Find My Love - Part Two

As promised, here’s the next instalment of what – SPOILER ALERT – is not going very well at all. You may recall that I’ve placed my face above the parapet and into the firing line of internet dating once more. Having signed up and parted with hard-earned hard cash, it was time to look at some of the other victims…

The way it works is this: They offer up “matches” for your perusal, and they’re quite generous about it. The pairings are based on the responses given to the questionnaire, in categories like “Altruism”, “Exclusivity”, “Relationship Values” etc. There are fifteen groups, and how compatible you are for each is given as a percentage. Thus, you could look at the results and say “Well, we’ve got 95% agreeableness congruity, but only 81% extraversion…” and know that that means… er…

Anyway, they show you the ones with high percentages, on the premise that you will be more suited to each other. You can refine the matching process by tweaking more relevant factors. For example, I took any smokers out of the mix, once I’d cottoned on to the fact that this could be done. That’s one of the simpler criteria that would define a potential partner for me. After that, it gets a bit trickier. (For more on that, keep reading) My first batch of matches, selected by the Algorithms of Lurve using the above, were waiting. My romantic heart whispered: “Let’s get down to it – one of these could be one of The Ones!”

One of them could indeed be. Gulp.

Looking around the sides of the rose-tinted specs showed me fifteen or so photos of middle-aged men in various poses, that they had decided would bring in the laydees. Instantly I felt like a voyeur, and not in a good way. The photos made me sad. Here are men with hope in their eyes, looking for love. Life has led them to this point, as it has led me. I’m sad yet hopeful too, so I know how they might be feeling. I know that all the things I have to offer could lift many of their spirits, but not necessarily mine. NO! I must not do anything out of pity. I sifted through their profiles and felt much, much worse about the whole thing. I had a little paddy and a big cry. Why have I done this? WHY??

Then a sensible voice overruled the wailing infant: You’ve got three months. You don’t have to contact anyone, nor reply. If any dates arise from this, you can look upon them as practice, research, experience. Something to blog about. The same way you look at everything else.

Time passed ... 

It snowed. A LOT. 

I worked hard.

Bought a sofa from the Lions for £20, delivery included. Was smug. 

Went to an awards ceremony. Lost the award, but won a lot more. 

Some days, it was windy. 

Easter happened. Bernard was thrilled.  

... and time passed.

As it’s been nearly two months since I opened this particular worm container, I have learnt a few things about the sort of annelids that might get me dangling from their hooks. Things that are going to make it very difficult for me to ever find one to wriggle along with. I have decided to be fair. A single photograph might speak a thousand words, but they might all be incorrect: I need to read the accompanying profile before I draw my conclusions. Of course, I will encounter some things within said profiles that are going to get my finger hovering over the “NEXT” button. Enough of them will make me press it and move on. I see them as “STRIKES”, like in baseball, though it doesn’t always take three to make me take off.

Lizzie’s Top Ten Strikes…

Not into Music: It’s important to me to have something to share with a partner, and this is my thing. My dream relationship is someone to jam with, especially accompanying me singing. So, if I am searching for people in the same way I’d search for a fridge-freezer, I’d can choose the one with the most ideal characteristics for my needs.

Drinking/socialising: I couldn’t share this. Yes, I like to be around folk, but I’d rather be doing something at the same time. To have a purpose for being together that wasn’t just chatting. See me at a party. I’ll be the one offering to help serve, or tidy up, or provide entertainment. If anyone manages to pin me down for a chat, I’ll usually squirm out of it as soon as I can do it politely! Things are different when one remains sober.

Money: Not necessarily the fact that you’re rich, but that you think my knowing about it will make me get in touch. So you retired at thirty did you? Well you can enjoy that while I get on with my puzzle compiling/baking etc.

Travel: I’d love to travel more. I don’t because I’m broke, alone and nervous. Sure, maybe you could help me out here, and it would indeed be a wonderful thing to do together. It’s not a priority though, and my lack of cash in particular means I can’t make a good travel buddy.

