Because not only do I have a Match baby, whose father continues to fight me in court on child support, and has never met his son; I also have the on-again, on-again, off-again, sort-of-off-again, no-really-please-don't-call-me-again, well-okay-maybe-just-one-more-time, no-never-mind "friend;" and then there's the one who saw me on Match, then found me on Nerve. We're still friends. With occasional benefits. Of course, there are the various failed dates, not-quite-dates, and two-daters who never call again. Some were painfully boring, some were sponge-worthy, some were just really, and irritatingly, liars about their height. Which normally wouldn't bother me. Except when you tell me you're 6'2" and I'm 5'11" in my bare, naked, shoeless feet, and I show up in my awesome Sigerson kitten heels, not even my cool-as-shit Kors wedges that are three inches, but my freakin' Sigerson mules that hike my ass up less than an inch and a half, and you are, like, SHORTER than me by a head when I stand up to say, "Nice to meet you," well, then, there is just something flat wrong with you. Because did you think I wouldn't NOTICE?
There are, of course, the filter-less ones. Who know I have kids because it's there IN MY PROFILE - in its own paragraph, in fact. And still show up all freaked out about the notion of a single mom, and who then feel free to expound on how NOT ready to deal with kids they are. As if they are hoping that given the chance, and the right incentive (a walk-in closet or Caribbean cruise), I will, perhaps, find some suitable adoptive parents for my kids because I am so SMITTEN with this man, and well, children, you understand. Mommy needs to get her mojo on.
Then there's the one who snoozed me. As in, set the alarm, decided it wasn't important to be on time for our date, hit the fucking SNOOZE button, and went back to sleep for 20 minutes. Because that 20 minutes snoring alone in bed was so much better than having to kill time with me before the movie. He recently friended me on Facebook.
And, lastly, there's the real boyfriend, the one who loves me and wanted to take care of me, and be there for me and get up early with my kids so I could sleep in. Unfortunately, as mentioned above, I happen to be afflicted by emotional moronity, so of course I couldn't handle someone actually wanting to be my partner. Not if it meant having demands made on my time or my person or my life.
So yeah, I think I've finally managed to exhaust the very-remote-to-begin-with possibility of finding my Match.
Which is fine. The thought of logging on AGAIN, and updating my profile AGAIN, and acting all nonchalant when my search results produce the same cadre of faces it vomited up the last time I was an active and willing participant in this digital spin-the-bottle game...well, that thought is enough to make me want to have my period every day for the next five years.
What is a single (straight) mother to do? Frequent the single dads' chat rooms? Sandwich board myself and pound the pavement at the Brooklyn Flea? Rethink heterosexuality?
I think, actually, I'll take a break. No, really.
Right after I do some window-shopping on Nerve.