Crocs and Bunny Slippers

Crocs and Bunny Slippers

A Foray into Online Dating

by

Race McKee

Recently divorced, and feeling the need to put a few evil memories behind me, I took a job on the other side of the country. A headhunter reached out at the right time and convinced me it was time to go get my high-tech ticket punched so I bade farewell to the moving truck in Virginia and hopped a plane bound for the Left Coast. I found an overpriced apartment in Silicon Valley. I immersed myself in work, joined a gym and made absolutely zero friends. I was lonely. The apartment complex I’m in is a bedroom community where no one socializes. One of the aforementioned “evil memories” involves a workplace romance so I vow to make that a “no-fly zone” going forward. Exploring the bar scene without a wingman seems cliché and downright pathetic. I need a new plan.

           It’s Sunday morning. Despite a good workout and a half pot of coffee, I’m in a funk. I check my email. I’m greeted by a pop-up ad for Hinge.com, a dating app offering a free month of service. I say, “What the hell,” and click on it.

           A drop-down menu asks my gender and the gender I seek. It asks my age and the age I seek. I say, “Easy enough,” and hit “Enter.”

           I’m immediately rewarded by a picture of an attractive woman and a few of her vitals…age, interests, etc. After a few seconds, her picture gives way to another attractive lady…a “cat lover who crochets and likes to go for long walks.” Hard pass on that one. The next one has bedroom eyes and a smile that could humble a man’s soul. She plays tennis, golf and scuba dives. We have a winner. I click on her image which is immediately replaced by a notice essentially saying, “Not so fast, Skippy. No nookie for you until you post your own profile.”

           In for a penny, in for a pound as they say so I spend the next hour answering questions and writing a playful but honest profile. Everything is changing. Certainly dating. Do they even call it dating anymore? My cursor hovers over the “Post” button and I pull the trigger. I go to the kitchen for another cup of coffee and hear a strange ping over my shoulder…then another and another and another. By the time I return with a steaming cup of black coffee, I’m staring at a dozen or so hearts. Trying not to let it go to my head, I figure I’m just the new kid on the block but after looking at a couple of the responders’ profile pics and bios, I feel more like fresh meat on a hook. These girls are not bashful. More than a few seem to be leading with their most endearing…ahem, assets.

           Separating the wheat from the chaff, I summarily dismiss AmandaDoomy, CleeTorrez and ImaGoodlay. However, I did give creativity points to SmileLaughRepeat, IReadActualBooks and IWorkoutSoICanEat. Suddenly, I’m a kid in an eye-candy store and spend the next few hours cyber-flirting and another hour or two on the phone. The end-result? I arrange three dates…a yoga instructor, a Swedish Embassy employee and a recently divorced dancer. I self-acknowledge I have a theme going on here. I appease my obvious shallowness by reasoning, “I’m not quite ready to dip my toe in the deep end of the gene pool just yet.”

           First up is the yoga instructor. This is when I realize I’m out of my element. I quickly learn you do not take an online hopeful out to dinner on the first date. You should meet for coffee or a drink and see where the chips fall.

Things start out well. I arrive early at an upscale restaurant and get a booth where I can keep an eye on the door. In she walks…and she knows how to walk. She seems to float on four-inch stilettos. She is a head-turner. Hell, the fish stopped swimming when she walked by the restaurant’s salt-water aquarium. This is my first date in way too long…a fact made readily apparent by the blood pounding in my ears. I stand, manage an intelligible greeting and motion her to the seat opposite mine. We barely get past “It’s nice to put a face to the name” before a waiter appears to take our drink order. I’m a wine lover but if I order a cocktail, I have two poisons of choice…a Grey Goose martini or a Bombay Sapphire martini. I prefer the mixologist to merely mutter “vermouth” under their breath or maybe wave the cap over the glass, then shake until his or her hand nears frostbite.

I defer to my date to order first. She says, “I’ll have a Grey Goose martini with a splash of Bombay Sapphire, well-shaken."

I’m gob-smacked. After an awkward silence, I’m able to mutter, “Make that two.”

Sadly, that’s the high point of the evening. By the time appetizers arrive, we find we have little of substance to talk about. Hair and makeup seem to be a big part of her life. I’m fair-skinned and shave my head so unless the conversation moves to razors and sunscreen, I’ll have little to add. The entrée arrives mercifully fast and I don’t ask for a dessert menu.

Dates two and three follow a similar course but at least I have the good sense to make one outing for coffee and one for a drink. Both ladies are lovely but have the personality of refried bean dip. They likely feel the same about me. I still have a couple weeks left on my free membership and vow to be more discerning in my choices. I go on two more first dates. Though more enjoyable than my earlier attempts at the dating game, the “chemistry” door remains locked.