Kids: A tough one. We all know my thoughts about being a mum. The list of reasons why I’m not one is into the 40s, as am I, and topped off with “I’d make a terrible mother.” Mind you, it could be negotiable - “I have kids” on a profile could mean that they’re grown-up. Where I call STRIKE is when they are shoved into the profile under every possible category. Passionate about? My kids. Thankful for? My kids. Spend your leisure time? With my kids. Some of them even infiltrate the photos, which does seem a bit of a safety breach. I’m glad that there are such devoted fathers in the world, but I know I can’t share that with them. Funnily enough, the number and gender of said offspring does make a difference. I’m less “STRIKE”y with sons, and the fewer the better, and I can’t explain why.

Sport: If you are a sporty chap, brilliant. You might be fit and healthy, and, depending on the sport, have a good sense of teamwork. Some sports appeal more than others e.g. cricket, golf. I could participate! I would certainly be happy to spectate. But there are different levels of sportiness, that go from the “plays it every day” to the “will watch anything that’s on Sky Sports”, and not all those levels are attractive.

I appear to be struggling to articulate here. I will watch rugby if it’s on and the person I’m with (and cares about) wants to watch it. I might have to be doing something else at the same time though. Ditto cricket. Football, less so. I used to, but over the years I have come to resent professional footballers and the multiples of nurses’ wages they are awarded to play increasingly disappointing and dull games. And motorsports? My mate’s husband was obsessed by F1. I can still hear the racket. I never understood how she put up with it. They’re divorced now, so maybe she didn’t.

Oh, and if you’re a gym bunny – forget it. Muscles turn me off more than money.

Gaming: The only thing worse than watching sport on a screen is gormlessly gawping at one for hours on end with a headset on, clutching whatever passes for a joystick these days.

One photo/Short profile: C’mon chaps, at least give me something to work with! Make me believe you’re serious.

Bad spelling/grammar/punctuation: Word’s cant express how much it pain’s me to see apostrophe’s being misused. Or when their not aware there getting they’re “theres” mixed up. Or if u type in txt spk. Or Put Capitals Where They Don’t Belong. or leave them out when they do.

*swallows little bit of sick*

Snobby? Moi? I prefer “discerning”. If this restricts my choices further, then so be it. I’ll take the hit.

Height: Tall, broad-shouldered girl with body issues; small, bony men make me feel like Shrek yada yada. I might have mentioned this one a bit before…

I could of course instruct the site to only show me the 6’3”, childless etc candidates, but I understand that it’s not as simple as that. Just because someone is a dad that likes football doesn’t instantly rule them out. Nobody is 100% compatible and actually, it’s good to have some different hobbies in order to spend time apart. That’s why short profiles are so annoying. I want to see the reasons why, not the reasons why not! Anything that pings my dinghy would be the opposite of a STRIKE. In this case, a “TWANG”. Guitar string? Pant elastic?? Make of that what you will.

Lizzie’s Top Ten Twangs…

Well Educated: University, you say? Oxford, you say? TWANG.

Funny: Got me to lol at something you’ve written? Unexpected humour? TWANG

Good Looking: Aw come on, I’m only human! TWANG

Over 6ft tall: Goes without saying (again). TWANG

Well-written profile: TWANG

Plays a musical instrument/sings: TER-BLOODY-WANG!

Oh, that’s it. Top six then.

But wait! One of the reasons why this entry has been turtle-heading its way to the internet is that the above lists scream SHALLOW, and that is a hideously unattractive trait, which I didn’t think I had… until I read what I wrote. I worry that it is forced out of one by this whole process. You’re choosing suitable candidates for a partner as you would pick out anything else from the internet. I know what I like on paper, but – as we all know, to our chagrin - that doesn’t always bear resemblance to the delivered product. I would probably not select my friends as my friends from their lives condensed into written profiles, and yet in reality I couldn’t live without them. Therefore, I’m glad we met in reality! It’s such a shame I don’t seem to meet chaps in the same way and have to resort to this.

