Wanted: An Unmarried Man to Discuss Sumerian Resurrection Myths
Copyrighted by Lorna Tedder. Originally published in Life in the Third Degree.
Two things keep me from pursuing a man through Internet dating: (1.) engineers and (2.) accountants.
Right after my divorce, Meredith convinced me that Internet dating was the best way to find a man. After all, that’s how she’d found her honey, and they’d married in record time and produced the world’s perfect baby.
“I’m not looking for a husband,” I reminded her. “Or a sperm donor.”
“But you should have a man in your life.” She’d found happiness; therefore, it was up to her to make sure I replaced the man in my life with a new one as quickly as possible. “If nothing else, for sex.”
I reminded her that we live in a wonderful technological age and that it takes more than a one-night stand for most men to figure out how a particular woman’s body works. I don’t know what’s happened to my morals, but casual sex doesn’t interest me. For pity’s sakes, I’m a double Pisces with five Aquarian planets. There’s no such thing as a “purely physical relationship” when you’re craving alchemy over chemistry.
“You would at least have someone to do something with,” she persisted. “You’d have a guy to go to a movie with.”
“But I can go to a movie by myself. And see what I want. And sit where I want. I don’t need a chaperone or a chauffeur. I’m perfectly capable of going places alone.”
By this time, the girl who has to have her man along for every errand was getting flustered. “Well, what about just someone to talk to?”
Okay, she had me there. While I do have plenty of female friends to chat with about deeply spiritual subjects, male friendships of this sort have eluded me. I’ve had an occasional friendship over the years, but they were always held at arms length while I was married. I had wedded an atheist, so the Life, Death, and the Universe discussions had been few and far between, and I desperately crave this kind of interaction.
Fine. I guessed I could check out some of the online dating sites. But just to try to generate some conversations and, as Meredith enthusiastically put it, “see what’s out there.”
Several other friends had been suggesting I check out e-harmony.com, so I reluctantly did. I decided to sign up for their freebies and it took me about eight hours to fill out their personality profile. I’ve done :
Myers-Briggs (INFJ, thank you very much)
Astrology (Pisces, with Pisces rising and moon and Mercury in Aquarius)
Psycho-geometrics (I’m a squiggle!)
Ergo-genetics (social visionary)
The standard Department of Defense profile (quiet lil’ ol’ me is considered a dominator or driver, which is true but surprised the bosses)
A host of others.
But now I can add e-harmony’s two cents’ worth to my self-analysis. Personally, the astrological profile Lauren did for me over at Artcharts has been the best of the bunch.
Once I finally finished the test, answered the personal questions in great detail, and listed my basic requirements in a “match,” I hit the enter key and waited to get my list of great guys to talk to.
Then next screen said something like, “We have over ___ 50,000 ___ fantastic men listed in our database. You have ___ 0 ____ matches.”
Hmmm, must’ve been my non-negotiable requirements for (1.) emotionally healthy, (2.) verbally intelligent, (3.) financially responsible, (4.) drug and disease free, and (5.) share my spiritual outlook or at least nurture it. I lowered my standards four or five times before I figured out that the problem was with #5. I wasn’t willing to get involved with another man, even for conversation, if he was merely tolerant of my spirituality. It’s vital for me to have friendships with people who “get me” and don’t try to change my spirituality or put me down for it. The odds of finding a man like that are apparently 50,000 to 1, but I refuse to settle for less again.
So after lowering my standards to make the damned thing spit out at least one match, I finally got one–3000 miles away. I lowered my standards again and then again and finally got about five matches, the closest one about three hours away. They all sounded like great guys but their profiles generally had overzealous red flags like, “The three things in life I can’t life without? God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit.” I didn’t have to be psychic to know this meant either a conversion attempt or a missed match. The spooky thing was that all five had something similar. The probability of discussing the Sumerian resurrection mythology of Inanna seemed unlikely.
After that, I logged off. I highly recommend eharmony.com to Christians seeking Christians, but I have no intention of dating outside my faith again. It’s just too important to me. Not that a guy has to be on the exact same path, but he’s got to understand it and support it if he wants to be with me or even to have long conversations with me. If he can be my priest in Circle, well, wow…maybe that’s too much to ask of the Gods.
So then I let myself get talked into checking out another major online dating service. It wasn’t specific to Christians and I knew single colleagues of various faiths who had found their secular soulmates via this site. My brother sneered at the site and reminded me of all the people on there who had lied about their age, weight, and body type, but I decided to take a peek anyway.
What I discovered was something far more disturbing than someone shaving a few years off their age. I found the photographs and profiles of two men I knew and knew well.
The engineer described an incredibly romantic dinner date and a promise of roses and chocolates to melt any girl’s heart. His recently updated profile had been carefully crafted to appeal to the hopeless romantic and make her knees weak with curiosity to be his match on a moonlit night. Coupled with a charming photo of him, it probably would have worked if I hadn’t known him and known he was engaged during the same time he was fishing for other sirens. Several “facts” in his profile were downright lies, but his age, weight, and body type were all honest.
The accountant’s profile was crafted in a less romantic way that sent chills up my spine when I read it. He was seeking a woman twenty years his junior, preferably a young Christian virgin with a clear understanding of what submission meant. His age was correct, as was his body type. The handsome and recent photo he’d posted might have captured my attention even if his arrogant profile turned me off. But the most upsetting point he had to make was how he’d been married for twenty years to the same woman before she left him, she-Devil that she was. His lengthy marriage, he said, proved his ability to commit to a long-term relationship.
But I knew better. I’d been on business trips with him when he’d picked up other women, and I’d seen him slipping into my neighbor’s home at midnight when he’d told his wife he was away on a business trip.
The scary thing is, he’s quite a salesman. While I know the truth of who he is, I could just as easily have been taken in by him if I hadn’t known him. Well, except for being a 25-year-old Christian virgin who can define “submit.”
I logged off of the Internet dating site and haven’t been back since. It’s just too spooky for me. Of all the men listed, I knew only two personally, and they were both liars about things that mattered.
As for my odds of finding a guy online, I think 50,000 to 1 is way too generous.