Over that half hour on a summer afternoon, I offered Linda a willing ear, a warm meal, and a five-dollar bill. In return, she opened my mind to the struggles of people around me. She gave me a lifetime of angles and attitudes to consider.
As trades go, this one hardly seemed fair.
But sometimes, life isn’t.
FALL
Chapter 15:
A MATCH MADE IN HELL
Since my divorce, I’d made little effort to meet men, let alone find another potential life partner. My last official date was as distant as my memory of wearing stilettos. Coincidence?
I liked men just fine. I enjoyed talking with and looking at them, and all the better if they happened to look back. But, my long-term investment in a relationship was something entirely different. Independent living agreed with me: no dirty boxers to wash, no obligation to cook dinner when all I craved was a Diet Coke and microwave popcorn, and no TV for entire days if I wanted. It’s possible this male stereotype was unfair, based on a few married girlfriends’ complaints or maybe my memory of raising two sons.
By putting myself out on the dating battlefield, I wondered if I could discover something that might be missing from my life.
As I stared at the computer screen, I considered all the new experiences I’d endured over the last several months. Couldn’t I audition for Survivor again? Or maybe have another Brazilian wax? Either option would have been preferable to filling out the application on Match.com.
QUESTION NUMBER FOUR: “WHAT’S YOUR BODY TYPE?”
I labored over this for a half hour, sighed while scrutinizing myself in the mirror a couple times, and then came back to it. Probably, “slender” or “trim and athletic” should be ruled out. Other options included “big and beautiful,” “curvy,” “full-figured,” “heavy-set,” and “stocky.” Huh. Were these not pretty much the same? Which was more appealing: “full-figured” or “big and beautiful”? And maybe it was the PR professional in me, but why would I label myself “stocky” when I might be considered “curvy”?
Curvy, it was.
QUESTION NUMBER FIVE: “WHAT’S YOUR SIGN?”
Thank God! A question I knew how to answer. And apparently, one so imperative that it must be addressed on the first page of the application, four full pages before any questions about a person’s religious, political, or societal beliefs.
QUESTION NUMBER 5,674: “WHAT ARE SOME OF YOUR FAVORITE LOCAL HOT SPOTS?”
I chewed my bottom lip as I mentally ran through all my favorite haunts. Somehow, I doubted the local bookstore or Dollar General qualified.
After working on my profile for nearly an hour, the only terms I conjured to describe my character were “fun,” “well-read,” and “open-minded.”
I considered adding “decisive,” but I wasn’t quite sure. Finally, I clicked the button, making my Match.com application live. I uploaded a recent enough photo and finished my profile:
More Humor, Less Drama: Humor writer looking for someone to make me laugh. Must love books and animals, since I have a houseful of both. Will watch baseball and basketball with you, if you’ll watch Downton Abbey and Doctor Who with me. Happy to cook if you’re willing to clean up. Looking for intelligence, sincerity, and kindness. Perfection not expected, but surely not discouraged.
Good thing I proofread it just before clicking the finish button. I had mistyped “kindness” as “kinkness.” I smirked but then cringed as I considered the kind of replies a perceived misspelling of “kinkiness” might have elicited (although, probably dozens more responses than the profile of a woman looking for kindness).
As the weeks passed and I found no decent prospects, I revisited the profiles of men who had viewed or liked my listing. Here, I swear, are a few totally unaltered profile snippets:
some ne that free trustworthy truthful one woman man willing to take a chance again on life willing to share their life with movie dinning out have fun fishing camping walking in the park fle market watching the sunset not over weight good nature woman
realy dont know what to say never done this befor wasaired foe 25 yares she died 2 years ago like to go to dirt track races and camping but bean a long time cence i non that and out and listin to music sometimes
looking for a casual relationship at this time wanting to have lots of fun sharing things. having great sex together would be wonderful…looking for a friend with benifits type relationship
What? Yes, perhaps I was a grammar and spelling Nazi, but… still. I knew I’d be red-lining even a freaking grocery list written by most of these men, let alone any love letters they emailed me. And the third guy, who mentioned three times in his profile that he was looking for great sex, didn’t include a single photo. His listing said he was “recently separated.” I was pretty sure he meant, “momentarily separated,” as in he was currently sequestered away with his laptop in the bathroom while his wife was making dinner in the kitchen.