Of course, this is just my side of the bed. I’m aware that I’m being judged just as I am judging, and that not everyone will be going beyond the profile picture. A few have, and a few of them have even got in touch. A very, very few. I’m wondering if one reason for this tumbleweed-strewn inbox might be that I am too easy to stalk online. Google “Lizzie, singer, Dursley” – all details on my eHarmony page – you get the vid of me singing at the xmas lights, and my surname. (Don’t bother joining the five people who have watched this video - it’s not me at my best!) What also come up are links to my Just Lizzie FB page which is fine… but again, there’s my last name plastered everywhere and with links to my main page, from where I link this blog. Hence a die-hard pursuer would have access to this bilge, and thus the growing suspicion that, if he dared to get in touch, he’d end up being publicly humiliated on these very pages. If you’re one of those guys, you’d be reading these words right now, so here’s a message just for you. If you’re not one of those guys, you can read it anyway:

Dear Internet Stalker,

Hi! If you’ve found this, you must be doing a sterling job with your stalking – well done you!

Please rest assured that I am not in the business of publicly humiliating ANYONE (other than myself, on occasions). I rarely mention names on this blog, or on my FB page, and would only write about you if you did something really mean to me that I could look back at later and laugh about, to stop me crying.

So, thank you so much for your continued interest. Don’t be afraid to send me a wonderful message now and make my day.

Ever grateful for your slightly creepy devotion,

Lizzie

x

On the subject of no takers, I read an article. This one, in fact:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/bbcthree/article/f0227cb3-c772-446c-a8dc-bfeb75a2ccd0

It states that the less you say, the more dates you get. It’s about Tinder (over my cold, lifeless corpse…) but I expect it’s the same all around the internet dating community, which might explain some of the pathetically short profiles I’ve been frustrated by. It might also explain my lack of contacts – I’m way too interesting! I don’t leave anything to mystique or elusion. But it’s ME. It’s pure me, splattered all over the page like a badly-timed chunder. I can’t be doing with salting the mine or arranging the cheese in a particular way to trap more mice. (No euphemism here!) Does this show that I’m actually not that desperate or is it yet another reflection of how unlikely I think it is that I, Lizzie, shall ever find a mate?

For who, in their right mind, could possibly want me? This thick-limbed flabby-thighed perimenopausal mess of hair and anxiety; this miniature-breasted (more about that soon…) saggy and baggy ageing teenager with a head-splitting laugh and a penchant for talking about herself 85% of the time? If hope didn’t burn eternally in my soul, I’d say forget it sister. The only chap you’ll have a meaningful relationship with is Ben and his pal Jerry. At least there'll be plenty of spooning.

Beshrew me, the lady’s in poor fooling today. Better a witty fool than a foolish wit! By my troth, I do believe I have been learning lines for Twelfth Night (CTK Hall, Thornbury, 6th – 9th June, http://octopus-thornbury.co.uk/ for more info) Read on, Macduff, and see if the next entry brings a Troilus to this Cressida, gawd bless thee. 

Find My Love - Part One

Well hello to you and Happy Spring! Having shaken the snow from our boots and the ice from our eyebrows, isn’t it wonderful to see the daffs trumpeting up through the ground to announce the season? What a relief! The winter has been long and cold and lonely, little darlin’. The play wot I wrote launched me into it and was a resounding success: heaps of fun and camaraderie, nominated for an award and – even better – raising £1,500 for a local charity, which is more than they receive in donations a year, apparently. The lead-up to Christmas was accompanying carols and bell ringing, making it very busy for this atheist. After my eighth ringing session in a row, I returned to my bed on Christmas Day and barely left it until NYE, thanks to a bout of what had to be influenza, despite the jab that I’d made a point of getting. A point... jab... hehehe. Sigh.  

