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.
 |
| 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. |
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:
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.
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