hey, I saw you like X. What did you think of Y?are much more effective at getting a response than a long message that carefully targets several points in her profile. Why? It's hard to say. I would guess that long messages in the online dating context are intimidating. A long message also makes it seem like you've spent too much time preparing. You don't want to come across as desperate.
~your_name
I don't find abstraction particularly helpful, so watch out! I'm going narrative!posted by jph at 7:39 AM on April 16, 2012 [25 favorites]
If you'd like to be Friends:
"Psst, here she comes," you hiss at me, holding your latte in front of your lips so that only I can hear you. Our favorite patron is arriving in all her afternoon glory. She's a woman of a particular age, quietly arrayed in a wide brimmed hat and has opaque black sunglasses perched on her nose that rival the hat in circumference. She's wearing pearls and her lipstick is pristine. She is wearing the only pair of white gloves in the city today. She oozes elegance, and we adore her.
We've been sitting in this same spot all afternoon. You're reading [[The New Yorker]], and I've got the [[NY Times]] in my hand and a pile of other newspapers in front of me - [[The Financial Times]], the local gay rag, and some alternative city paper that is underfunded and oversnarked. I can't really be accused of reading any of them, because I'm actually [[peoplewatching]]. The papers are just my cover. (I do read them, eventually. But only when the world becomes boring.) This coffeeshop, or a blanket in the park, or a lazy afternoon cafe is our own personal treehouse - the fort from which we observe the world together.
We get together regularly, and we sometimes venture out of our treehouse. We see [[movies]] and [[plays]], the [[orchestra]], and the [[ballet]], together - and test new places for [[lunch]] or [[brunch]] or [[linner]] or [[dinner]] whenever possible. We fight over whether Judi Dench or Maggie Smith would win in a boxing match, and we develop crushes on the most improbable B-list British celebrities and [[NPR]] personalities. We have been known to throw [[tea parties]]. (The kind with crumpets and jam, not rednecks and semi-automatic weapons.)
You send me [[postcards]] when you visit strange lands, and I send you postcards from down the block at the 7/11. We are at once conspiratorial and fiercely protective. You dated a himbo for all of a week before I arrived on your doorstep in full mourning attire, pronouncing your standards dead. I brought a pan of lasagna.
When Dixie Carter died, you left me a voicemail containing Julia Sugarbaker's entire [[Miss Georgia World tirade]] from Designing Women. I laughed so loudly that my neighbor on the train got up and moved.
We are [[musicians]] and we play together at any opportunity we get. Or we are [[gamers]] and geek out over expansion packs and upcoming games. Or we are just general [[nerds]] who like silly brainy things, share [[book]] recommendations, are equally matched in [[trivia]] and [[board game]] prowess, and like exploring new things and places.
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If you'd like a Relationship, first know that all of the above applies:
You arrive home from work and find me puttering in the kitchen. You have a career that you enjoy without requiring that it give meaning to your life; after all, we work to live, not the other way around. We're both a little starry-eyed about [[saving the world]], but we have grown out of our need to be martyrs.
I still eat dinner early, after all these years that you've been trying to convince me to be more cosmopolitan. "[[The French]] don't eat until 10pm," you remind me for the millionth time. "Mais, je ne suis pas français," I argue, kissing you and asking you to feed the dog. I'm busy experimenting with a recipe that [[Martha]] swears by and I'd really rather not leave it unattended. I'm also working on a [[crossword]], and I think I'm close to figuring out 56 across.
We sit down to eat, and we chat about our day. Neither of us kvetches about things we can't control. Instead, we talk about our weekend plans. We don't spend most weekends at home, but instead trade weekends to find something nearby to go do. This weekend, we're going [[camping]]. Neither of us is very rugged. Actually, we can be downright squeamish and prissy. But one night, after we had been dating for a few months, you asked me if I wanted to take a ride out into the country to look at the [[stars]]. We brought a tent but couldn't set it up because we were idiots and forgot a flashlight. So instead, we lay out on a blanket until the night got too cold, and then we climbed into the back seat of your car and fell asleep together. It wasn't comfortable, but it was perfect. That's when we realized that we could handle a night of camping every now and then.
Mid-sentence you take your first bite. Your eyes become huge and begin to water. You try not to spit it out because you're afraid you'll offend me. (You know how hard I try in the kitchen and usually my cooking is top-notch.) I notice your pain and start laughing. "It's terrible, isn't it?" I ask. You nod managing a weak smile, still unable to chew, swallow or spit. I shake my fist in mock anger at Martha. Nobody is as good as that bitch. She makes it look effortless. I try it, pronounce the dish inedible and demand that you spit it out. We gleefully order [[Chinese takeout]].