January and February were filled with Dick.

Ah, that joke never gets boring! Between my last entry and this one, I successfully auditioned for the part of Dick Whittington. Auditions, rehearsals, photocalls, publicity, dress rehearsals and performances. The last stick of scenery left the theatre barely three weeks ago. It was a lot of fun and hard work, and allowed the darkest days of the year to pass me by with minimum fuss. 

Dick and Pussy

Dick and Seamen

Excited Dick

Dick slap. (That's enough Dick jokes now - Ed)

The problem was that it had to end. The usual after-show blues were lessened, probably due to relief that I didn’t have to go out and be around people. This escalated to an extreme of “I'm not going to go out, nor be around people," I wanted nobody to see me either. I spent about a week in hiding. Not just in my house, but in my bed too. Under the duvet, where no-one can hurt me. Soft around my face; electric blanket warming my limbs. As much internet as I could eat. Peaceful, quiet… jeez, I might as well be dead because that’s not living. It didn’t stop me though. 

I was finally coaxed into an evening of sociability with my pals, offering me dinner in a pub before I went on to a play reading/audition. At least that had been the plan, but chocolate torte and a pub quiz sounded more enticing than decoding Shakespeare, so I gave in. What I couldn’t understand was that, despite sitting with the two people I love most in the world, eating my favourite food, and doing one of my favourite activities, I still had to fight off the panic passing over me in waves. I rode it out, being fully aware of its existence: knowing that it was irrational and that it would disappear soon, yet this only takes the edge off what is a disturbing sensation. To describe it to someone with their panic virginity intact is hard. It’s wanting desperately to run away, but not being able to move. Sometimes it feels as if my arms are glued to my sides or being held there by an invisible force. Make a fist and place it mid-nipple on your chest. That’s where I feel things the most. Stress is a dull ache there; affection, a warm glow. I often press my own fist deep into that spot to numb anything unwelcome. Panic radiates from there and gets into my head, in the same way an egg beater on high speed would. Understand now? Me neither. 

And yet, I got through to the end of the evening and I was proud. We didn’t win the quiz by a long, ignorant chalk, but we didn’t come last either. I promised I would go to the second play reading on Wednesday, and knew I'd be doing it with my head held higher than it had been for days. I might even venture out of the house voluntarily! Of course, this was when reality got its massive kneecap out and used it to plough a furrow right through my delicate bits:

As we were preparing to leave, one of us noticed repeated missed calls from their daughter; one of us checked their phone and emails to investigate; three of us learned some awful news about a mutual friend and sat back down in shock. It seemed that lovely Martin, who has managed many a stage on which we’d been performing, had passed away. 

How could this be? I’d only seen him last week as we piled bits of set into the scenery store together. When (at over twenty years his junior), I was more poorly and knackered than he was! But it was true. Quickly, suddenly, overnight, five days after I’d given him a big kiss and hug goodbye, that was filled with emotion and gratitude for his hard work and friendship throughout the show. I’d actually bade him farewell. How often does that happen? It wasn’t enough to stem tears that had snuck past the Sertraline guards and were now escaping down my face. This was real sadness, not this pretend stuff that I battle daily. 

We cried together as the pub closed around us. Then we shuffled back to their house, arms-in-arms, and cried some more, between reminiscences of a friendly, delightful man whom it had been a pleasure to know. My gratitude for his acquaintance was matched by the gratitude that I’d been in company when I’d found out, and that the love I have for those companions is mutual. It was in the early hours of Monday morning that I walked back to my car, past the theatre that I’d rarely ever been to without Martin also being there. Everything was darker, colder and emptier, just like the world seemed now I knew that this lovely soul was no longer in it. R.I.P Martin. 

