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With your tone of voice and inflection, it may be hilarious—but out of your friend's mouth it may fall flat or even be offensive. Avoid mentioning specific comedians, shows, books, musicians or movies unless those are top-tier attributes on your list. It's possible to be generic about what you like while still being specific enough to sound interesting.
Just because you like Louis C. Unless that comedian is one of your deal-breakers, leave him or her off your profile.
If you think there's something about what you've done in life that may be controversial or open for interpretation in a way that disadvantages you, then leave it off. I'm talking about political or activist work here, not things like jail time.
Downplay your accomplishments but only initially. These are the types of details to work into a conversation on your first or second date. If someone introduced himself to you at a party, would the next thing out of your mouth be items off your CV? Of course not, so don't act that way online. Most people don't want to see a list of what you've done unless they're hiring you for a job. Be careful while flirting online, since it's easy to sound too aggressive too soon.
The best way to flirt is to care deeply about whatever your date is saying and to focus all of your attention on him or her. We're flattered when people throw attention our way. So ask thoughtful questions. Take a keen interest in the conversation. If you wouldn't use your cheesy line in person, don't use it digitally.
Use the 20 hour rule. If someone instant messages you while you're online, go ahead and IM back if you want. Otherwise, wait 20 to 23 hours between e-mail contacts for the first few messages. I found that successful daters waited that amount of time and as a result still seemed eager without coming off as desperate.
Don't act like a stalker. Curiosity was one of the hallmarks of a good journalist. As we waited for the coffee, our conversation began to wander from city hall to China. One day, it was so brutally cold that I wandered into a tea shop to warm up. We spent the next two hours tasting every one of the 38 teas he had in his shop.
He looked down at the screen and rolled his eyes. I need to take this. I rolled my eyes back at him to commiserate as he walked back toward the bathrooms. I knew what it was like to get those calls and to be available at all hours.
Journalists, especially those on a daily desk, were never really off the clock. It was an infuriating but necessary part of the job. Jay walked back toward me, phone in hand, the corners of that warm smile not quite as outstretched as they were earlier.
He pushed our bags aside and this time sat down right next to me, propping his elbow up on the back of the sofa. Had I ever eaten puffer fish? Was I worried about getting poisoned? What about Japanese onsen—the hot springs? Were the co-ed baths awkward for me? Yes, I loved visiting hot springs. Communal bathing was a deeply rooted part of Japanese culture.
It was a matter of understanding how to bathe properly. There were little stools, mirrors, and showers positioned so that I could lather every area with soap while sitting down. I could feel my cheeks growing warm. Plus, you have American breasts! Suddenly, I had a strange inclination to high-five him.
This time, it was a text message. I shot him a knowing glance. The copy desk, no doubt, had yet another question. Jay immediately qualified what had just happened with a long-winded, confusing explanation: Technically he was still married, but he and his wife were on a trial separation.
He was sure their marriage was over, so he decided to use Match. As he continued to rattle off various other issues and concerns, I felt increasingly numb. Maybe the bartender accidentally used real gin in my drink? I stared at the glass, looking for signs of alcohol.
Farther up, there was a pale band of skin around his ring finger. They must have spent the weekend together at the beach, out in the sun, I imagined. This time, I skipped the bathroom. I reached across him, picked up my bag, and bolted toward the door. I turned up the music as loud as it would go, shoved my hands in my pockets, and started walking.
The one fucking time Match sets me up with someone who I am actually compatible with, I get screwed by the user data. As I neared the steps to my apartment building, I fumbled for my keys, which by now were tucked in one of the dark pockets of my massive bag. I pushed aside my laptop, realizing that it had never occurred to me to visit the bathroom to track date data. I walked up the flight of stairs, put my key into the lock, and opened the door to my dark apartment. What was the point of this exercise?
