Failed Chemistry

Failed Chemistry

Or maybe it failed me. God knows I gave it the old college try. A couple of months ago I signed up with Chemistry.com, Match.com’s answer to eHarmony. And I was cautiously optimistic. Unlike Bob from Brooklyn, who was “seeking cosmic love, I was just looking for someone to pal around with (hopefully NOT a terrorist!), who was interested in travel, the arts, liberal political discussion.

I didn’t find him. Or anyone even close. What I did find was a born again Christian truck driver who was still living with his parents, a retired sanitation worker, a guy who worked in chemical waste treatment and a whole slew of men who haven’t read a book since The DaVinci Code. I received profiles of men describing themselves as:  “in pretty good shape for my age and still have my hair” and guys who were not particularly particular about their matches: “Our common interest should be that you're woman and I'm a man. Height: four feet to seven feet; body type: no preference.”

I was baffled by men who couldn’t figure out how, in today’s digital age, to upload a current photograph.  Helpful hints: do not take a self portrait from a cell phone in the bathroom mirror with a stack of dirty laundry reflecting in the background.  Refrain from wearing large sunglasses that totally obscure your face, or worse, gag glasses. Or dressing to impress as the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz (“if you only had a brain…), or wearing a sombrero or spats unless you really are an honest to goodness cowboy. Ditto including any photo that could be mistaken for a mug shot. And (ick alert here), to the guy posing in his briefs, please know, that was not the kind of profile I was looking for.

Perhaps I had an unfair advantage. I make a living playing with words, so my profile essay clearly rocked, my pictures so cute and perky I wanted to date myself. But I was shocked at how little others concerned themselves with how they presented themselves. How hard can it be to create a somewhat appealing appeal?

The following are honest to God opening lines I got from guys actively seeking a relationship with a woman (rather than, say, their parole officer or therapist).  Sadly ladies, this is what is out there, in no particular order:
 

• I have a driver’s license and no record in place.
• You would need to be tolerant of my addiction to stock car races Saturday nights from April to September.
• I'm just looking for a no strings attached friend with benefits situation. I like it wild so if its what you want bring it on. I like big chested girls but it's not a deal breaker...
• I am a KING in search of his QUEEN. The ONE who respects ME. Loves ME. Needs ME. Wants ME. Adores ME.
• Looking to find a lady who's not insane. Don't need anybody new to dig into my pockets.  Give me an ultimatum and I shut down hard, fast and tight. Had my back against the wall for 30 years, Now is my time, not looking to please anyone unless it pleases me.
• I’m a Bi-Polar Manic Depressive. I fluctuate from wildly productive and overly imaginative to sadly depressed and near suicidal. A match for me MUST ACCEPT THIS HARDLY NOTICABLE DISABILITY.
• I tend to be hyper aware of other people's feelings, however, I'd really rather not focus too much attention on others.
• If I feel attacked or insulted I usually attack back (cannot help it - working on it)

Of course, my three-month flirtation with Chemistry.com wasn’t all toxic. I did meet and go out with a number of men I wouldn’t have otherwise met. But none of the jolly times or hearty laughs I’d been promised. Sadly, no chemistry either. I had several long, and I thought meaningful, phone conversations with the PhD playwright/artist/sculptor--perfect on paper! But in a subsequent call, it was clear he couldn’t keep his matches straight and had no idea who I was (“what is it you do, dear?”). And none of his supposed art shows, gallery openings, or plays showed up on Google, so there’s a good chance I was being played. Ditto the guy who bragged about his forty-acre back county Greenwich estate, Gulf Stream, and 10 cars, including three Hummers. Other than the obvious, “My, what a big carbon footprint you have” response this info demanded, what guy this rich would want to divulge that to a virtual stranger? Pal, don’t you know there be gold diggers in these parts?

As my subscription coughed and sputtered into the third month, the site was urging me to broaden my horizons; instead of Tall, Dark and Handsome in Westchester, perhaps I should open my mind, and heart, to Short, Bald and Homely in East Nowhere. I pooh-poohed the c oncept until David from Swarthmore, PA popped up on my screen. Yowza! I clicked to show my interest; he responded in minutes. We exchanged “”relationship essentials,” they matched. And then. Nothing?

That was the final straw. And I dropped Chemistry, just like that.

But the pull for some connection still nagged at me and I found myself moseying over to other web sites, browsing through the listings, just window shopping, really. A gorgeous German caught my eye as did a really cute golden boy (although, who am I kidding? He was much too young for me—a mere pup, really).  A rascally looking mutt with an endearingly crooked ear stole my heart, but alas, when I called the ASPCA, he was already spoken for. The good ones, it seems are always taken, even in the canine world.

Then I found the site for a golden retriever rescue group, filled out an astonishingly detailed questionnaire and am patiently waiting to see if I pass muster (in this case, I’m the one to be thoroughly, um, vetted about my past pet parenting experience).  I’ve got my eye on a handsome boy named Neptune. I’ve got a good feeling that he (or someone like him) is about to rock my world. Providing, of course, that the chemistry is right.