Something like this reminds us that life really is short. It could have inspired me to Get On With It. Instead, I went the other way and returned to my hiding-place. Maybe it was a testament to how much Martin had got under my skin? I managed to honour my promise to go to the play reading somewhat reluctantly but determinedly. (Yes, you can do both, but it makes your head throb.) Then, as we all know, a freakishly unseasonable storm saw the country buried in snow, and me buried under the eiderdown once more, with the heating on full blast and a really good excuse this time. Luckily for us all, snow thaws, antidepressants numb, and time heals more every day. 

Now before you go blubbing into your Bluetooth device, what I really wanted to share with you was something a little lighter. You see, during the pantomime I was surrounded by people but most importantly, male people. Ones who like me enough to give me hugs whenever I demanded them. Which was often, as I needed to replenish my dwindling stocks. (Not a euphemism.) It felt so good! Going cold turkey as soon as the show ended did not. One of the single chaps had displayed somewhat more than just platonic interest, and it made things stir that I thought might never stir again. The problem is that, while he’s delicious and fanciable, I’m old enough to be his mother and find it hard to forget that when spending time with him. This didn’t stop me from contacting him and trying to arrange a date. The sucking void left by Dick needed to be filled. (Seriously, NOT A EUPHEMISM!) I think we might both have realised how odd it would have been as our messages petered out. Maybe a lucky escape, but I was still craving companionship. It’s been seven months since my last bit of “romance”. I just wasn’t meeting the right candidates. 

So, all of this made me think that maybe, just maybe, I should wade through the murky waters of online dating again. Nearly three years has passed since the misery of the last time. This tougher, stronger, different person that I am now could have a different approach to it. Instead of trying to sell myself on paper with flowery words, I could be more concise: 

Wanted: Man. Single. Tall. Kind. Musician. GSOH. 

For a tall, kind, musical, amusing girl, who you really need to meet to appreciate. I sing, act, bake, write and compile puzzles for varying amounts of money, sometimes none at all. I don’t enjoy wine, but I do enjoy laughing. I’m slim with curves and long, red hair. I don’t photograph well. I have neither kids nor ex-husbands. I’m not interested in casual hook-ups, so let’s not waste each other’s time, but if you’re serious, take me for a walk in the countryside and we’ll talk.

That’s more abrupt than concise and smacks of experiences that I have no intention of repeating. The whole process hoovered up many precious hours before – one of the reasons I didn’t want to go back. If I did it – if – I’d have to let the chaps find me, rather than searching through them. I’d have to select a site carefully. I’d need to be choosing from blokes who had heard of apostrophes and who knew how to use them. Plenty of Fish, Match and Guardian Soulmates had all produced swathes of the wrong sorts of guys, for reasons punctuational and political. As I wondered if there was anywhere else to look, curiosity and loneliness took me by the hands and led me to the eHarmony home page. And before you could say “if”, I was setting up an account. 

Ah, the tedious, time-sucking, self-focusing setting up of an account. So many questions to answer, all about me. I was not my favourite person at that moment – I rarely am – so it was with half a heart that I wrote about my passions, and hastily illustrated my spare time activities. Then the dreaded wall of adjectives from which one must choose. It was supposed to be how my best friends would describe me, but I really didn’t want to bother anyone. I picked CREATIVE without missing a beat. I expect people can see that. To this I added AFFECTIONATE, ARTICULATE and FUNNY. I nearly put KIND instead of ARTICULATE, but I was trying to paint a bigger picture. (CREATIVE, see?) I don’t suppose many suitors will read that part anyway. 

I thought I was nearly done, but oh no: enter the legendary eHarmony Personality Questionnaire, that makes the Spanish Inquisition look like a daytime TV phone-in quiz. Its point is to get to the bottom of your character by asking question after dull question, some of which were hard to answer quickly. Yet I did, making me worry if I’d done myself justice. (Lighten up, Lizzie! It’s not like this is legally binding.) They all had seven blobs, on a scale of “Not at all, no way, never and I’d shun anyone who did,” to “Oh yes, baby, that is totally my bag,” passing through “….meh”. A blob was highlighted for each response. It’s cleverly constructed, weaving similar queries around others to produce a precise precis. Kind of: “Do things make you angry?” Then later: “Are you sure things make you angry?” Then later still: “Are you really sure things make you angry?” By which time, your answer may have mutated from its original form. Of course, Little Miss Conflict here may have confused it e.g. denying I was a leader but highly agreeing that I would take charge of a situation etc. I got quite impatient with it in the end. After all, I wasn’t really signing up to this was I? I just wanted to see if there was a point to it. Where were the men? Show me the men! Then let me decide. 