I threw on the lights and stood in the kitchen, staring at my reflection in the glass-paneled cabinets. He drank espresso instead of beer. He asked thoughtful questions and seemed genuinely interested in my answers. He seemed so fantastic, so eerily perfect. Except that he was fucking married. Maybe they were wrong. Maybe my mom was wrong. Everyone I knew was giving me the same advice: Give these men a few chances before telling them no!
A new chart came to mind: Then he gets married to some other girl, who has your babies with him. You have no family. You have no husband. You have no life. What kind of a fercockta name is Jay? Just beyond my crumpled brow, I noticed a glint of foil wrapped around the neck of a wine bottle. The previous tenant had left it for me as a thank-you for helping her out of her lease. The bottle had been collecting dust for months.
But after Jay, I wanted a corkscrew. I rifled through the utility drawer first, pushing aside a pile of rubber bands and some old pens to see if I could find an opener. A lighter with a transparent green case was stuffed in the back along with a pack of matches.
I looked back up at the cabinets, realizing that even if I did find a corkscrew, I no longer owned any wineglasses. Henry had kept all of them, along with most of our kitchen equipment. And anyway, most nights I either picked up dinner on the way home or met up with friends. It was better than drinking straight out of the bottle, I figured. As I reached for it, I saw the corkscrew hiding in the very back of the cabinet.
I unwrapped the foil, shoved the corkscrew into the top, and tried to pry the cork out. Why are these things so fucking difficult to open? I pushed and shoved until half of the cork broke free and plopped into the wine below. I filled my mug halfway, stopping just beneath the third pecker, and watched bits of cork slosh around as I walked toward my patio.
The pack was now a quarter empty. I tipped it over and slid one out. I reached into my pocket for my mobile phone, dialed Hilary, lit my cigarette, and inhaled. Her fantastically amazing friends, Eric and Ralph, had slaved away cooking a lovely meal for eight sophisticated guests, who also happened to be wildly interesting and fabulous.
I heard the brush of her clothes against the phone and muffled conversations coming and going as she passed by her dinner companions. She pulled the door shut behind her. I told her all about how good he looked. He asked the waiter thoughtful questions about espresso!
You should lay off. I could hear a toilet flush, then water swirling violently in the background. Are you going to the bathroom while I tell you the tragic details of my life?
They go through one after the other—they hate all of them. Does that sound familiar? One week, we decided to re-enact the Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious scene using our stuffed animals.
So we rewound, listened, paused, practiced, and repeated the song over and over until we finally warped the VHS tape. Perched on the toilet, Hilary started singing as quietly as an opera singer is able: Rosy cheeks, no warts, play games, all sorts Actually, that sounds just like Eric.
He would totally wear a top hat Neither was bad data. Dating sites relied on rudimentary information. Do I want kids? Do I prefer a specific level of education? Then the sites matched us with others who had similar data points. But in attempting to make dating sites applicable to the widest possible user base, all of the questions had been made far too generic. I needed a comprehensive list. Just go to sleep. Eric is just about to start the second course. I grabbed a legal pad and a handful of Hi-Tec-C pens, my trusted companions in Japan.
Each was a bright color with a. I picked up the remaining book of matches and bottle of wine and went back outside. I had another two hours of summer sunlight and, at this point, nothing to lose. I sat down at my patio table, arranging the notebook and pens in front of me. I poured another mug full of wine, lit a cigarette, and inhaled deeply. Suddenly, everything made perfect sense. How could anyone possibly look for long-term relationship potential without specifying all of the necessary traits in that person?
Everyone—not just me—needed a list. I started to scribble down notes: I stared at my notebook, flicking the ashes from my cigarette. That could be anyone, I thought. I started doodling on the bottom corner of the page, drawing three-dimensional cubes, when I saw some writing a few pages deeper in the legal pad. I flipped through and found an old grocery list from when I was still living with Henry: There was a logic to my grocery list.
I always started in the produce aisle, so I began by listing the precise type of vegetable or fruit I needed, along with the variety. If I was really making a Mary Poppins husband list, I ought to be as honest and detailed as possible. I needed to get much more granular. What did I really want? What if I was able to magically create the man of my dreams?
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