Avoiding Cupid’s Arrow: A Nonexistent Love Story

“Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love.” – Charlie Brown

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In the wake of the newest hot topic buzzing its way across social media (catcalling and the idea that it is not, in fact, a welcomed pleasantry), I want to tell you a story. This is the story of a girl who cried a river and drowned the whole world…sorry; I couldn’t resist. Actually, this is the story of a girl who decided that she was tired of being single; and seeing as she was quickly approaching the end of her academic career, it might be time for her to consider what the world of dating might be like. With that notion she opted to take the plunge into the deep-sea of hormones and set up an account on OkCupid which might, in hindsight, have been the dumbest thing she’d ever done. But now she has stories to tell. If you haven’t guessed, that girl is me and this is my story:

At the time I registered on OkCupid, it was for a myriad of reasons spanning from desperation to curiosity to my subtle yet twisted sense of humor (which materializes itself in the form of self-deprecation). But I took the time and put actual thought into my profile. If I was going to bother with it, I was going to take it seriously. So I laid out the basics: my involvement in theatre, my love of photography, my obsession with Harry Potter (this was a pre-Gilmore Girls world for me; I should update my profile), etc. I found the right pictures that made me look like a decent young adult instead of the deranged, unkempt blob I often envision myself to be. And almost as soon as I was done with the initial set-up, the likes and visitors came pouring in. And maybe that sounds conceited which, in this particular instance, is not like me at all. But I was confused to be getting emails and notifications about people visiting my profile and clicking a little star to show some sense of approval. It was also within the first ten minutes that the initial Joey Tribbiani “how you doin'” came in.

Hey, it’s Rhonda. I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave me a message with your name and number…and I still won’t get back to you.

I admit, I’m guilty of ignoring the messages I’ve received on OC. I’ll read them. And that’s about it. Read them, scoff, laugh, roll my eyes, push the rising feeling of nausea back down into the pit of my stomach… My particular favorite message was from this one guy who for about a week sent me daily messages.

“Hey, you should hit me up. Here’s my number.”

“Hey, can you call me?”

“Please call me.”

“You should call me.”

He quickly became the Carly Rae Jepsen of my online dating experience.

“Hey, I just met you. And this is crazy. But CAN I HAVE YOUR NUMBER? Can I have it? Can I? Can I?”

He didn’t even ask if I liked Mike and Ikes. Or to work my up-do.

I’m not quite sure what makes any person think that repeatedly begging someone they’ve never even exchanged words with to call them will work, but let me tell you ladies and gents; it does not. At least, not when the person you’re pleading with is sane. My number is not a sex hotline and I will not be your booty call. Of course, maybe he just wanted to talk sports in which case that could have been clarified. And I could have summarized my thoughts in one simple text: Go go Gryffindor!

Eyes up here, buddy.

Once upon a time on an unrelated website that I frequent which has nothing to do with dating (thankfully) but still lends itself to the occasional creeper interaction, a guy told me very bluntly that I have huge boobs.  And then out of (extremely awkward) concern, he asked if I had back problems. And then he followed that up with the ever honest admission that if he were in my presence, he would fondle them (yes, my breasts) once or twice.

I’m not even kidding.

So in a way, it came as no surprise when someone on OkCupid sent me a message saying, “sexy boobs.” And left it at that. Thanks, fellas. Just in case I wasn’t already aware of the two massive lumps of fat and tissue protruding out of my chest, let’s point it out, eh?

Because when this is the picture you see, your first inclination should totally be to comment on the size of a body part most other females have as if this is something impressive. Which, mind you, it’s not. There are bigger out there, boys and girls. Trust me. But if we must talk about it, go ahead and ask me what size they are (which has happened). Go ahead and touch them (apparently this is acceptable). Go ahead and worry that my poor spine is suffering (which it might very well be; who knows).

Wait. Stop. No.

This is where consent becomes extremely important.

My chest is not for you to ogle over (something I’m sure is difficult to really drive home at the moment since I’ve called attention to it; but I’m proving a point, so go with it). What size bra I wear or how many I need to have on just to play Dance Dance Revolution is in no way any of your business unless I choose to make it so. There is never a reason I, or any person, should be touched without permission. You don’t get to cop a feel or tell me about how you want to cop a feel. It’s a major turn-off and, frankly, a violation of my body. And regardless of the potential health benefits of having a reduction, my body was, believe it or not, built to sustain what Mother Nature gave me. It’s not like I asked for the Himalayas the summer between fourth and fifth grade. They just started to form. And I know they’re there. I see them every time I look down and notice them every night when I roll over in bed and they suffocate me. No need to message me about it.

Am I looking good? Well, that’s nice, I guess. Because I feel like crap.

The lesser offense is simply telling me I look good. It’s not nearly as intrusive as telling me my boobs are sexy, but there is a part of me that always wants to rip open my shirt and reveal my leotard with the giant “F” on it for feminism. I know, the term is a tad scary, but hear me out. The idea that the only way to start a conversation with a girl is to tell her she looks nice is about as primitive and basic as they come. I mean, thank you for saying you think I’m cute. Thank you for saying I look good. I’m also about 98% certain that you drop that exact same line to every female you message on OkCupid, but it doesn’t necessarily make your words any less genuine. Maybe you do think I’m cute.

I don’t, however, immediately think you have anything more to offer.

