Sometimes it seems like yesterday, but it’s been over ten years since my marriage deteriorated to its painful but not entirely unforeseeable conclusion—unforeseeable in the retrospective sense, of course, if there is a retrospective sense of foresight. It was difficult, though. I came to realize that I had to accept much more of the responsibility (I hated the idea of using the word “blame” here) for the marriage’s failure than I’d initially been willing—or, rather, honest enough—to admit.
And, before you start thinking that I regret the divorce, no, I do not. I’m not a fan of regret. I try to learn from things rather than regret them. I’ve moved on from the marriage—which is what this piece is about—and so has she. She’s found a much better match for herself, and I’m genuinely happy for them. I just mention the marriage and its dissolution as an introduction to my journey of love. Anyway. . .
Now that I think about it, though, these several sentences hence, it does seem so long ago. I’ve learned so much about myself since then. Most importantly, I’ve let myself love again along the way. It took some time to learn and to grieve, but when the time came, I was ready.
About 15 months later, in fact, I was ready, really ready, like really ready-ready. Really. I’d reconnected with someone I’d met in college, and we really hit it off after the interim years of growing and stuff. I mean, we really hit it off. We moved-in together and all that. We probably would have married if it hadn’t been for the one thing—the one big thing—that we couldn’t get past.
"I was ready, really ready, like really ready-ready"
But this isn’t that story, either. It’s this story, the story of before how I’d hit it off with that one lady I met in college but after I’d taken some time to heal from the separation and divorce from my ex-wife, that three or four months in the fall of 2010. Let’s call it just three months. That way, I don’t have to write anything unnecessary to explain how four months fit into one season, even though that shouldn’t really be much of a leap because I live in a state where winter has only recently been reduced to about five months—thanks to climate change.
Anyway, I had these few months in the fall of 2010—see, that works. I can just say “a few months” and save the space for more important details. So, I had those few months in the fall of 2010 to fall in love, over and over again.
It was difficult, at first. I had really been hurt by the separation and divorce. Several years before this there had been some low points that led me to seek treatment for my depression, but this pain was different. I was afraid to give myself fully to a relationship again, until I remembered that love was worth it (and, ultimately, until I had someone to show me how to just jump feet first into love again). But I did want to feel it again. I wanted to be close to someone again. So, feeling somewhat socially awkward about meeting chicks in the wild, I opened an account on Match.com.
I must say, checking out women on Match felt kind of creepy at first—about as creeping as calling it “checking out women on Match” makes it sound—but I soon realized that they were posting their profiles to introduce themselves to the area’s available gentlemen, not unlike I was doing for those ladies. So, I furthered the introductions with some messages and made some connections.
The first date I went on was a fine how-do-ya-do into the world of online dating for me. That first in-person meeting was at the Starbucks in the nearby Barnes & Noble, and she led with the questions.
“What’s your five-year plan?”
“My five-year plan?” I replied.
That’s right, she asked me what my five-year plan was. I had been rather secure in my job at the time and hadn’t been on a job interview in years. I had interviewed for a couple promotions at work, but the interview questionnaire they used didn’t include an inquiry into where I planned to be in five years. I definitely wasn’t ready for that question. Even if I’d had a friend try to prep me for that date, I don’t believe that my five-year plan would have even been on my radar.
"checking out women on Match felt kind of creepy at first"
All that I could think of was, I don’t know—in five years—be alive and stuff, maybe not live in a basement apartment. I managed to say something that seemed reasonable, but it clearly wasn’t a plan because I’d obviously just come up with it on the fly. One thing in that plan was to have a house, which I managed to move into with a few months to spare in those five years. It had nothing to do with that plan, but still, pretty impressive, whatever your name was.
My conversation with whatever-her-name-was was rather superficial. The coffee was fine. We didn’t have a second date. I was clearly not goal-oriented enough for her. No big deal. I do feel bad for her sometimes, though, for she missed an opportunity to get with all of this [gestures at all of this]. Poor her, but then I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.
There were other dates, too. Mostly coffee and a chat, a few dinners. There were a couple women I had multiple dates with. These dates didn’t turn into a whole lot. It was soon hereafter that I reconnected with the woman I’d met in college and am not writing about in this story.
One woman, God bless her, sent me a picture of herself in her under-panties, and I sent her a picture of me in my boxers. Things escalated, and she sent me a picture to show me what her boobs looked like. Ultimately—at least as far as this aside goes—I sent her a type of picture that I’ve come to call a “low-angle selfie” (a much nicer name than “dick pic,” I think). These were very special moments between two consenting adults. I am somewhat loth to write of these special moments between this lady and myself, but the subject of low-angle selfies will be a big—no, “big” isn’t what I’m trying to say here—low-angle selfies will be an integral part of the story of my online loves. Only the discussion of them, of course—and naturally, only in a tasteful and hilarious way.
I have a strict “no unsolicited low-angle selfie policy” and a frequently narrowing interpretation of what “solicitation” means in this context. That being said, I do, regularly, send them as replies to spam text messages that suggest I may need some pharmaceutical assistance in that department. I just use them as a simple way to say, “Thank you, but no,” to my would-be friends in the boner pill logistics business.
But I digress.
Having coffee and dinner and showing each other pictures of what our nakedness looked like was all so much fun, but where was the love? I did find it, in-person, eventually, if only for a while, but I also found it there, on Match.com, in a subset of women who lived in the Bangor, Maine, area, but who, sadly enough, had temporarily relocated to Africa. Crazy timing, I know!
"I have a strict 'no unsolicited low-angle selfie policy'"
These were among the most beautiful women on Match in the Bangor area, well from the Bangor area. Life had just gotten in the way of us being able to meet in person. (I’m so unlucky in love!) But we were able to meet online, thankfully. And let me tell you, they fall in love fast. It was almost hard to believe, but then again, of course they’d fall in love with me that fast, just look once more at all this. [Gestures, once again, at all this.]
To be honest, I loved them, too. I loved how they were so open to having a future with me when we hadn’t ever met. I loved how I could say anything to them. I loved how they were honest about their situations and how they were open to me about their financial struggles, in Africa.
I gotta say, I felt bad for them, these young women from greater Bangor who just happened to actually be from Africa and how they were just trying to make it in this crazy world.
I knew what I had to do. I had to try and occupy some of their time, so that time wouldn’t be spent on some sucker who might actually send them money. Don’t get me wrong. I loved them; oh, I loved them. I loved them as a man can love a woman who’s pretending to be local and thereby scam him out of his money. That’s how much I loved them. That’s how much I always will.
There were a number of these women over the years, beginning with those few that fall, and not all of them found me on Match. I guess I just have a way of attracting hot chicks who need money. And before you worry, I do realize that there could have been men who were pretending to be local women who lived overseas. I just fell in love with the women part of the whatever it is this is called.
So, I’m going to have a few posts coming up about the attempts to catfish me and the fun I’ve had along the way. I hope you enjoy them.
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