In preparing for (and recovering from) my 50th date, I neglected to mention that I’ve met the man of my dreams. (And no, my 50th date did not involve said man, because that would be entirely too simple).
He’s intelligent, artistic, humorous on occasion, “deep” enough to indulge my philosophical tendencies, sexy, and—thank goodness!— taller than me in heels. He also has blue eyes and even though I never knew I had a thing for blue eyes, apparently I do. He has a respectable career that he’s passionate about, he sends me sexy text messages in Italian (at least I think they’re sexy; one can never be too sure with the romance languages) and he seems to have mastered the art of not wearing sneakers.
So what’s the problem?
Well, he lives on the other side of the state so when I say “I’ve met the man of my dreams” I’m using the term “met” rather broadly. Very broadly. Approximately 306 miles broadly, as in we’ve never actually… you know… met.
Shall I explain?
It all began when I first signed up for Match.com last August. In those initial days, I was rather click-happy in my approach to cyber chemistry; as such I accidentally “winked” at the man in question without really meaning to.
How does one accidentally wink at someone who lives across the state?
It’s because Match.com does this weird thing where it “auto-suggests” matches based on the men with whom you’re currently communicating. In other words, if you send an email to Man A (who lives within your required 5-mile radius), Match will prompt you send you an email to Man B (who does NOT live within your required 5-mile radius).
Seeing as the entire reason I began online dating was to fall in love with or in Philadelphia (or both, preferably) I had had absolutely Z-E-R-O interest in meeting anyone located beyond my 5-mile radius. As soon as I realized Man B lived well beyond (300 miles beyond, to be exact) I sent an immediate follow up (something along the lines of “Oops! Never mind; really only interested in dating locally, but good luck!”)
A normal man would have gone merrily on his way, but you know me: I rarely attract normal men and men being men, they always want what they can’t have (ie. a girl in Philadelphia wanting nothing to do with the other side of the state).
So he emailed. I blew him off. He texted. I wished him well. He suggested a “phone date” to which I repeatedly responded, “I hate talking on the phone.” Over the course of several weeks, however, he wore me down and I agreed to finally speak to him (hence Date #7).
Was it love at first sound? Not quite. I can’t remember exactly why I formed such a low opinion of him during our first conversation but I have a feeling it had something do with Jane Austen (as in he’d never read Jane Austen. Because I’ve had such luck with male Janeites in the past, right?).
Long story short, we did not live happily ever after. But he kept my phone number and since we first “met” back in August, he’s taken to sending me monthly text messages, commenting on my Facebook pictures and teasing me about my blog.
I never really thought anything of it until recently. Sure, we talked about him coming to Philly but always in an abstract, flirtatious, hypothetical sort of way. He let me vent about Date #17 when the you-know-what hit the fan but he didn’t exactly swoop in to sweep me off of my feet.
That all changed during the city’s most recent thunderstorm. We ended up chatting, via Facebook, for nearly two hours and discovered during that time that we both prefer Florence to Rome, red wine to white and arts education (with all of its associated ups and downs) to any sort of “normal” 9-5 employment.
I didn’t even really know what he did for a living until that point (honestly, I don’t know what we’ve spent the past nine months talking about). Now that I know, however, I am blown away—I actually respect this guy, and after all of the Impressionists and Pre-Raphaelites and Surrealists I’ve dated, respect is quite a new thing for me.
If he ever manages to get himself to Philadelphia, this could be interesting. Very interesting.
In the meantime, I’ll be attempting to squeeze in a coffee with My 50th Date sometime this weekend between all of the dance recitals and competitions and trying not to think too much about that whole “a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush” thing, because if I think about it, I really will lose my mind.