Authors: van Wallach
Tags: #Relationships, #Humor, #Topic, #Religion, #Personal Memoirs, #Biography & Autobiography
But life went on in its maddening, hope-surging way. As I started chasing the Swan, I contacted Vendetta, a woman whose online disappointments and world-weary bitterness created a space that I thought I could fill as the decent normal guy—not tall, not rich, having no ski chalet, but not too colossal of a shmuck, either. She asked me about my JDate experiences and I remarked I would be meeting somebody interesting in a few days (the Swan). Vendetta replied,
We kept swapping warm emails and I indeed wanted to meet Vendetta, to keep my emotional investment portfolio diversified. Using email only, Vendetta and I worked out a meeting plan. She never wanted to talk on the phone, an oddity that concerned me, but I told myself it was part of her off-beat charm and obvious intelligence. Educated and caring, she looked so perky with her auburn hair and Semitic features that I tolerated the nonsense just to meet her in person (you know how guys are). The first time we ever spoke was the day I took vacation time from work to travel to her city for lunch at a restaurant where she and her ex ate—she’d slipped in that detail. I liked both her smarts and appearance, and could see meeting again. She had some quirks—such as the bias against phone calls—but I could accept them. I felt good on the trip home.
Once I got back, Vendetta turned a full-throttle chainsaw on my musings when she wrote:
Flabbergasted by this strange turn, I immediately wrote back:
To my surprise, Vendetta sent a short note asking how things were going. I replied, in part,
We swapped a few more messages and then I never heard from her again, although I made a few attempts to connect. Her silence told me everything I needed to know. I turned my attention back to the Swan and others, the sources of so much functional value. The flow chart of yearning branched in one direction rather than the other.
And Vendetta? She stayed in my mind, as I wondered how her life evolved after our brief flicker of contact. I wish her well. She has her own stories to tell. I’m not one of them.
Portions of “His Perspective: The Functional Value of Heartache” were originally published in JMag, the online magazine for JDate.com.
Dating sites often offer real-world events where people can actually meet and get acquainted. Some were “official” events; others were organized by site members on their own. In both cases, the experience was very different from grazing among the profiles. I was forced to interact in larger groups where I often felt out of place, out of my solitary element.
I wilted in loud, crowded, alcohol-driven venues where men were challenged to blast into a tight circle of women friends huddling together like a rugby scrum. Typically, the noise, the crowds, and the lack of information about the women inhibited me. I felt adrift and out of my element, just one more Jewish guy with a goatee trying to shout above the roar.
I hoped for a better experience in the more structured environment of speed dating, through a version organized by JDate’s parent company, called HurryDate. I had never done anything like it. Compared to the micromanaging possible online—backstory provided by profiles, mood created by pictures, snappy rejoinders composed at the keyboard rather than on the spot—HurryDate promised to close the digital distance in real time, real space but with a chance to focus on one woman at a time. I wouldn’t have to sidle up to a woman held in a tight little posse of her female friends, nor try to force myself into the line of tycoons (so I always imagined) angling for the proverbial Hot Jewish Chick. Participants had four minutes in the mixing bowl to figure that out, face to face.
I thought carefully about presentation. The women would see the 3-D me, not pictures. A slide show versus live theater. Deciding to go upscale, I wore a sports coat, a blue button-down shirt and a confidence-inspiring Jerry Garcia tie. The ensemble said, “I pay attention. You’re worth a guy who dresses nicely for our first encounter.”
I walked into the Falucka bar/restaurant on Bleecker Street in time for the half-hour of socializing. Scanning the group to check out the women—and the men—I signed in and settled into an open space at the bar to talk to a man who, like me, lived in the suburbs. He was there with a friend. They must not have liked the pickings, because they left before the event started.
The organizers gave the stragglers a few extra minutes; then they explained the mechanics: women stay seated, men move on every four minutes to the next table for a new date whenever a whistle was blown.
The first date started the HurryDate experience nicely. The woman was intelligent, educated, attractive. Information about her children suggested she was probably older than me, but I wasn’t going to let that be a hindrance. I marked her “yes” on my score sheet, which offered only yes-and-no choices. HurryDate left no room for ambiguity.
As I moved through other dates, each conversation had its own rhythm. What do you do, where do you live, what do you enjoy doing in your spare time (I asked that, but nobody asked me). When the conversation lingered too long on a single topic, like our children, I asked another question. Several times I had to explain the origins of my highly un-Jewish name, Van.
