With my Match subscription, as with most things in my life (including, let's face it, my children), I tend to go in cycles dictated by my level of boredom with watching recorded television shows while solitarily downing a bottle of wine.
That, and my tolerance for things like, oh, grown men who don't know how to spell and who still send borderline-perverted messages that end in LOL. And I'm not just talking about those cute little 30-year-olds who spam-wink me after looking at pictures and failing to see the TWO KIDS part of my profile - I'm also including those 53-year-olds who are looking for women 25-40, who think they are appealing enough to ignore those their own age, and who end every sentence with some retarded emoticon or text shorthand, most of which I can't be bothered to decipher. Speak English, people. Even Pig Latin would be a more innovative and original language.
One of my points is that it's pretty grim out there, with a couple of bright spots every once in a long while. It's why I go in three-month intervals, updating my profile with germane information when it's appropriate - like after a particularly bad date. Because clearly, I was not adamant enough about NOT LYING ABOUT YOUR HEIGHT.
Anyhoo...
I'm on one of my hiatuses at the moment, enjoying the soft and lulling silence of no winks, no Match emails suggesting someone is my soulmate because we both like dogs and Chinese food. Seriously, isn't there some poor hack writer at Match HQ who has a better sense of humor and a few more brain cells to devote to more creative Matching Points? Because what I'd really like to know is if one of the many winners picked from the vat of (questionably) male samples enjoys, as I do, the sweet scent of Sharpie Markers. Or making fun of fashion victims while drinking coffee on the stoop.
Now, I didn't delete my profile completely - it would take too long to rebuild what has become a three-and-a-half-year masterpiece built with love, patience, and wine. Not to mention a really good digital camera. And you never know - in a fit of loneliness and having spent too many nights, ummm, you know...paying ATTENTION to myself...in THAT way...I might be tempted to throw my proverbial hat in the ring, to be judged again via computer monitor, alongside all those other women lustily endowed with more cleavage who have ejected fewer offspring. Bee-atches.
The only thing is, I first entered the hallowed digital halls of Match.com when I was newly separated, had just turned 34, and had only spawned one child. I don't know if it was beginner's luck or what, but the very first Match date I ever had was with someone who flew me to Buenos Aires for New Year's and subsequently knocked me up (unbeknownst to both of us until my monthly visitor failed to show - I swear I was using protection). So I got an international, first-class trip AND a second son, all with the point and click of my mouse!
In the interim, I've added quite a few one-drink, four-week, and five-month dates to my curriculum vitae, almost all of them coming through Match. Only now, my very vital vitals have changed - five pounds, four additional (but memorable) years added to my age, three freelance jobs, two kids from two fathers, one divorce, and a haggard-looking partridge in a pear tree. Frankly, I'm tired. And as I sometimes tell my kids - I need a break.
So I've deactivated for a bit.
See you in September.
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