...but it's slim pickings when you sign onto Match.com. You are shocked to learn that 206 people have viewed your profile during the past 10 hours--not too shabby for a good night's sleep! However, you're a bit overwhelmed to find your inbox overflowing with “winks,” until, upon further inspection, you realize that you seem to appeal to a demographic of overweight, fiftysomething Nebraskans. You being to wonder about the odds of an entire state developing an online eye-twitch until you notice the email from a cute, age-appropriate boy:
“We've got a high compatibility rating. Who am I to argue with a simplistic dating algorithm? I think a date would be fun for both of us, maybe, if you're interested.”
You’re impressed. Not only did he use the word ‘algorithm’ correctly, but he also spelled it right. His pictures could be cuter, but then again, so could yours. You learned long ago to stay away from the professionally shot Black and Whites as well as the blurry shots with hats and/or sunglasses. The profile is actually decent with nary a hint of Serial Killer to be found. But that’s when you notice his fatal flaw. It is right there, as plain as day, mocking you for not noticing it instantly. Algorithm Boy is from Westchester…
You quickly picture yourself doing your walk of shame on an overly lit MetroNorth train and it ain’t pretty. You have, however, lived in the boroughs and you have experienced this geographic prejudice first hand. So you decide to give Algorithm Boy a chance, even though the odds are slim-to-none that you’ll be meeting him for a drink in White Plains. You write back and forth all day (which is strictly against your Match.com communication policy), but you let it slide because he gives good email. He works in the city and asks to meet for coffee after work (which is strictly against your cocktail policy), but you both agree to play it by ear and call him when you’re finished your errands which just happen to be located a bit too conveniently to his office.
As promised, you rush to finish your errands and call around 5pm and hear Algorithm Boy’s voice for the first time, which seems vaguely annoyed. “Is there a problem?” you ask. “No. Not really. You just said you’d call at five o’clock.” You look at your watch and it’s 5:12. Danger Will Robinson! Danger! You take the high road and politely remind him that you were “playing it by ear” even though you distinctly remember using the term 5-ish when making your plan. Algorithm Boy decides that he’s still up for it, and when you ask him where he wants to meet he actually suggests, “How about the Starbucks in Grand Central?” You almost suggest getting the coffee to-go and meeting him on the MetroNorth train because God forbid this suburban commuter should stray two steps out of his way to accommodate you! But you say, “I’m on 22nd and Park. Maybe you know of a place a little bit south and we can split the difference?” But, of course, he doesn’t. Algorithm Boy tells you to meet him at the Information Booth at Grand Central Station which is preposterous considering it’s rush hour, but somehow you bite your tongue before it says, “Why don’t we just meet at McDonald’s in Times Square?”
You roll your eyes and get on the 6-train at 23rd and you wait and wait and wait. You get claustrophobic as the train fills up with rush hour sardines until the conductor apologizes for “Signal problems at Grand Central.” You picture the signal problems as giant red flags as you get off the subway and begin to walk. You call Algorithm Boy who is already waiting for you at the Information Booth, and he sighs as you tell him about your latest dilemma. You tell him that you will take a bus if one comes, otherwise you’ll have to walk. At this point there is no way you are paying for a taxi to rush to this date.
You are sweaty and annoyed by the time you arrive at Grand Central during the peak of the evening commute. You call each other’s cells and eventually locate Algorithm Boy who, upon first glance, you know, with absolutely no uncertainty, that you will never sleep with him. Anyway.
You quickly picture yourself doing your walk of shame on an overly lit MetroNorth train and it ain’t pretty. You have, however, lived in the boroughs and you have experienced this geographic prejudice first hand. So you decide to give Algorithm Boy a chance, even though the odds are slim-to-none that you’ll be meeting him for a drink in White Plains. You write back and forth all day (which is strictly against your Match.com communication policy), but you let it slide because he gives good email. He works in the city and asks to meet for coffee after work (which is strictly against your cocktail policy), but you both agree to play it by ear and call him when you’re finished your errands which just happen to be located a bit too conveniently to his office.
As promised, you rush to finish your errands and call around 5pm and hear Algorithm Boy’s voice for the first time, which seems vaguely annoyed. “Is there a problem?” you ask. “No. Not really. You just said you’d call at five o’clock.” You look at your watch and it’s 5:12. Danger Will Robinson! Danger! You take the high road and politely remind him that you were “playing it by ear” even though you distinctly remember using the term 5-ish when making your plan. Algorithm Boy decides that he’s still up for it, and when you ask him where he wants to meet he actually suggests, “How about the Starbucks in Grand Central?” You almost suggest getting the coffee to-go and meeting him on the MetroNorth train because God forbid this suburban commuter should stray two steps out of his way to accommodate you! But you say, “I’m on 22nd and Park. Maybe you know of a place a little bit south and we can split the difference?” But, of course, he doesn’t. Algorithm Boy tells you to meet him at the Information Booth at Grand Central Station which is preposterous considering it’s rush hour, but somehow you bite your tongue before it says, “Why don’t we just meet at McDonald’s in Times Square?”
You roll your eyes and get on the 6-train at 23rd and you wait and wait and wait. You get claustrophobic as the train fills up with rush hour sardines until the conductor apologizes for “Signal problems at Grand Central.” You picture the signal problems as giant red flags as you get off the subway and begin to walk. You call Algorithm Boy who is already waiting for you at the Information Booth, and he sighs as you tell him about your latest dilemma. You tell him that you will take a bus if one comes, otherwise you’ll have to walk. At this point there is no way you are paying for a taxi to rush to this date.
You are sweaty and annoyed by the time you arrive at Grand Central during the peak of the evening commute. You call each other’s cells and eventually locate Algorithm Boy who, upon first glance, you know, with absolutely no uncertainty, that you will never sleep with him. Anyway.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment