dateblog, day one: enter internet romance.

so here we go.

at the ripe old age of twenty three, i have come to the conclusion that the world has changed, and that i too, must change with it, or be left behind. so here i am, nearly 24 hours into my first day of my first dating profile, and man oh man, i don't know if i was ready for all of this.

it's all a little overwhelming. i feel like i am stepping into the first day of class, gripping my muppets lunchbox and being stared down by a bunch of "cool kids." everyone's virtual persona is so much more polished, calculated and groomed. i stepped into this virtual experiment in the equivalent of my footie pajamas, only to find almost everyone else is putting what appears to be their best, freshly-manicured foot forward.

and this time, no bell is gonna save me.

day one of virtual dating has been a whole lot of exploring, tinged with a slight anxiety. knowing that hundreds or thousands of potential significant others are passing sweeping judgements over a dated, grainy images of me isn't exactly my idea of dating made easy. how does one put out there the actuality of themselves when responding to cutesy little prompts that are overtly sexual, incredibly revealing, or just downright strage?

i must admit, so far it seems a little contrived, but in today's drive-through dating world, what choice do we have? should we all be blowing ungodly amounts of cash at our local watering holes in hopes of seeming extraordinary, somehow different/better/sexier than the competition?

unlike flirting in real time, i am relieved that i can do this from the comfort of said footie pjs. after all, the only image suitors have to go on are the ones i choose, and for the time being, me in a sundress is a bit more enchanting than the teal terrycloth pants i am actually wearing.... i am also able to enjoy at my liesure a variety of snacks that are altogether unacceptable to eat on first dates and in public. think garlic crisps and lentil soup. thank god none of you are close enough to smell the ingredients, and thank god that i don't have to constantly be concerned about whether there is an entire sprig of parsley in my two front teeth.

so, i guess i have to decide what exactly i want to get out of this social-experiment-turned-speed-dating event. do i actually want to meet any of these folks, or will i be one of those girls who strings guys along, only to realize that i am altogether too nervous to expose my non-virtual self to someone who thinks i'm pretty rad (possibly not the kind of rad they would want to date, but the kind of rad they run into at a show and give a high-five). do i want to be courted in the digital world, and take off from there, or will i need to start over again when (if) i plan on meeting with someone in the real time?

twice the time required to be nervous means i'll be twice as exhausted when the moment of truth comes. which might mean i have only half of my game face.... a fifty percent greater chance of screwing it all up. which may or may not discourage me from acting in the first place. a classic catch-22. i'm still single, too busy to play the dating game, and frustrated. so it goes.

i'm willing to give this a shot, and see what comes of it. i'll let you know how it goes.

he works contract jobs for a sattelite installation company. every day, he wakes up at six a.m, is clocked in by 7:30. most days, he drives out to the suburbs, installing for millionaires whose horny wives gaurd the fortress. (there's nothing a woman loves more than a man in uniform; the actual occupation implied by said uniform is inconsequential.)

he wants to start a truck-driving business. he figures he'll earn at least double what he's making now, after expenses. there's maintenance and gas to be considered, and he figures insurance will set him back about a grand every month. but hey, the price is right, and at least he'll have weekends off...

the work is interspersed with premium television channels, images of car chases cut away to the ugly floral-print shapes of the millionaire's wives hanging about in the doorframes. "do you need anything?" she asks suggestivly. cut away to him in his bedroom holding his stiff dick firmly in one hand, a tube of vaseline in the other.

sometimes, he posts personals on the casual dating website. each one is vague and incomplete, promising nothing and everything all at once. two images of his manhood grace the bottom half of the page.

most times, they are as grateful to him as he is to them. the only difference is, he buries it deep beneath the shame indifference brings. they wear it all over their desperate faces.

he tries not to look at them as he pulls on his clothes. with his back to them, he agrees that maybe they should get together again. they make small talk, he pulls his baseball cap tight around his buzzcut.

he never sees the same one twice.

his life cuts away to the dinner table, to his mother's cooking. cut away to his pillow in the darkness, to a special on the history channel on some genocide or long-forgotten kingdom. cut away to dreams of him driving down the interstate toward a place with a warmer climate. driving toward his daughter on the foot of the mountain.

he packs up his tools, wipes big hands over the front of his coveralls. he tries to politely edge past the millionairess wedged in the doorway. the vaseline is waiting for him, in the top drawer-- just where he left it.