I drag myself home and share a pint of Ben & Jerry’s with one of my two west coast friends…Jack Daniel’s and Johnnie Walker. I decide on Jack, take him down to his neck and shoulders and open my laptop. It’s obvious my profile needs help. I’m clearly fishing with the wrong bait. Tennessee sippin’ whiskey tends to fuel my playful side. I dump the entire profile and take the opposite tack. My new profile reads:

This is my first attempt at online dating and I’ve failed miserably. I’ve been on five first dates and, sadly, no second dates. Despite my best efforts, it’s clear I’m not doing this right. Hence, I proffer a challenge to some brave lass. Since my attempts at a dream date folded like amateur origami, I say bring your worst. Join me on a nightmare date. Personify all those behaviors that ruined your previous dates and I will do the same. Let’s both set the bar so low, we take disappointment out of the equation and anything above that will seem like success. Your move, princess.

         I hit “Enter” without hesitation, but unlike my last profile, I am not rewarded with pings and hearts. I get crickets. I stare at the screen for an interminable amount of time until my old buddy, Jack, finally rocks me to sleep.

         I wake at first light to an imposing headache, a dead laptop battery and a vague feeling of impending doom. I stumble into the bathroom in search of a volleyball-sized aspirin. I pop a couple of the smaller variety and chase them with a pint of water. I plug in my computer and start a pot of coffee. I’m tempted to throw a cup in my face so it will work faster. I turn on the laptop and up pops my dating profile. I start reading what I wrote during last night’s bourbon haze. I say out loud, “Wow. Smooth, buddy, real smooth. Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.” 

Then I notice one lonely response and click on it. I see “Challenge accepted. Better buckle-up, Buttercup.”

Oh my. A worthy adversary. I respond, “Meet me at The Little Easy, 7 p.m. on Saturday. I’ll be the one wearing clip-on suspenders.”

Within seconds, she responds, “It’s a date. Make all my nightmares come true.”

……………………………………..

           True to my word, I’m seated at the bar of The Little Easy, a restaurant with a New Orleans theme. As promised, I’m sporting clip-on suspenders, a Sex Pistols t-shirt, cargo pants…and orange Crocs. I don’t have to wait long for my femme fatale foil to arrive and it’s not too difficult to recognize her. In walks a tall brunette, clad in a turquoise, terry-cloth robe loosely cinched at the waist and exposing a leopard-print bra that barely contains a rather impressive bosom. Three giant hair curlers and baby blue bunny slippers round out her outfit. I guess a girl’s gotta’ accessorize. I rise to greet her and say, “You must be Kylie.”

           She replies, “And you must be Brock…and 1992 called and wants those cargo pants back.”

           Game on. “I appreciate that.” I reply, “Did you get everything you needed at Walmart on your way here?”

           “Actually, they were out of Hot Pockets but Velveeta is on sale.”

           “Good to know.” I say, “Would you like something to drink?”

           “Sure.” Then in a raised voice she says, “Barkeep.”

Our bartender turns, then pauses in a double-take as he takes in his new customers. He gathers himself and asks, “What can I get you folks?”

My “date” says emphatically, “I’ll have a Hot Mexican Hooker.”

I nod approval and say, “I’ll have a glass of merlot.”

Kylie turns and says incredulously, “Merlot?? Bartender, could you be sure to serve that on a doily and maybe a little umbrella while my new friend here adjusts his skirt?”

I say, “Thanks. Did they name the Hot Mexican Hooker after you?”

“No, but it does loosen me up for my pole-dancing routine.”

I ask, “Oh, do you have a signature move on the pole? Bird of Paradise or the Brass Monkey, perhaps?”

“Oooo…a strip club aficionado. Actually, I do a mean Closed Rainbow.”

I reply, “Oh, I’d have thought you’d go with something to show off your tramp stamp. Would you like to get a table?”

“Sure, though I was expecting you to go straight from drinks to ‘Your place or mine?”

“Thanks for the thought but I’m still waiting for my herpes outbreak to clear up. Why don’t you take care of these drinks and I’ll go hit on…I mean, check with the hostess.”

I see a hint of a smile and she says, “My pleasure.”

I return with the hostess and she escorts us to a lonely table in the back. I guess we’re not exactly an ad for “good marketing.” A server follows on our heels. She says, “Hi, I’m Amber. I see you have your drinks. Can I get you started with an appetizer?”

I reply, “Amber, well aren’t you the cutest little gemstone? I’ll let my cousin decide on the appetizers.”

Kylie glowers in my direction and says, “Buffalo wings and onion rings, please.” Amber scurries off.

I say, “Bold choice on the fried food given your complexion issues. How about that figure on Amber? Wow.”

“She’s cute but I didn’t get a vibe she’s into older men with a middle-age spread so I’d try someone old enough to know who the Backstreet Boys are.”

More barbs are traded until our food arrives. I grab the wings and rings, put the lion’s share on my plate and say, “I’ll take care of these. We should keep that muffin top of yours in check.”

Kylie finally breaks from character and bursts out laughing. It’s a good laugh, real and infectious. She says, “I give. You promised a nightmare date and delivered. For the record, this is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”

I laugh and say, “Major props. You give as good as you get and I’m having a blast.”

Kylie stares at me with eyes that shake the soul. She takes my hand and says, “Let’s fuel up on this fried food and see if we can’t turn this nightmare into a dream. I actually do have a nice merlot back at my place.”

All I can muster is, “Ahem…check please.”