Propping the small, fancy pearlized jar of Sex Fifth Avenue on the coffee table in front of me for inspiration, I crack open my laptop and hit the power button. Leaning back on my comfortable, well-worn couch, I reach over to grasp the stem of a nearby glass of a Riesling Moscato mix. I arrange my wine, laptop, and strawberries on an end table within reach, and bring the laptop to my, well—lap.
It powers up, the wallpaper an old photo of Becky and me in college. We’re laughing with our arms around each other—wearing denim bib overalls, of all things—wet, and stepping down from a curb in the pouring rain, waiting for a big yellow school bus to take us to an off-campus fraternity party. I remember hating the shirt she’d made me wear, but shit did we have a blast that night.
I can’t remember who took the picture, or how I ended up with it in the first place; I had to scan it to the computer from a Polaroid. Talk about old school. But that’s how we did things back in the day before cell phones and SIM cards.
Smiling at the memory of that night like I do every time I boot up the computer, I click open the browser, connect to the internet, and navigate my way to the dating site that tonight I’m finally paying and signing up for.
Taking a dainty sip of wine (okay, that’s a lie—it’s more of a gulp), I wiggle my fingers and let them hover over the keys. Then, squeezing my eyes shut, click the Sign Up Now! button.
Here goes nothing!
Time to commit to this online dating thing; no more Free 7-Day Trial for me.
Oh, joy.
After I get done paying twenty bucks to meet the love of my life, I click the Create Profile link and lean back against a throw pillow, reading over the questionnaire with a raised brow. I’m going to be honest: I’ve always loved quizzes and questionnaires.
In college, I was a huge fan of Cosmo magazine simply because they had a monthly sex quiz, and I always forced Becky to administer it. Then I would make her read my results, dissect them with me, and sometimes even help me utilize the results in a real-life application.
Wait, that came out sounding a little pervy…
I love questionnaires so much that if you’re a telemarketer and you want to call someone who isn’t going to hang up, you should probably give me a call immediately; I will carve out ten minutes of my time to answer your questions about my cable provider or political views.
Trust me; you want my opinion.
But I digress…
The first few questions are simple: name, age range (yikes), ethnicity, etcetera. I take a sip of wine when I get to the question about income level. Do I care about what a guy makes? Meh. Not really. At thirty-five years old, I’m pretty well established as a Purchasing Manager at a large residential homebuilding firm; my aunt hired me out of college as her assistant, and when she retired six years later, I was given her job.
And fortunately, I’m talented enough that I make a good living.
I set my wine down and wipe a bead of sweat from the glass that’s dripped onto my computer. Biting my lip, I decide to skip all the multiple-choice questions and go straight to the fun part: the fill-in-the-blank questions. My favorite.
Hobbies. Eh, I’ll skip that one too.
Dislikes. That I can sink my teeth into.
I crack my knuckles and stretch my arms, getting ready for the long haul. I probably shouldn’t admit this, but I have so many dislikes there might not be enough room in the tiny box provided. Hmm. On second thought, that might turn some guys off. But isn’t that the whole point? Weeding out the crap?
I tap down on the keys, a big goofy grin on my face, and exhale when I run out of characters.
Wait. If I mention sex in my profile, is that going to attract a slew of horn-dogs? I delete that last part, and, satisfied for now, move on to the next question.
Getting the total hang of this dating profile thing, I dig in to the next question with gusto.
I grin at that last line and picture Becky’s face when she gets the chance to read it; she’s going to laugh her ass off because she knows it’s a damn lie. I chuckle and reach for my phone and call her.
She answers immediately, but I hear crying in the background.
“What?” She gets right to the point.
“Sorry, are you going crazy, or can you talk?”
“Hold on, let me grab a snack for Sophie and pop in a movie for Jacob.” There’s lots of rustling, more crying, and the sound of Becky snapping at her husband to give her a hand for once without being told. “Okay. I’m back. Hit me.”
“Okay, so I’m working on my online dating profile—”
She interrupts me with a groan. “Oh, lord, I can’t even imagine the crap you’re writing.”
“Well, that’s why I’m calling.” I take another gulp of wine. “Tell me the truth: do you think I think income is important? It wants me to click a box.”
She mulls this over, and I can hear the wheels turning. “I don’t know if you think it’s important, but—dammit, Jeremiah, would you—hold on for a second, Janine.” Again, I hear the muffled, irritated sound of Becky’s husband getting his ass chewed out. I’m used to the interruptions because, let’s face it, we’ve never had an uninterrupted conversation when she’s at home with her family. I study my manicure and debate having my nails painted a nude color next time I’m at the salon. Although, I really do like this dark navy.
Huh. Something to think about.
I tip my head back against the couch cushions and blow out a puff of air.
There’s a cracking sound, followed by a rustle, and then Becky is back. “Phew. Okay. So what was I saying? Oh! The income thing. Okay.” She sounds out of breath.
“Were you just having a quickie?” I tease.
My best friend snorts. “Yeah, right. I wish. And quit interrupting. It’s almost bath time, and if I let Jeremiah do it there’s going to be fucking water everywhere.” She lowers her voice to a whisper and cups the phone in her palm every time she swears, which I think is hilarious. But she didn’t think it was hilarious the time her son called his baby sister a sonofabitch, so now she whispers.
“Anyway, yes. I think you think income is important. I mean, you make a decent salary. You want someone who’s your equal. Plus, you like nice shit,” she says, whispering the last word before returning to her normal voice, “and that isn’t cheap.”
Good point. “Good point.”
“Doing anything else besides your profile?”
“No. Just staring at my new jar of Sex Fifth Avenue and wondering who the lucky bastard is that’s going to rub it on me.” I click away at the easy profile questions as we chat, and give myself a screen name: NinaHas9Lives
“Oh, for God’s sake…” I can hear her grinning through the phone. She can’t fool me. I lived with her in college.
I laugh. “I hit publish about twenty seconds ago, so wish me luck. Let’s have lunch this week and you can look at it.”
“Or maybe I can just go online and pretend to be a male seeking female and find it myself.”
“Oh, yeah, do that!” I say, getting excited. “But don’t you dare send me a wink to be an asshole.”
“What the f—heck is a wink?”
“It’s kind of cheesy, but… basically someone can wink at you without sending an actual message to see if you’re interested. Kind of like swiping right on that Tinder app the college kids use these days.”
“You lost me. Tinder?”
“Ugh, never mind. I don’t have time to explain.” As we’re chatting, my computer dings and a little blue box pops up. “Holy shit! I just got a wink!”
“And so it begins…”