After my recent discovery that single does not actually equal certain death and despair, I pondered the age old question that every singleton over 30 wrestles with. The question has a couple of variations but the soundtrack in my own head goes a little something like this:
- Do I want to be alone forever?
- If not, why not? I mean, as a single gal, I do have the luxury of sole remote control ownership and I can wear giant granny panties to my heart’s content without fear of judgment. (Stop judging me. Seriously. You know you’d wear them if you could.)
- How will I ever meet someone?
- I hate meeting new people. I loathe first dates. What the hell am I thinking?
Lather, rinse, repeat and you get the idea.
If you’ve been keeping up with my recent antics, you know full well that I threw my hat back into the internet dating ring. My rationale is fairly convoluted but I think it has something to do with the combination of my admittedly limited social skills, boredom, and an excellent marketing campaign on the part of PseudacrisBrachyphona.com. (Remember – that’s the scientific name for the mountain chorus frog. I’m not lying. Google it if you don’t believe me.)
My previous experience with Frogs.com left me cautiously skeptical (translation: carrying a shitload of baggage) about the odds of finding my prince online, but since you can find pretty much anything else online, why not true love? And you know my motto. If it can’t make me feel any worse, why not give it a whirl? Of course, that assumes that whatever I’m about to embark on can’t actually make me feel worse, which is often a flawed assumption as we’ll soon discover.
I began half-heartedly corresponding with a few potential frogs that were specially chosen for me by the magical internet Cupid. I rejected three times as many frogs as I considered, using Princess D's Nine Commandments as my guide. I kept my new internet dating status under wraps and shared my dirty secret with only a handful of close friends. And then something interesting happened.
I have this friend. He is most certainly not a frog by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, 9 out of 10 women would agree that he is 100% prince. He is attractive, attentive, fun-loving, kind, smart, employed (!), and responsible. He’s not gay, visually impaired or a convicted felon. Like I said, 9 out of 10 women would give their eye-teeth for a date with this guy. Woman #10, however? She goes by the name Princess D and she and the Pseudo-Prince have a complicated relationship. Frankly, the details are available only on a need-to-know basis, and you so don’t need to know. What I will tell you is that while the Pseudo-Prince and I are thick as thieves, I love him like the older brother I never had. There’s no “When Harry Met Sally” thing going on here. There’s no sexual tension, no underlying desire to ravish each other, although it would not be unheard of for us to start slapping the crap out of each other. We’re like a pair of adolescent boys when we’re together.
So picture it. Dateline: a recent Saturday night. Princess D has already procured dog food and is ready for a night on the town, when the Pseudo-Prince calls. Always popular with the ladies, the Pseudo-Prince just ended a pretty serious relationship and is between girlfriends for a rare interval that will likely last less than 30 days if history is any indicator. He needs a low-key evening with someone who “gets” him and whose tragic comedy of a life will undoubtedly provide him with a much needed mood-boost, so he invited me over for dinner.
Since I would accept an invitation from Osama Bin Laden if a home-cooked meal was involved, I was pretty excited about the prospect of getting out of the house, spending time with the Pseudo-Prince, and getting fed. As a major bonus, since there was no chance of any funny business, I didn’t feel compelled to fix my hair, put on makeup, or remove any unwanted body hair. I may have even been rocking some granny panties. But that’s for me to know.
The Pseudo-Prince and I had a great time. We laughed, we drank wine, we cooked and ate a delicious meal. (Shut up. I really did participate in meal preparation. And no, my involvement did not include pushing buttons on the microwave.) It was comfortable, it was fun, and boys and girls . . . it was another one of those signs. Sitting in the Pseudo-Prince’s living room, trying not to fall asleep on his couch, I had an epiphany. This is what I miss most about being part of a couple. I don’t miss anniversaries or expensive date nights. What I miss most is those ordinary moments where you’re completely relaxed and 100% authentically you with someone else.
Revelation time. I rationally knew that I needed to kiss a lot of frogs to find a prince but my heart wasn’t in the game. The Pseudo-Prince opened my eyes and I realized that I was going to need to get my royal ass off the couch and get back to frog-kissing ASAP. I logged back on to PseudacrisBrachyphona.com and gamely began reviewing my potential suitors. And that is how I wound up meeting Frog #7, also known as Perfect-for-Someone-But-Not-Me Frog.
I planned a date with Frog #7 – “Don’t call me until after 5 PM” frog – and riding the high of my fake couple time with the Pseudo Prince, I was looking forward to a great date. Maybe an internet search engine does know me well enough to pick out a mate!
Then again, maybe not. Remember those signs I’m so fond of? Not ten minutes after I agreed to go on a date with Frog #7, I got one of those tantalizing marketing emails from the fine folks at PseudacrisBrachyphona.com. You see, they found another potential mate for me and they didn’t want me to waste another minute as a desolate single woman. The subject line of the email read, “Princess, meet Mr. Wrong! We chose him just for you!”
I don’t know what the odds are that both my ex-live-in-boyfriend of 14 years who stole my lawn mower and broke my heart and I would both sign up for the same stupid internet dating service. But I’m not going to lie to you. When I realized that PseudacrisBrachyphona.com was trying to introduce me to Mr. Wrong, the frog who got away with my blue-ray player and gas grill, a couple of things happened. First, I laughed so hard that I peed in my pants while proclaiming, “My life is a sitcom”. I laughed until I cried (and peed) and then I cleaned myself up, lowered my expectations, and thought, “Here goes nothing!”
I promise to share the sordid details of my date with Frog #7 (although I’m not sure I can count him as a frog since I assure you there was no kissing of any kind) as soon as I find the humor in it. In the meantime, where did I leave the remote control?
© 2010 Princess D
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