Score: OK Cupid: 1; Writer: 0
Oh, OK Cupid, how you consistently let us down... On Monday I had a great boyfriend. Tuesday I was dumped. Wednesday through Friday was spent lost in a world of microwave dinners, HGTV, and not nearly enough showers. But it was on Saturday that I reached my lowest point; I signed up for OK Cupid.
Don’t get me wrong, I think online dating is great. Plenty of happy couples meet on the interwebs. But for me, thinking that I am going to meet my soul mate on a website called OK Cupid was a momentary lapse of judgement. The website is named for the ultimate phrase of settling; “OK,” it might as well be named “Yeah Alright Cupid,” or “I Suppose Cupid.” If the stupid name isn’t enough of a warning to stay away, the fact that this is a free dating site should have helped me put the kabash on profile creation. If I am looking for someone to invest the rest of their life into me, the least I should expect is for them to invest $30 a month for the chance to meet me.
Clearly, none of this was enough to prevent me from signing up. I created a profile, stressed for hours over the selection of a profile picture, and made myself public to the world.
The first few days brought a lot of offers for naked lunchtime meet ups. I tend to use my meal times for consuming meals rather than having intercourse with strangers, though I didn’t mind the attention. A few profile adjustments later, I received a message from Matt.
Matt seemed relatively normal; IT guy, college degree, and capable of carrying on a conversation without overtly asking me for sex. We talked for a month or so before deciding to meet in person. He suggested that we go to a sports bar near his job for after work drinks. Perfect, I was on board. Then it started…
Midway through the workday he texted and asked if I would pick him up at his house. While not thrilled with the idea, I figured I had a pretty good idea what this guy was about and agreed to drive.
I arrive at his apartment building and knock on the door. As the door opens my jaw drops. He has lengthy, manicured, fire engine red fingernails. I stand there. Before I have a moment to artfully maneuver my words into a less harsh, “What the fuck?” I then notice that he also has the soda can equivalent of Lincoln Logs lining all of his walls. He is a hoarder and he has lady nails. That was not in his profile.
He quickly closes the door and we start heading toward my car. I am incapable of stopping this, my words fail me, I don’t know what’s happening. In a daze I drive the hoarder with lady nails and myself to the bar. The hoarder with lady nails orders our drinks and chats about everything besides his manicure. He pauses, looking for a response to something he has said. Yet to say a single word, I stand up, collect my things, and walk directly out the door. This was not “OK”, Cupid.
Bio: Mandy Williams is an ex librarian turned business lady. She mostly spends her time reading, drinking craft beer, and eating string cheese. Prime objective: Bring moxie to all situations. @sugarymandykins
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