If any of these dating options were going to evolve into a face-to-face encounter, I would clearly have to learn to speak gobbledygook, agree to a friendship with “benifits,” or take up camping. After my recent camping experience, I never expected camping would one day appear the least of all evils. Oh, the humanity!
A week passed before I revisited the website. I scrolled through the tabs to discover a handful of men had “winked,” “liked,” “favorited,” or “shown interest” in me. Decoding the significance of this jargon proved as problematic as deciphering the posted profiles. The old-school method of hanging out at a bar and having a drunk and desperate guy ask, “Can I buy you a drink” began to sound better by the minute.
I schlepped my way to the kitchen and stared blankly into my pantry, managing to ignore an ancient half-eaten bag of Fritos. The open pantry door impelled an orchestra of yowling from my four cats, who were all sprawled in their usual fashion across my mahogany dining room table.
Perhaps this was the real reason I hadn’t had a date in so long.
I tossed the cats some treats. And then I hugged my dog, Ringo the Wonder Retriever, in an attempt to convince myself I wasn’t a crazy cat lady.
The next evening, as I finished off the stale Fritos and the last season of Parks and Recreation, I summoned some courage and signed back in to Match.com. Wait, what was this? I paused the TV show, while nearly choking on a corn chip. Someone of actual interest had visited my profile!
This guy appeared attractive, well-spoken, and authentically single. As a bonus, he was a Doctor Who fan! He was the first guy I had any real inclination to contact.
While he was nearly perfect, the one caveat was that he lived nearly three hours away. Hmm. I had noted on my profile that I was only interested in men who lived within fifty miles. But, what did a bit of a road trip matter, especially since I was just seeking a single date?
And if we ended up hitting it off? As I considered the idea, a long-distance relationship didn’t sound half-bad. We’d enjoy infrequent romantic dinners and conversation, plus the occasional dessert (wink, wink). I’d face no fear of losing my independence—and no daily depositing of dirty boxers on my bathroom floor. Plus, since a three-hour commute would prevent him from spending much time at my place, his note about being allergic to cats might prove almost irrelevant. I wouldn’t mention my cat colony quite yet. We’d cross that cat hair-covered bridge when we got to it.
Sure, he hadn’t formally liked, favorited, or winked at me, but he had at least made the effort to click through to look. Maybe he was a bit shy and just needed some encouragement. At a reader’s strong-arming, I finally “winked” at him. And then I sent him a direct message. I told him I was new to this computer dating stuff but I enjoyed reading his profile and thought we might have a great deal in common. Would he be interested in an online dialogue?
Holy mother of God! What did I do? Just kill me now!
I scoured the Match website for the “undo” button without any luck. My message was locked in and sent. All I could do was wait. I d
istracted myself, and soon felt normalized, by reading a series of inane and nasty comments on Yahoo News.
Before I checked my email the next morning, I showered, shaved my legs, moussed my hair, and put on a full face of makeup. Not that I expected to meet up with my mystery man that very day; I simply wanted to look good while he might be reading my email.
That evening, I finally got a reply. Sadly, my online love interest declined my invitation to connect. He explained he was “looking for something different.” Seriously? If he only knew me better, he’d quickly discover I was different, indeed. I had to admit I was disappointed, but I told myself there were other men out there, surely one of them a better match.
As the weeks passed though, I realized I’d hit the bottom of the barrel. Only two more guys—two—viewed and “liked” my profile over the next two weeks. Considering my cumulative options, they looked pretty good. As good as they could look, considering neither posted a photo. Were they both married or perhaps both on the FBI’s most-wanted list?
I knew several people who had luck with online dating. A few of my friends had met their husbands this way. I considered either tweaking my profile or settling for meeting a questionable guy. But, if truth be told, I wasn’t seeking more than a single date for my year of new experiences. Was this endeavor worthy of further pursuit? I wasn’t even looking for a serious relationship. And if I were looking for a long-term romance, why would I pretend to be someone I wasn’t or settle for less than what I wanted?
I would have liked to say I managed at least one date on Match.com—though preferably not with a married man, a serial killer, or even an avid camper. I wasn’t sure I would survive any of those.
When my last suitor wrote that “Shivery is not dead,” I realized my odds at online dating success were shaky at best.