After dinner, we flick on the boob-tube. Along with our philosophy about getting out of town regularly, we agree that there are just too many other things to enjoy to get stuck in front of the television every night watching the sixteen different versions of Law and Order. We hear live music - sometimes together, sometimes separately. You still can't stand opera, and I'm okay with that because it means I never have to sit through another country music performance in my life. We keep an eye on the local artsy movie theater, and we always know when something noteworthy is playing. Some mornings, I email you a review from the [[NY Times]], and you respond with one line, "6:40 showing, see you there." But tonight we're watching something mindless. E! is doing an exposé on [[Lady Gaga]] and her recent decision to hire eight surrogates to carry the children she's having with an assortment of gay men. We momentarily pout that we weren't chosen.
You need to jog before going to bed, but I went to the gym earlier in the day, so while you're running I tidy up the kitchen and read an article from [[The Economist]] on the water shortages in the southwest. (Fitness and a healthy diet are important to us. We don't resort to shaming in order to keep each other on track. Instead, we encourage each other by example.) I circle the article, knowing you'll get a kick out of the delicate and vaguely condescending tone chosen to describe the fact that the south has "discovered!" that government intervention is sometimes both necessary and prudent. I write "Urinetown?!" in the margin. (Everything can become a [[Broadway musical]] reference if you try hard enough.) As I hear the treadmill stop upstairs, I put the kettle on to boil, eat a mint and sprint upstairs to meet you in the shower.
Steam pours out of the screaming kettle, and blankets the mirrors in the bathroom as we emerge and towel ourselves off. I sprint downstairs in a towel to make a pot of [[tea]] for us, and you climb into your pj's. You usually wear a pair of sweatpants which long ago lost all elasticity. To most people, they just look ratty - but to me they serve as a reminder that you can love things for a long time, until they fall apart and lose all value to others. Other boyfriends tried to throw them out, but I secretly wash them separately in a delicate cycle so that they'll last longer.
I arrive in my towel with a tray holding tea service for two. You've started reading the article that I left on your side of the bed and when you see me grinning you very pointedly remind me that people have died because of this water shortage. I blame it on their refusal to move closer to cities; that same damned independence that drives people off into the country to stockpile rations and firearms. You raise your eyebrows and I know it just means you expect better of me. I announce that I'm leaving you if you ever decide to live with the Elk Snout Mountain Folk and try to make me drink well-water which is probably contaminated with some parasite. You take the [[80s movie quote]] cue, and run with it, switching from "Overboard" to "Troop Beverly Hills" seamlessly by reminding me that "If Phyllis Neffler were giving you a wilderness girl badge for it, you'd come right along." I mention that Phyllis Neffler's idea of roughing it was staying at the Beverly Wilshire and her idea of a campfire horror story was recounting her recent perm. Not drinking contaminated well water. Thank you very much.
You toss the magazine onto a nearby table and grab a slip of paper that has your illegible scrawling all over it. It's a list of things we need to check before the weekend. You like lists, and I like that you like lists. And even though we've done this a million times, you are still pretending like there might be something you forgot. You ask if I have bookmarked the directions on one of my gadgets. I ask if I've ever gotten us lost before and after thinking about it for a minute you, cross that off your list.
I've finished my tea, and I roll over to read a little of the [[book]] I'm working on for our book club. You've already read it, and although you found it dull and unnecessarily expository, you didn't share that analysis with me. I knew anyway.
You eventually scribble something on your magic list and cross another something off, drop the paper on the bedside table and lean over to turn out your light. You curl up behind me and kiss the spot on my neck behind my ear. Without missing a beat, I drop the book turn off the light and pull your arm around me for warmth and security.
We sleep. Around 2am, you are awakened by the sound of someone speaking in a foreign language. You smirk and realize that I'm practicing something in my sleep. It sounds like Latin or German or Germanic Latin. The [[choir]] that I sing with has a performance coming up soon, and you are always treated to nocturnal previews. You roll over and fall back asleep, hoping that you'll remember to give me a hard time about it in the morning.
We have a nice life together. We have a home base which we love, but aren't tied to. We have plans to live abroad, but put them off for a few years because our poor old mutt just couldn't make the transition. We own nice things, but we are wary of conspicuous consumption. We visit family regularly - they're crazy, but they're ours.
It isn't always sunshine and cocktail parties, [[vacations]] and sexy showers. Sometimes it is hard. Sometimes, when the crowds in the supermarket are loud and rude and the local streets all seem to blend together into one great big montage of monotony, I get quiet and withdrawn. And when the new wind creeps in at the turn of seasons, I stop circling articles for you to read. After too many cloudy nights of winter or too many long days of summer, I stop leaving obscene notes in your briefcase about what I plan to do with you when you get home. And even though I love it, the incessant spring rain eventually washes away my smile completely. But you know not to take it personally. Because you know that I don't want to run away *from* you, but *with* you.
And I know the same about you.
Maybe slip something in there about who you are looking for (or not looking for)?
Good luck!
posted by myselfasme at 1:15 AM on April 16, 2012