When you enter the cesspool otherwise known as internet dating, it can jade you. Even the most self-confident, awesome of princesses suddenly becomes insecure about things like her height, weight, income, procreation preferences, and yes . . . her age.
I’m 37 years old, and believe me – I don’t think there’s a darned thing wrong with that. Because I’m 37 and not, say, 25, I am financially secure, semi-educated, and somewhat interesting. Since I also possess the sense of humor and maturity level of your average 12 year old boy, one might describe me as “young at heart”.
When I look in the mirror, I don’t see a middle-aged person. I see a princess – even when my tiara is in the shop. Do I color my hair to cover up the errant grays? Duh! But for the record, I’ve been dying my hair for 20 years – not because I need to but because I can. And yes, I moisturize and wear an SPF 45 sunscreen year-round, but that’s just fear of cancer talking. So whether I’m 37 or 57 or 17, I feel like a princess and I think I look damn fine, no matter how young I may or may not be.
Do I lie about my age? You bet I do – but only to online suitors and only to get past the age filters they’ve cleverly enabled to skew their demographic younger. It’s a little shocking that a follicle-challenged, overweight, underemployed 40 year old man who’s never been married would be holding out for a 25-32 year old partner, but as I say, dare to dream, boys. Unfortunately, they’re not the only ones holding out for younger babes. The attractive and employed ones are, too.
I don’t think fibbing about one’s age in an online profile is any different than lying about your weight on your drivers’ license (Guilty as charged. I actually weigh a tad more than 125 but appreciate that the fine folks at the DMV never question me). And for the record, guys lie all the time. Don’t even get me started on the male measurement system. Every man who’s ever claimed to be 6 feet tall is at least three inches shorter, a fact that I now account for in my choice of first date footwear.
I recently discussed my web of lies with my family, who were all appalled by my dishonesty. Smug married people with their mutual respect and honesty don’t remember what it’s like to be swimming in the singles shark tank. It’s survival of the fittest out there, and a web of lies can often turn into a safety net. One well-intentioned family member wanted to know, “Aren’t you setting yourself up for a day of reckoning?”
While I appreciate the sentiment, it’s not like I’m standing in a church and lying right in Jesus’ face. Rather, I’ve created an online profile using creative accounting. In some cultures, I’d be named president of the company and rewarded with stock options for this. But the question stuck in my craw and got me thinking . . . am I setting myself up for failure?
I know what the future lawyer thinks, but the rest of the jury is still out on this one. The clever suitors are quick to figure out that there is no way I’m as young as I pretend to be online. My love of Barry Manilow, inability to use an iphone, and general knowledge of 1970’s trivia gives me away. And I give myself away on the first date if the guy passes Princess D's 9 Commandments and appears to be semi-literate. Since I have no intention of dating a moron, why bother coming clean with the stupid ones?
The topic of age is top of mind these days since I’m facing a 20 year high school reunion this summer. My first response upon receiving the invitation was, “Who are these people and why do they think we’re the same age?!?!” My second response was, “I am WAY hotter than anyone would have guessed I’d be 20 years ago. Whose face can I rub that in?” And my third response was, “In a graduating class of 81, how many good-looking single guys will be at this event?” Note that the third question was asked in a facetious tone, since I went to Catholic school. I expect there to be one single guy there and he’ll probably be a priest.
Will I attend the reunion? I’m not sure. The miracles of technology like Facebook have allowed me to keep tabs on people I never intended to speak to again, rendering things like in-person reunions unnecessary. Unless I wind up married to Joe Mauer before August, I might sit this one out. Will I keep lying about my age? Well . . . Eminem said it best; “I love the way you lie.”
© 2011 Princess D
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