On Picking out my Dating Website Username

Very quickly into this whole thing I realize no one uses their actual name.  First names with attached puns or witty jokes are accepted–but not full names.  Virginia was already taken, thus forcing me to get creative.

The answer came from my television.  “Rose Tyler,” it said.  (Please note: my television doesn’t talk on its own; I was watching Doctor Who.)

And I thought, “Yes!  Rose Tyler, of course!  I’ll use RoseTyler, and I’ll find a dork just like me who watches dork TV shows and reads dork books and truly believes he was born in the wrong dimension!”  

RoseTyler, though, was taken.  So I thought, this is no problem.  RoseTyler is a popular companion of the Doctor–and she’s early seasons.  I’ll pick my second–and sometimes first favorite–Amelia Pond.

AmeliaPond was taken, and to my absolute heartbreak, so was RiverSong.

Okay.

So, I bite my lip, and my tongue, the latter by mistake, and I make an executive decision.  No one–absolutely no one–wants to be DonnaNoble on a dating site… Not only is she not the most romantic companion, but her story is arguably the most tragic as in the end of it all she gets stuck being the equivalent of a normal human being (fingers crossed on her eventual return for a better ending).  So  I try DonnaNoble…

…and it’s freaking taken. But don’t worry.  

Image

 

The website had the brilliant idea that I use the username: DonnaNoble_Taco.

The moral of the story is: It’s all a cruel joke, and Donna Noble is the punch line.

 

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Adventures in Online Dating

I joined a dating site.

I figured I’d cut to the punch line, there.

The reason why I entered myself into this humiliating, humbling, hysterical experience is: like, where do you even go if you want to meet someone nowadays?  My grandparents met at the local dance hall, and I’m definitely not going to even begin to examine whatever my parents did–but the point is, I can’t exactly put on the ritz and head on down to my local dance hall and stare across the dance floor trying to pick out a husband because my mother is back home calling me an old maid at the ripe age of twenty-two.

So where do I head from here?  And the answer was: where everyone else is going.  So I did some light research (a habit) and I picked the most very popular dating site (after convincing myself to avoid the laugh-inducing-machine that was youmustlovedogsdating.com).  

I’ve had the page for 72 hours, about, and so far I think I might have better luck meeting someone at the bingo night at my local church, or standing outside my local bookstore with a sign that reads, “Buy me a coffee, and I promise to be on most very awkward behavior all night!”  At least the sign idea would be more honest than the people on this website–

–because apparently I did this all wrong.  When I put up my pictures (two), I made sure that in one picture I was displaying my very best smile, and in the other I was displaying my very most condescending look of disapproval.  Because those are the faces you’re most likely to see me wearing, right?  

In my summary, I supplied that I write, that I’m a genuine geek, and that I like adventures.  Not only is that the truth but it’s the best way to say the truth, which honestly could also be described as, “I like to stay in my room with my notebook, watch sci-fi television shows, and venture into the outside world for coffee and haircuts.”  I even took my hip size into account when it asked me my body type and opted for curvy instead of average, because, what if one day I eat a few more bags of potato chips than I meant to, you know?

So I’m giving it my best shot–my best, most genuine shot–and I go to visit some of the guys’ profiles… …and, like, what the hell Dating Site Guys?  How the hell do you all love laughing, life, and going for walks?  Personally I’m a bit undecided about life.  

And if you don’t like laughter then you’re probably also Satan or someone who pees themselves when they laugh too hard.

Also, ALL of the guys on this dating site make over 60,000 dollars a year.  (I didn’t know that this disastrous economy was a women-only situation, because apparently all the men are doing just fine.)  

As the messages from these fine suitors start rolling in, (all of them from tall, athletic, employed, capable men with fuzzy profile pictures of them in sunglasses), I realize the real problem with the dating world.  

Drumroll, please: 

Even if I met these guys in a bar, or at the local bingo games, or outside a bookstore with a strange sign, they would still try to tell me about their super-steady jobs.  They would try to boast about their gym attendance record.  They would put on their sunglasses as soon as we went outside, and real talk, I would, too.  

Because nowadays, there’s no honesty like meeting someone at your local town dance, staring across the room looking for a husband–and knowing that any time now, any of these men might be heading off to World War II, and knowing that you were expected to stay together for life.

On a lighter note, there’s a section on my profile that asks of me the most private thing I’m willing to admit about myself.  And so it happened that PTSwayze (who departed from the sunglasses profile picture and opted for a shade-casting baseball cap, indoors, taken with what seems to be a 2002 camera phone) sent me a single sentence private message.

 It read, “Do you really blog about this?”

And, yes, PTSwayze, I guess I do.