As is with many solid, established adults (well, over breeding age), friends suggested trying online dating. The usually socially acceptable processes resulted in dragging out the only single friend they had, with assurance that the perennial single in front of you will surely be swayed from a life time of fastidiousness by the savior that you manifest, will rattle them into the higher world that is, in your friends vision, happy coupledom.

Colleagues hesitatingly admit that they met their spouse through matchmaking systems but have developed a mutual story to deflect the embarrassment of those kinds of questions.  They assert, although, that it works.

Alright, these quiet nights and wildly busy days of single parenting have got to transition and nothing tried has born fruit, Google and a double click.  Daily matches that are mug shots of no one you would linger a glance at a bar.  Occasionally someone that is easy on the eyes, obliquely noted has not been active for 3 weeks.  Lengthy profiles that market you.  Market you.  One ruminates that, I went to college, had an enviable career, and oh yes by the way became a darn good parent despite that ridiculously nasty divorce. Right, marketing.  What I am and what, um in fact, really don’t want.

Then the winks, SMS and hostile emails come in at how much a month?  Conditions for a free six month assure that you get to slog through a litany of broken and twisted tapped out, misspelled epistles that fly into your face with a minuscule “i” and what the heck, LOL.  Horrified you ask yourself, why is “Ha Ha” so damned hard to text and why does each response need to dialogue on how broken everyone is? 

I really wanted to find someone who makes me twinkle.  Eeesh, I feel silly enough that I am reviewing a daily five photo screen of beef cuts and clicking on one or two that can at least spell.  But those crazy loaded two liners.  That get a no thank you over “Ah, I see you have a cat…” as if I have been condemned to Eleanor Rigby!  Baffled, I review the time track, after 10pm, ah married.

For the genuinely seeking, those ads of we met, we were busy, we met we are happy and our marriage date is….statistically is akin to  a plane crash, peanuts please!