I say this because out of all the things you could say, you chose to comment on a very superficial subject. This isn’t even just the low esteem I have towards my own body talking. This is the intelligent, independent, I-am-more-than-my-outward-beauty individual talking. Out of all the things on my profile that could potentially be misleading, my picture would be the first culprit (it’s not, by the way. That’s definitely me). What I mean is that online dating sites are notorious for people using images that aren’t theirs or people manipulating things to appear more attractive. The photos I posted (all 3 of them) are me at my better (I would say best, but that’s still not true). But my profile itself? That’s 100% me, no boosted contrast or beaches. Want to really impress me? Tell me about your love of the arts. Wrack my brain with philosophical questions. Ask me why I like Harry Potter and then explain (with good cause) why you might find it overrated. Obviously there will always be people out there who will gladly give in to the “you’re looking good tonight” line. And if that works for them, great. But don’t let that be the only thing you ever say to a person. If you’re going to start a message by telling someone they’re beautiful, also include something a bit more conversational, and a lot less creepy like, “Hey, I think you’re really pretty. I see on your profile that you’re really into the environment and I’ve been interested in learning more about sustainability. What are your thoughts on GMOs?”

See? Don’t you feel better already?

I, uh, um, yeah. Hi.

This. Don’t do that either. Give me more than hello. Hello is for chatting, not a message thread. That’s like sending “k” as a response to an elaborate text. (Now you know where I stand on text etiquette.)

You up for some fun? Mmmmm, nope. I don’t like having fun.

One of the messages I received came from a guy in New York vacationing in Hawai’i who wanted a “pretty lady to spend time with for a few days.” If this were early-1900s Japan, he would have been calling upon me for my skills as a geisha (you know, strictly in the arts entertainment sense). Since this is 2014 America, I’m not quite sure what he was calling upon me to do. Considering that I have classes and rehearsals and, you know, a life, I’m not sure what being a companion to him would have been like. I envisioned him riding a motorcycle or renting a car and picking me up. I’d sit by his side while he drank his beer on the boardwalk, dance with him at some nightclub, accompany him back to his hotel room for a night of…I don’t know what happens in hotel rooms outside of watching cartoons and eating McDonald’s because that’s exactly what I do when I stay at hotels. Could you imagine me, little ol’ Rhonda, being a “tour guide?” I mean, arm around my shoulder, walking with me, dining with me, expecting me to be the face of his vacation, a story to tell about the girl he hooked up with for five or so days on an island? That’s not even exotic. I’m not even from Hawai’i (not that I support the exploitation of native Hawaiians because that would actually make this all the more worse).

In another set of messages, I was asked if I wanted to chill or hang out or have some fun. I can’t even begin to explain how laughable I found it all. No introduction, no getting to know one another. I’ve never been one to just jump into things. Heck, even though I said I was jumping into the sea of hormones with this whole OkCupid account, it’s still a bit more like scaling my way down the cliff towards the sea and hoping I don’t slip and cause a rockslide.

I like the idea of having fun, but then again, I’m an introvert and social interactions drain me. And it also depends greatly on the type of fun. I mean, lots of people like to go out, get drunk or smoke, and party til the crack of dawn. Other people like to do really dangerous things like base jumping with faulty equipment just to see if they can avoid death. And then there’s me whose idea of fun is watching eight episodes of Gilmore Girls in one night and analyzing the choices of 90s Nickelodeon shows and taking Buzzfeed quizzes because dealing with people is too exhausting on a Friday night. I have no room for your alcohol-induced base jumping schemes. I cry enough as it is and I like my drama in the form of Netflix (I often cry because of the drama on Netflix).

The diamond in the rough.

But every so often there is one person you find worth talking to in the online dating world. They send you a message that’s personal, funny, and non-intrusive. You read it and you think, “man, why can’t all of the other users be like this?” And you message them back. And you smile because even though you know nothing will ever come of it, they’re cute and friendly, and probably not a sociopath just luring you into a false sense of security.

The only message I ever responded to was from a guy who started the conversation with:

“You can tune a piano, but you can’t tuna fish, haha! Hi there! Thought I’d open with a joke. My name is Shane*.”

*name changed to protect user identity even though he no longer has an OC account*

And then he told me a little about himself, how he’s still getting used to living the island life and about his love of music. And he asked me questions about my likes and what I want to get out of the world. Nothing awkward, nothing too personal. He asked me serious questions, he asked me silly questions. And it was the most comfortable I ever felt after signing up for this experience.

Things didn’t last long. Shane got busy and deleted his account not too long after we had talked, but it was the first and only time someone had tried talking to me. I mean an actual true-to-life conversation. No “you have sexy boobs.” No “let’s have fun.” Nothing weird and sketchy, just a straight forward conversation with two adults getting to know one another.

It was refreshing.

I am a strong, independent black woman who don’t need no man.

Nothing has changed, though. I’m still as single as I was when I started. I’ve pretty much abandoned my experiment for the time being mostly because school and work have kept me busy since I started my account so many months ago. I rarely ever sign on and it’s usually just to see what ridiculous messages I’ve gotten. But according to my stats, Hawai’i boys (which in this case just means boys who live in Hawai’i) think I’m a hot commodity. I mean, in only a few months and without being on very often, I’ve accumulated almost 200 likes and Lord knows how many visitors. Maybe once I graduate in May I’ll put a little bit more effort into the online dating thing. Considering how I have yet to meet anyone in person with even the slightest bit of interest in me, online dating might be the route to take. And if there’s even just one like Shane, someone who’s willing to get to know someone without adding the pressure of hanging out or handing out numbers all willy-nilly, then maybe just maybe I can stop avoiding Cupid and let him know that I’m ready for that arrow.