All I got from Myspace was a virus and tennis elbow.

Well, I have always had a tendency to make situations uncomfortable, especially when I was younger. For the most part I enjoy making people react. Sometimes however, it’s completely unintentional. My nose runs if I see a cute boy. Why is that?  I’m forced to surreptitiously wipe my nose with anything available. Who would want to shake my hand after what I just did to it? If I’m having an “off” night or I see a dude eyeing me in the grocery store, you can pretty much bet that I’m about to get all unsanitary. Nobody, nobody wants to befriend the girl with a gallon of hand sanitizer and a wadded hanky in her pocket.

I’ve learned that people will overlook a noted lack of social skills, if you’re forthright with deprecating self awareness. Being sarcastic and making fun of oneself is just an excellently underhanded way of picking up a few friends. By saying the word “oneself” it automatically makes me an asshole, but I can’t stand those awful green squiggly lines that tell me I’m grammatically unsound. See what I did there? For me, I just pass off my wit as truth and convince people that they are the first ones who’ve heard the joke. I’m no liar, just good with words… and humble.

Before I came to terms with my awkwardness I employed other methods of meeting people. I moved to Maryland at 19 on a whim. It made me acutely aware of being friendless. Before I knew it, my weekends consisted of Lacrosse and going to the movies with my employer. I didn’t know what lacrosse was. The game was like watching a bunch of dudes (or girls) throwing a ball out of an oversized nut cup on the end of a broom stick, naturally I enjoyed it. Secondly, I spent time in the movie theater jam packed with adolescent and young adult males except for my man boss and myself. There is nothing quite like hearing that “Life is not about butthole pleasures” whilst sitting next to a man whose son you nanny. Perhaps that was what lit a fire. It would take drastic measures to improve my social life. 2005 is the year I discovered Myspace.

Online dating is no different than traditionally dating someone. It just allows you to be more shallow and gives you time to think about your self misrepresentation. Filling out the ‘About Me’ section is the writer’s venue to encompass who they are, along with other pointless questions to sum someone up as a person. In a valiant effort to appear interesting, I personally become trendy. Not one time have I attempted hot yoga. So, I compromise and write a euphemism about doing the downward dog to imply some knowledge on the subject. Or, I crudely state my inclination to put my leg behind my head and stand up. Oh no, I’m not above using my sexuality to get a date. Further into profile completion, there are sections of preference. I reveal in them obscure television shows, action movies, really anything to cover all the ground for any type of man. I use my love for a good romance novel. Then pretend I’m being sarcastic, by spouting off a quote that I happened across stating, “People who read romance novels have twice as much sex as the average person.”  Yeah, sex with myself... It’s pretty much all I read.

With the anticipation of each wink, message or poke I’m left to over analyze my self indulgence. My depth of character (or lack thereof) and emotionless summarization is yet another ploy. Those who read it are being tested in their ability to discern the fact that I am just the opposite of the things my writings suggest me to be. It’s a fine line to walk between sincerity and sarcasm. If I can’t be or have both meaningful and goofy I don’t want it. Nor do I want a romantic who talks about my eyes being the window to my soul. Mr. “looking for a sweet girl to romance” or “I’m your knight in shining armour” (notice the churched up spelling of armor to appear more worldly) won’t be the type of guy I’ll hope to get a message from. Yet, I’ll most likely be disappointed if my saltiness prevents me from it. After all, I’m there to actually find a match, right? Perhaps they’ll think I don’t take life and dating seriously enough. I look at the elimination process like sifting through dog shit to find my wedding ring. That in itself makes me certain why I’m still single. Oh, and I eat crackers in bed. And cookies.

These Skinny Jeans Are Making My Balls Sweat

 While I may be outspoken and forward at times, a guy that wants to date me should be the definition of the word. (Man –noun “An adult male person as distinguished from a boy or a woman”) also, physiologically equipped to initiate conception yet not to bear children. That sums it up nicely. I’d like to wear the dress if he can put on some pants that fit.

Here goes the judging, but there is nothing flattering about you in my jeans. Has any woman ever wondered at the curve of a mans thigh? I've been known to compliment the length of an inseam or two. That is as close as I've come. My clothes are distinctly feminine and perhaps I’m looking for someone to maintain the opposition. Truth be told, I'm a little jealous of your V-Neck t-shirt because you fill it out better. To be upstaged in that arena is a bit unsettling, It's like those cats with the extra toes. As this shallow rant continues, let us briefly touch on a few other things: Tap Out shirts, Ed Hardy, bling, barbed wire tattoos, your K-Fed look-a-like fake thug wanna be saggy ass jeans and those awful Kanye sunglasses that hipster kids wear to enhance their matted chin length hair. Actually, that's all I really need to say about that.

Take into account that some women need a display. She finds a man to be much like an accessory and all of her appliances are made of stainless steel. You know the kind. They carry a small dog in a designer tote with a boyfriend patiently holding their purse.You can easily pick these ladies out of a crowd. Most will be wearing an ass flaunting velour track suit (deserving or not) with a well placed italicized description of themselves. For example: Juicy, Hottie, Sexy... Now guys, if that is the route you choose, you will get a bedazzled leash and a choke collar for your efforts. Don't take offense; “Muffin” just wants you to match her Chihuahua. It makes her look much more aesthetically appealing. At the end of the day, no one really likes or respects either of you. Call me when you realize that the only thing you'd pay for that kind of upkeep on is your lawn.

Clothes are the least of my worries. Ultimately I find myself going from sports to feelings hour in order to maintain commonality. Apparently at some point whining became more alluring than rythmic chest beating and strategic grunts. As much as I loved the 90's, I'm sure those ten years are to blame for the incapability to have a good time without sobbing theatrics on either end of the gender spectrum. Thanks a lot Kurt Cobain. The moment he threw up his hands and sang "Rape Me" he invited my generation into folly. I have to admit, googling those lyrics in the middle of Starbucks had me looking around like a 14 year old boy about to shoplift a pack of gum, then creepily angle my computer away from other patrons.

 While I appreciate sensitivity, I can't tolerate a crier. Sure, girls can all get sucked in by a sob story and intense guys seem to have more depth, but you can't convince me he's getting in touch with his feminine side. That’s a step away from an irreversible operation. Seriously, what happens when you need a shoulder to cry on and you have to get through 3 popped polo collars and the smell of your own deodorant, because he swears, “it works better”. He might as well change his whole name to Summers Eve or Chad Ocho Cinco. Is that hyphenated? Subsequently, the downward spiral of sharing my vanilla sunset moisturizer and finding my favorite romantic DVD in the Harry Twatter case makes me think. "What is she thinking you ask." or not... Hot yoga and manscaping? Wait a second does a clean shave make, you know... it look bigger? That's a legitimate question in a scholarly sort of way. Or quite possibly, it's your preference with little to no thought? I, um, I was just wondering.

 The lesser known part of me that isn't superficial thinks maybe sharing stretchy pants wouldn't be so bad. Quite cost effective actually. In the meantime I am left to ponder the fit of a man's jeans and what he tucks inside of them. Ohhh I get it now...