When Online Dating Pays Off
Mining For Gold
Every once in a while, you get a real banger on a dating site.
By once in a while, I mean once every 2 years. By banger, I mean question.
“What drove your perfectionistic streak? What killed it?”
Um. Excuse me, sir, your profile made no mention of pseudopsychic abilities.
After 4 lines of text exchange, how could you possibly know . . . ?
“Do you ask all women this same question? Or just me?”
“Just the cute ones.”
Here’s my number.
**Men. Take note ^
I thanked him for the question. If nothing transpires in the material world, a thumbnail of expression hitchhiked me back some distance to myself.
Note: I find online dating to be a much lighter experience with a simple mindset shift: “I’m living the best Seinfeld episode of all time! What an adventure! How can I alchemize this exchange into wisdom and tell a useful story? What have I learned about myself through this experience?”
Badda bing badda band badda boom. Now you’re in charge. Take your power back babe. It’s all material. You’re just out there doing field research. Good on ya.
What drove your perfectionistic streak?
Well, how far back would you prefer me voyage, Dear Merlin?
If I look back at my childhood, it would appear that perfection equalled protection. I could use perfection as a shield to fend off tenderness or heartbreak.
At eight years old, I decided I was fat. Or that my body was weird-shaped. At ten, I started purging after meals. This helped. I slimmed down some. But my face puffed out more. Growing up, I was picked on for having a round face. Like it was a mark of shame. So the bulimia fed a pre-existing insecurity. Plus is required a significant amount of sleuth work. But I appreciated the ritual. And feeling like I was in control because no matter what went in, I had the power to make it disappear. Magic. Messy. Messy magic.
Eventually, my parents found out and started watching me like a hawk. The gig was up until I convinced them I was ok. I found other restrictive ways to retrieve dominion over the ever-growing beast in need of taming.
I turned 42 last week. I am only just beginning to skim the surface of repair between the Empress and her Reign. Or rather, the horse and her jockey.
I thought, if I could stay the perfect printout, I could be desirable. Or kept safe. Or left alone. One. I can’t remember which.
“Can you love me?”
Is what I was really wanting to know.
“If I demonstrate enough discipline to cut the line of communication between my heart and my stomach, will that make you love me?”
The truth is, I was asking myself.
The truth is, it didn’t.
But if all my effort, energy, and cognition were daily poured down the porcelain junket of successful eating disorder neurosis, I didn’t have to ask the question I didn’t want the answer to.
How’s that for an answer? I didn’t catch your name. Did you say 7 or 7:30 on Friday?