I sped up a notch, grabbing any old photo for my profile, and finding my unsmiling headshot from Dick. 

Dick head.

Actually, I was smiling, but it’s one of my “someone’s pointing a camera at me for an official picture” grimaces, where I press my lips together and don’t look very happy. I look a lot better under a daft faces or exaggerated grin, which is why I end up with so many pictures like this: 

So it’s true - I really am not photogenic. I’m not sure that the above will haul in the marriage proposals, though they’re a much more accurate representation of me. This isn’t going to go well, is it? 

Still jumping through eHarmony’s hoops, like a fat doggy being coaxed on by the promise of a juicy sausage or two, I listed “health, friends and music” as three things I’m thankful for. Just three. No room for a roof over my head; food to eat; being able to see and hear, and walk and talk, and laugh and sing. Obviously, I’m most grateful for surviving cancer, but I’m feel like I bang on about it too much. While it wasn’t a walk in the park, it was a doddle compared to what some of my friends are going through even as I type. It almost seemed like a doddle compared to this process. I hated every minute of the set-up. Yet again trying to define myself through a series of inane questions. Trying to list things I like in fewer than one hundred characters. Trying to nail film, book, music preferences down to just two or three genres, so I can be matched. It’s much more complex than that. I’m much more complex. Just try asking me for “job title” and see where you get. 

I gave up on not asking for help when I got to “What’s the first thing that people notice about you,” and posted the question on Facebook as a free-for-all. Words can’t express my distaste for doing this. I wasn’t in the mood for a compliment-fishing trip, yet I came away with a netful which made my eyes and my conscience prickle. The kinder the words, the more I felt I had unlocked new levels of scumbag. My confidence took a nosedive – what the hell was I doing? Trying to sell myself to strangers the same way I’d sell other used goods. It’s not the way I want it to go. Can’t I just meet someone naturally?? It turns out that I really can’t, and especially not if I never leave the house.

I pulled myself together and pressed the enter key. I’d got through the arduous ordeal with only minimal depletion of my chocolate stock. (It’s a vast stock.) An email pinged into my inbox, welcoming me to the website and introducing me to my first few matches. My reward for all the agony. At last! Show me the… blurry man-shaped blobs with first names? 

Yeah, single bitch. You see nothing until you slap down the spondoolicks. 

Now was the time to commit. To swallow it down or spit it out. Did I really want to do this? Was I ready to remount the crazy rollercoaster of emotions that is internet dating for a near-middle-aged woman? If only I knew what I wanted! I don’t even want breakfast. But I’m hungry and cold. So I do want it… don’t I? 

Oh Paypal, you make snap decisions so much snappier. A couple of clicks, a remembered password, and there I was - £39 the poorer and still bewildered as to why I’d done it. If you don’t step out of your comfort zone occasionally, it never gets any bigger. That must be what I’m doing. It’s like courgettes. Since I was a kid, I’ve hated them. Yet over the years, I’ve tried them from time to time, just to be sure that I still hate them. It turns out that now I’m rather fond of them. So much so that I’ve purchased and prepared them for myself. Tastes change. Zones expand. Pictures un-blur and become single men with faces, looking for partners. Nervously, I clicked onto the first one...

Was he a courgette, or a big fat marrow? Will Lizzie be zu-keen-i on him or does she squash the whole thing? Prepare yourselves for the second helping. It's already simmering.