREEEEEEEEPY). But even creepier? I still have unanswered messages from NINE. YEARS. AGO.
And those matches are STILL HERE?!?
That would literally make eHarmony the Purgatory of dating sites. I don’t even believe in purgatory; but I’m starting to. I sh*t you not: I wouldn’t be surprised if someone passed me a “Handbook for the Recently Deceased” in here. (Shout out to “Beetlejuice”—Three times.)
Bottom line: I’m already regretting this, and wondering if a swift retreat-and-block might be the answer, or even possible. But for the sake of scientific research—and perhaps, my future happiness—I’m forging ahead.
Because, scientific research—and singledom. At the very least, we can say that I tried.
By contrast, I’ve also been exploring Bumble, which is supposedly the thinking woman’s answer to Tinder.
From what I’m seeing, it’s basically the online version of “The Bachelorette”—but way, way better (because you’d actually want to date these guys). I’m talking phases of Fassbender, glimpses of Gosling and musings of Mcconaughey all over the place—and for the record, only 2-out-of-3 of those turn me on.
In fact, all of these dudes are so damned hot, I can’t escape the feeling that they are either actually stock photos (because their pics are as well-curated as…mine), paid models, or *gasp* gay (because honestly, the only place I’ve ever seen this many fine-ass men online is in the feeds of my gay male friends—who clearly have impeccable taste, and even higher standards).
Seriously: These men are so good-looking, I can only imagine that actually dating one or more of them would be a let-down, since the reality could not possibly exceed the rich fantasy life I am cultivating in my mind…
Which (once again) makes me a hypocrite, because…wasn’t I just complaining about being forced to compete with the online version of myself? Oh, yeah; I was.
But I can’t escape the feeling that all of these pretty, polished boys posing in the Hamptons aren’t exactly looking for me on the buffet, either. That is, if they actually even exist. Frankly, they aren’t even posing in a world I’d want to inhabit; but I’ll happily visit, on occasion.
So, here we are: a day later (and several subscription dollars shorter), wondering how in the hell did I get here? And who—if anyone—will be my way back out?
Just promise me this: Since (most of) you insisted on a blog, tell me that I won’t have to go through this alone.