I kept my eye on the approaching women as the whistle-signal led to another round of musical chairs. You see, I recognized two of the women. One I had dated a few times several years earlier, and another I had emailed on JDate and never received a reply. I had contacted her in recent weeks after she changed her picture—I told her I liked it—but I never heard back.
I rolled into a date with the no-contact woman first. I recognized her name, profession and look from her profile, where she had recently placed an appealing new picture. It had to be her. We did the usual getting-to-know-all-about-you chatter, then I said, “You know, I have written to you on JDate and you never responded.” She explained she had had computer problems, and other people had also been concerned when they didn’t hear back from her. Our conversation had more of an edge to it, based on a history, albeit one-sided one. I marked her a “yes.”
My very next date was the woman I met on before. We went out a few times; then I got involved with someone else. She also remembered me, and even mentioned an old screen name. We knew enough to get caught up on work and kid issues, and that felt good. I marked her a “yes,” also.
I kept moving around. The sound level rose, and after more than a dozen dates my energy flagged. I was relieved when I reached the last one, with a woman I had spoken to during the social hour.
At home, I logged on and cast my votes. I marked yes for four, no for the others (I would have marked only three, but two women had the same name and I couldn’t tell from my notes which I was interested in, so I marked both). I couldn’t fake enthusiasm for women where I felt no connection. I could tell when I would be interested, on emotional, social and, yes, physical grounds. After all the back and forth JDate often involves, an in-person meeting and a chance to see and hear really can make a difference. A day later, I had three “yes” matches—the three I wanted. The confidence-building Jerry Garcia tie had worked its magic.
The evening yielded one date, with the woman I had written to before. We had lunch in Greenwich Village and walked around outdoor art displays. Her photo had benefited from professional-level makeup, so she didn’t look as I expected, and our personalities didn’t fit at all. So that was that. I never tried HurryDate again.
However, the concept makes lots of sense for people who step away from their computer to meet people in the real world.
“Speed Dating, or, The Shock of the Real” was originally published in JMag, the online magazine for JDate.com.
Compared to a painting style, online dating is more Jackson Pollock paint splotch than grand sweeping canvas. The big picture consisted of a mess of overlapping contacts, conversations, encounters, hopes, disappointments, laughter, driveway embraces, coincidences, betrayals and actual relationships. Some never got past an excruciating first meeting. Often nothing happened after a ho-hum first phone conversation. Some connections never got the chance to bloom or go as far as I hoped.
Some of my favorite stories don’t fit neatly into a big-theme chapter. Something happened, a smile flashed and faded, I chased a purr that guttered into silence, I formed a friendship that has endured. Here, some dispatches from the love-war zone:
I wrote to one woman who sounded intelligent and committed to her beliefs, and I liked her pictures. I heard nothing. Then she was gone from JDate. About eight months later her profile returned and, ever the optimist, I IM’d her. We chatted and she invited me to call her, so I did. I didn’t really think about the absence. People come and go all the time on dating sites as they fall in and out of love, get frustrated, or just lose interest for a time.
We talked a while and she finally said she had been off JDate. I said I had noticed.
“
You can ask me why I was off JDate for six months.”
I found this puzzling.
“
Really, you can ask me.”
Curious, I finally said, “Okay, why were you off JDate?”
“
Because I was incarcerated!”
This led to a half-hour monologue for which I was an audience of one. In an increasingly strident tone, the woman related what exactly led to her spending six months in jail. She wasn’t kidding, either; she said an article in a publication would tell the whole story and I found it as soon as it appeared. Making threats against public officials isn’t a turn-on for me, so our contacts ended promptly then.
My dating life intersected with the criminal justice system at least one other time. I wanted to meet Galadriel, whose nickname reflects her healing powers and her lovely flowing tresses that reminded me of the Elven princess Galadriel’s in
The Lord of the Rings,
played by Cate Blanchett
.
Galadriel had three children and a busy schedule, so arranging a date was unusually difficult. But we were motivated and all systems were go for a Sunday afternoon at the Neuberger Museum on the campus of the State University of New York in Purchase. I was cruising along the Merritt Parkway getting close to SUNY when Galadriel called, sounding terribly upset.
“
I can’t meet you. I have to go pick up my kids at a police station in the Bronx.”
“
Good God, Galadriel, what happened?” I said, trying to keep from steering my car into a ditch.
“
They were with their father at his apartment. He got into a fight with his girlfriend and she called the police on him—domestic abuse. They all got taken to jail and the kids are just sitting there in the waiting room. I’m so sorry, I can’t come meet you.”