T9 Dating

The world was divided: Those who had smartphones and those who did not. Ashley was one of the few millennials unwilling to be swayed, because the item in her purse she couldn’t possibly live without was a spiral-bound day planner, not a skinny, black rectangle.
      Perhaps online dating was more socially accepted in fancy places like Manhattan, but in the Midwestern suburbs, there was a stigma—a hushed, judgment-filled buzz that had many who’d entered these websites lying through their teeth (We met in line at Starbucks, the aisles of Borders, “Daiquiri Night” at T.G.I. Fridays).
      Growing up watching Sex and the City, Ashley (a total Carrie) thought she wanted something casual. Maybe a fling. A free meal at the very least. The breakup of her seven-year relationship with her high school “sweetheart” was fresh, and at the time, she had considered herself only mildly damaged. But as she watched Seven-Year load his crap onto a moving dolly from the bonfire-like pile she’d gathered at the center of her apartment—a tube television the size of a small human, an overly masculine entertainment console, and plastic grocery bags filled with Xbox games, a bong, two paintball magazines, and a past-due Netflix DVD of Dude, Where’s My Car?—she was struck by a renewed sense of confidence when it came to setting up an online dating profile.
       How bad could it be?
       But in a world where the Apple 3GS was all the rage, among other trends that she’d assumed would certainly pass— #emojis, #gifs, #selfies — it became increasingly apparent that Ashley, who thought she knew what she wanted, didn’t know what she wanted at all.

       Day one of Ashley’s dating inbox held three solid potentials and one, six-foot-four Italian man (PastaBravo12) whose muscular thigh was the size of her torso—Ashley, measuring at five-foot-two, deemed the physics of this match to be unsuitable (painful, even), and as much as she enjoyed eating pasta, she declined Pasta Bravo’s romantic advance by not returning his wink.

       Potential #1:
      Potential #1 messaged Ashley sweet things. No creepy vibes. Steady job. Good-looking. Asked get-to-know-ya questions and liked to text things like, “We should totally get coffee sometime.” And each time that kind of text came through, Ashley would pull out her spiral-bound day planner and flip to the week.
       4-4-4, 6, 0, 3-3-3, 5-5-5, 3-3, 9-9, 4-4-4, 2-2, 5-5, 3-3, 0, 9, 4-4, 2, 8, 0, 9, 6-6-6, 7-7-7, 5-5, 7-7-7-7, 0, 3-3-3, 6-6-6, 9-9-9? (I’m flexible, what works for you?)
       …
       …
       Two days later: “Hey hun. Been thinking about you. We should go out for drinks soon.”
        4-4-4, 6, 0, 3-3-3, 7-7-7, 3-3-, 0, 8, 6-6-6, 6, 6-6-6, 7-7-7, 7-7-7, 6-6-6, 9. (I’m free tomorrow.)
       …  
       …
       …
      Three nights later: “Hey beautiful.”
       Ashley started to make excuses for Potential #1; he seemed polite and was steadily employed (or so his profile had claimed). One more chance? She stared at #1’s text message “Hey beautiful.”
       Ashley snapped her flip phone closed; she chose not to reply. She ignored a second text as well and when she didn’t, #1 called her a bitch and said he was deleting her number.

       Potential #2:
       Funny. Really funny. Maybe he wasn’t that funny. Maybe he just quoted Anchorman a lot. #2 lived at home still—not that there was anything wrong with that; they were in their early twenties—but Ashley didn’t live at home—she had a budget, lived in an apartment without roommates, had a five-year plan, a day planner—and the idea of having sex with someone, like Seven-year, who still had their mother doing laundry for them was a total turnoff.

       Potential #3:
       Very hot. Abercrombie hot. Chiseled abs, tan skin. “They have sexy drinks for sexy ladies” was his line when Ashley had inquired about the local bar #3 suggested they go to. Ashley was new to dating, yes, but “sexy drinks for sexy ladies” gave off the impression that perhaps the chiseled abs of #3’s photo was false advertising.
       Ashley’s gut told her to distance herself from this conversation, but ever-persistent #3 texted and texted and texted. “Hey, yo—U up? Can’t wait to buy that sexy ass a sexy drink.”
        Ashley was, indeed, up—but to quote Randy Jackson, “That’s gonna be a no for me, dawg.” She flipped open her phone and started to type: 7-7-7-7, 6-6-6, 7-7-7, 7-7-7, 9-9-9, 0, 8, 4-4-, 4-4-4, 7-7-7-7, 0, 3, 6-6-6, 3-3, 7-7-7-7, 6-6, 8, 0, 9, 6-6-6, 7-7-7, 5-5, 0, 3-3-3, 6-6-6, 7-7-7, 0, 6, 3-3. (Sorry, this doesn’t work for me.)
        Having learned her lesson from Potential #1, Ashley blocked #3’s phone number and dating profile before he could respond.

