The online dating roller coaster can lurch chills down the spine of the most seasoned Lolita, which I most certainly am not. Throwing my profile into the proverbial haystack hoping to find the needle of my dreams is an exercise of patience on the edge of insanity. Typically, my inbox is populated with suitors I’ll categorize as spam.
As you can see from this blog, I recently joined the school of “Laying It On The Line.” I aspire to shout my Dystonia from every street corner and rooftop…and also on my JDate public offering. While awaiting approval of a new essay featuring You Know Who, I broached my approach with friends, who stood united in their negative feedback. I guess the online dating marketplace isn’t ready for full disease disclosure, which would more than separate the princes from the frogs. Grudgingly, I concede sharing health details is best practiced face to face after we’ve discerned a genuine mutual interest.
On the rare occasions when I stumble upon a prospective Mr. Right, I harness my inclination to unload my Dystonia during our getting to know you minutia. Part of me is thrilled to live such a fanciful existence. No speaking, no walking, if only we could flip cyber reality with everyday life! Eden doesn’t last for long. After a few paragraphs of swordplay, most men are eager to leap to the phone and hear my voice, producing an explosion of panic that’s a 50 lb. rock at the pit of my stomach. Used to flipping cushy sentences in emails and IMs, telephone talk is a venture into an uncomfortable world.
When required to fast forward the inevitable, I prefer making the call myself, allowing the illusion of control as I improve my speech in insignificant increments with a ridiculous routine of nasal hydration, environmental manipulation, vocal preparation and lactose deprivation. Invariably, I reach their voicemail. Shouldn’t have sacrificed that latte at Starbucks.
All this self-created craziness is wrought with irony. Even when I bring up my speech, I’m sharing the unavoidably obvious. My practical purpose is to halt arbitrary conclusions in their tracks and interpose the stamp of my official record. Let’s face reality. If I don’t empower telephone beaux to serenade me with a choral refrain of “what did you say,” I’m wasting unnecessary efforts impressing my phone!