Bar Stool Samples

Early in my post-marriage computer dating career, I learned to expect that the person I was about to meet in the flesh would bear little resemblance to the photo I had seen on line. I discovered, pretty much on date number one, that contrary to popular belief, the camera subtracts twenty pounds and adds ten inches in height.

On one such date, after I had been sitting for what seemed like an eternity on a bar stool facing a guy who appeared to have both the inner and outer beauty of a gnome, the waiter stopped by and asked if I would like a drink. I nodded vigorously, too vigorously perhaps -- so vigorously, in fact, my neck hurt for days afterward. At least I got some exercise.

As time went on, I became a bit more savvy and a lot more selective, which meant I spent a lot of Saturday nights cuddling on the couch with a shedding and smelly dog. I did my fair share of heavy petting, he did a lot of drooling, we both ate a lot of cookies (our own version of bending an elbow).  Sometimes I never even made it up to my own bed, unable to muster up the strength to untangle my scrunched and oddly bent limbs. In the wee hours of the morning, still wearing my clothes from the day before, I would do the equivalent of a walk of shame as I stumbled up the stairs, trying to see through my mascara caked eyes.

Life has improved greatly since those early days. At least for me and the dog. We rarely even bother with the pretense of a date on the couch now; we just start off in bed. I resist the urge to put on mascara during the day, so my morning vision has drastically improved. Which will be useful if I decide to venture onto a dating site again -- I will be able to read between the lines, recognize the telltale signs of photo shop. I can barely remember the last time I sat on a bar stool nodding and drooling as if my life depended on it when the waiter asks if I want a drink. My neck doesn't hurt; I have found other ways to burn calories. The only one drooling these days is the dog.

I ran into someone the other day who had dated a friend of mine after his first marriage had failed. The last time I saw him -- more than a few years ago -- he was giddy, about to remarry. I remember thinking how nice it was that he had found Mrs. Right. "You're married again, aren't you?" I asked him the other day as we made conversation in the Starbucks line.

"Yes, just recently as a matter of fact," he responded. I cocked my head (yes, I've started to look like my dog and have acquired his mannerisms). "For the second time," he explained. "The first one was a psycho."

I've heard that a lot. About the actual first one, and then again about the first second one. Yet he, like so many other men I have met, has gone for the second second one, or, by my count, marriage number three. Who's the psycho? You tell me. If I were a betting woman, I'd wager the next time I run into this guy, he will be telling me about the short lived marriage to psycho number three.

Okay, so maybe I sound a little cynical, but, rest assured, I remain open minded. I still consider myself a dog person, for example, but I have not ruled out the possibility of one day becoming an eccentric and socially isolated old woman who lives with -- and for -- her cats.