It’s 3:00am. (Do you know where your children are?) Conventional wisdom suggests “the best way to get over one man is to get under another” and even though I have no intention of following this advice to its literal conclusion, I find myself back on Match.com, headed straight for “Reactivation.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” types my friend from Lyon (it’s already morning in France and we’re Google chatting).
“Yes,” I type back. “Definitely.” Then, because I can’t spell, I type “definitely” again, which gives my friend just enough time to formulate another question I’d rather not answer.
“Don’t you think you should take some time off?”
Time off? From dating? Yeah right. The annual Richter Roof Deck New Years Eve Martini Bar Soiree is less than a month away! (We’re rather big on Martini Bar Soirees in the Richter family. Pretty soon we’ll be celebrating Easter with pale pink cocktails, because nothing says “Christ has risen, He has risen indeed!” like a bottle of vanilla vodka and a shot of cranberry juice.)
Given the abject failure of my attempt to acquire an official Plus One in time for Black Friday, I don’t actually care about finding myself a date for New Years. It’s too stressful, and I tend to go a bit wonky on New Years as it is (perhaps someday I’ll write about the epic melodrama that comprised Midnight 2007…) but I wouldn’t mind having sometime to go holiday shopping with. Or sledding. Or skating. Indeed, there’s an entire world of winter sports (I mean “dates”) I have yet to try.
I know this because sometimes, when I have nothing better to do (or rather, when I have plenty of better things to do but find none of them appealing), I Google “Great Christmas dates.” In the event that Date #17 came to his senses, begged for my forgiveness and suddenly found the time to take me ice skating at Penn’s Landing, or to the holiday lights show at Longwood Gardens, or to the Pennsylvania Ballet’s production of The Nutcracker (or better yet, to New York City Ballet’s), or to a tree lighting ceremony, or window shopping on 5th Avenue in Manhattan, I wanted to be prepared.
Unfortunately I’ve already missed the tree lighting ceremony at Rockefeller Center (and Philadelphia’s Rittenhouse Square version as well) and I’m fairly certain I won’t be hearing from Date #17 ever again.
“No,” I typed back. “I’m ready to get back on the horse.”
“You don’t need some time to recover?”
“Nope,” I replied. “Definately Definitely not.”
(As a side note, I think I’m going to go public with my break ups more often. The amount of support I’ve received from my so-called “public” has been, well, without getting all emotional, it’s been lovely. There’s nothing like a “You go girl!” from a perfect stranger to take sting out of a breakup, although I will warn you, do not read any comments from my fellow blogger Dennis, mastermind of Musings on Life and Love, while eating your lunch. You will, invariably, find yourself cracking up and spitting soup all over your computer.)
I know I could sit around wallowing/reprioritizing/doing laundry/taking some “me” time to discover who I really am and what I really want… or I could just minimize my Google chat window, slide my cursor a bit further to the left and click “Reactivate.”
I’m practically salivating by the time I select what is, obviously, the more sensible of these two options. New men! New outfits! New dates! New stories! Finally I can stop blogging about my attempts to indoctrinate four years old in the ways of “Peter! Peter Parker! Peter, Peter Pumpkin Eater Tie-Cough-ski” (which translates, I think, to Tchaikovsky).
But there’s a problem with this picture. As the results of my Match.com search come into focus, I realize that I’ve seen him, and him, and him—I’ve seen all of them!— before.
There’s Date #12, third from the right. And there’s—okay, this is not good.
Evidently I’ve already dated every eligible bachelor in Philadelphia. At least I’ve already dated every eligible bachelor between 6’ and 6’ 3” within a five mile radius (and I’m not about to lower my standards; pun most definitely intended).
The way I see it, I have three options:
1) Change zip codes (the whole point of my initial online dating experiment was to fall in love in and with Philadelphia. A long distance affair doesn’t really fit the master plan at this point in time so maybe I should just move and search within a new five mile radius).
2) Wait another six months until the waters of Match.com have been repopulated with new fish (evidently two months isn’t long enough of a hiatus when you take the catch and release approach to dating).
3) Give up (soul searching and all that jazz, although really, where’s the fun in that?).
4) Try a something new (I’m not really sure what this “something new” should entail but I have every confidence that I will—with the help of my “public”—figure it out).