        Alone in her apartment on a Saturday night, wearing sweatpants and eating a cold slice of deep-dish pizza, Ashley began questioning the validity of this type of service. Would it be easier to meet someone at a bar? What type of man would she find there? Online dating took the guesswork out of the many questions she had—Was he employed? Did he have goals? Did his picture look like he might smell like patchouli IRL?
        In hindsight, Ashley may have over-filtered her options considering her claim of only wanting a free meal, maybe a fling, if she were lucky. Was she being too picky? Or did she no longer feel like settling? That perhaps this seven-year relationship she’d recently removed herself from was lesson enough to learn that she’d deserved more than a one-nighter. Deserved more than what these boys without day planners could offer.
        Perhaps an older man was what Ashley needed. Someone more established, someone with a 401k, someone who didn’t drive a beater that smelled like day-old McDonald's.
        Ashley searched. She clicked through photos. Scanned the profiles—Legally separated. Has children. Looked too much like Wall Street.
        Only two days remained until Ashley’s credit card would be charged for another month of online dating, and she missed basic cable more than she wanted a free meal.
        But on the last day, and amid messages that began with Hey baby, You’re hot, and Great tits, a new kind of subject line hit Ashley’s dating inbox.  

        Potential #4:
        “I hope this doesn’t come off as weird, but I think you’re the female version of myself.”
        The four short paragraphs that followed were well-worded. No grammar or spelling errors. And considering the garbage littering her inbox—pictures of naked torsos hinting towards a trail of pubic hair—this articulate email was practically Shakespeare. “I wasn’t matched with you,” #4 had written. “Not really, at least.”  
        He went on to explain that Ashley was but a tiny thumbnail at the bottom of an email claiming he had run out of matches— He, too, had over-filtered his settings. “You were right there, at the bottom, next to a girl from Tallahassee. You were the only person from Illinois, so I clicked on you and read your profile. I’d like to get to know you more.”

        They began chatting daily on Skype; their Yahoo emails to one another were hidden beneath spreadsheets on their work computers.
        #4 was gainfully employed, completing an engineering degree, and just like Ashley, lived on his own without roommates.
        #4 was funny but not crass, had tasteful tattoos, played the guitar, came from a good family, and preferred dogs over cats.
        #4 had two older sisters—just like Ashley—claimed to know how to sew a button, listed all the places he’d like to travel to someday, valued work ethic over house parties.
        They talked about their past relationships. They traded music and liked the same movies. She laughed at his jokes, and he laughed at hers. But as much as Ashley wanted a date—a real date—she kept her spiral-bound day planner closed on her desk.
        Until… Ashley’s flip phone buzzed from her pocket—a text from #4: “Enough chatting. Can I take you out to dinner?”
         Ashley screamed and danced around her apartment. She waited six minutes to respond. She played it cool: 9-9-9, 3-3, 2, 4-4, 0, 7-7-7-7, 8-8, 7-7-7, 3-3. (Sure.)
         Within the same minute, #4 texted back. “Mind if I call you? I really hate texting.”
         Ashely high-fived herself. She danced around her apartment some more. She waited two minutes to respond. She played it cool: 9-9-9, 3-3, 2, 4-4, 0, 7-7-7-7, 8-8, 7-7-7, 3-3. (Sure.)
         On their Razr flip phones, they discussed restaurant options. #4 lived nearly an hour away with traffic, but insisted he pick Ashley up at her front door—maybe with flowers, he hinted.
         Ashley’s fingertips slowly skimmed the pages of her spiral-bound day planner, flipping it open to the current week. This felt solid. This felt good. If only she could be sure. “I’m free Tuesday,” she said.
        There was a pause.
        #4 was thinking.
        “Let me double-check my planner,” he said, “But I think it’s a date.

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