Match gets interesting...

Every once in a great, long, eternal, and freak-filled while, some really cute and interesting boy will somehow find his way to my profile on Match.com and find it appealing enough get up the gumption to write.  This is no small feat, as my Intro says things like, "I need a man like a giraffe needs a step-stool," and, "You enjoy a good snog and a good debate, maybe at the same time," and of course, "Please note that Winks won't get you very far."  This last little tidbit I threw in at the end of my epic tome, just to make sure people are really paying attention, and not just spam-winking me as if I'm some starving duck in heat they can throw bread crumbs at when they need something to do and someone to pay attention to their antics.

So I know that whoever is writing likely has at least something resembling a spine, perhaps even something that more closely hews to an actual personality.  This is not always the case, as evidenced by Swoon1060's imploring me to give up my book club discussions so he can implant another bun and kiss my Latina lips.  Yes, that is a direct quote, and no, I didn't answer him. But just so you understand, dear reader, that there are few messages whose words make sense, much less inspire anything more than a resigned sigh and a short, but carefully worded, reply that does NOT include my real name.

But then...

just when I'm getting ready to cancel my subscription and contemplating a sandwich-board approach to dating - AGAIN...

Mark5787 sends a sweet little missive from his computer up in western Massachusetts.

"ahhhh...the best ones always live so far away.  tell me you love the berkshires and that you come up every week during the summer :-)            Mark"

Short?  Yes.  To the point?  Yes.  But he did suggest I was one of the "best;" which might not be that hard to achieve in the sea of Matchelorettes swimming around this vast digital ocean, but which definitely got us started off on the right foot. Because I am a sucker for a compliment.

There was the added bonus of the note coming with a picture of his impish, grinning face and his contending in his stats that he is 6'2".

What 5'11" girl wouldn't answer an email from him?

His intro, as I was to learn over the course of several days' worth of emails and phone calls, does not in any way do him justice.  Keeping up with my witty repartee and parrying back with enough in the way of 10-dollar-words and smarty-pants comments to keep me interested and on my toes is not for the faint of heart.  It's not often that I find a man secure enough in his own shoes and place in this world that he can deal with a girl like me.  And if you've read any other part of this blog, you know what I'm talking about.  I freely employ words most polite company would find offensive; I have little tolerance for ignorance or meanies; and there's the, ahem, small matter of my height.  

Mark seemed okay, if not totally pleased with, finding someone to chat with who could dish about the dysfunction of men AND women; someone whose very identity did not hinge on finding a man to save her; someone who can answer his ironic sarcasm with just enough of a bit of honey to keep it civilized and interesting.

He must have come to trust me rather shortly after our first emails, because he shared more pictures with me.  Pictures I'm glad had not been on his profile on Match, as they should be taken in context.  Of course, it's hard to provide that context here, but trust me, this shit is funny when accompanied by commentary from the peanut gallery up in Massachusetts.

In various stages of shaving his facial hair, Mark decided a Facebook flip-book-style photo montage would be an appropriate homage to a friend of his.  I'm not even sure what that homage was about; frankly, I'm almost afraid to ask, what with the psycho-FedEx-delivery-guy look and Limelight-reminiscent sunglasses.  But it makes sense if you know Mark even a little, which I'm almost sure I do now.  Plus, I'd already seen his work as a photographer and graphic designer, so I was pretty sure his aesthetic and sartorial senses did not bend to cable-guy-chic or fly-by-night-truck-driver.  

So we exchange emails, he sometimes calls; he's been to Brooklyn once, with a little help from his GPS, since I was relatively useless when it came to getting here efficiently from his hometown. 

 

I don't know where this will go; I've become an expert at not having any expectations of anyone, since it leads, almost inevitably, to disappointment.  But if Mark is half as good at developing a relationship as he is at making me laugh, there might be something there.  And if not, at least there's some glimmer of hope that smart doesn't have to equal dorky, that younger men do indeed find me attractive, and that Match does very occasionally, stupidly not-often for what they charge, in an effort to pull me back in, spit up a winner.