Maybe it was me and not them, but three months after registering on Match.com, I bid it a not-so-fond adieu.
I remained Dateless in Toledo. But when I signed off for the last time that evening, I dined happily, alone, on microwave popcorn and Diet Coke. I never once touched the TV remote. I laughed at my own jokes and took a bit of pleasure in my own company.
For now, at least, it appeared I had found my perfect match. And it was me.
Chapter 16:
FROM MEETLESS TO MEATLESS
As an animal lover, I was proud to say I walked the walk in many ways: I donated to a number of animal causes and rescued more than my share of homeless pets and injured wild creatures.
Yet, I had been raised on bacon and eggs, baloney sandwiches, and meatloaf. Even as an adult, I planned most family dinners around an entrée of meat. My favorite way to celebrate a special occasion was by splurging on surf and turf.
While I vilified cruelty to animals, I continued to eat them every single day.
Changing a steadfast lifestyle would be a struggle, I was sure, but attempting to go vegan—at least for a week—seemed a natural and noble challenge for a hypocritical humanitarian like me.
I began by questioning the vegans and vegetarians I knew. What were their personal motivations: health or humanitarian reasons? Humanitarian, mostly. What plant-based foods rocked their world? Beans and legumes. (All good, aside from lima beans, which clearly belonged in a separate food category I labeled, “Puke Foods.”) What animal-based foods did vegans miss most? Cheese. And bacon. (Duh.)
My research gave me confidence. I’d been a born-again virgin for years; I figured becoming a born-again vegan couldn’t prove more difficult. To soften the blow, the day before I undertook my animal-free diet, I scarfed down a BLT at lunch and then prepared a seafood smorgasbord dinner of mahi-mahi, crab legs, and seared scallops. Best to get all those taboo favorites out of my system in one spurt of hypocritical glory.
While losing weight over the past eight months, I had followed a low-carb, high-protein diet. Meat had been my mainstay. Cheese had been a God-send. Although I’d successfully lost thirty pounds while enjoying chunks of cheddar, strip steaks, and bacon, it wasn’t without sacrifice. I’d missed carbs. I’d missed them so, so much.
I figured the best thing about eating vegan, besides taking no part in the cruel factory raising or death of animals, would be the ability to partake in potatoes and pasta. They might not be my weight-loss friends, but damn if I wouldn’t allow myself a carb binge—with little guilt—while I could.
By day two, I realized the biggest downfall of a vegan diet was going without dairy products. How could I make a proper Greek salad or eggplant parmesan without cheese? And forgoing eggs, which were ubiquitous in baked goods? Sigh. Yes, a vegetarian diet was one thing, but vegan would be a challenge, indeed.
I eyed the vegetarian section in the grocery store. Were those pale slabs of tofu any tastier than they looked?
I decided a variety of beans, nuts, raw veggies—along with Mediterranean and Mexican meals—would comprise my daily diet. These were some of my favorite foods anyway, so eating them wasn’t a sacrifice.
The week’s major win? I made a huge pot of chili using my normal recipe but replacing ground beef with textured vegetable protein. I even used less of that than planned. (I accidentally dumped half of it down my shirt during preparation.) And I could barely taste the difference in the final dish, especially when I scooped it up with whole-grain tortilla chips. I later served the chili to my two sons, who never noticed the switch.
I ate french fries, the first fries to meet my lips in months. (Heaven.) And, as I ate pasta the next night, I discovered I could enjoy spaghetti with marinara sauce while barely missing my homemade meatballs. (Barely.)
I learned several other things while living as a vegan:
• If dining vegan-style at a Mexican restaurant, it’s best to ask—before you’ve finished dinner—if the refried beans were made with lard. I hoped guilt by accident didn’t count.
• If you’re awake at 3 a.m. questioning whether you ever refrigerated the colossal containers of tabouli and garlic hummus you bought the previous day, rest assured you will find them the next evening in the back seat of your hot, odoriferous car. You will be forced to toss them and improvise that next night’s dinner. Thankfully, Diet Coke and popcorn are both within vegan guidelines.
• Beans are definitely your friend. I ate them all: black beans, kidney beans, navy beans, garbanzo beans (but not lima beans, those pasty little bastards). Perhaps it was best I had no hot Match.com dates lined up, considering the quantity of beans I ingested.
Being a vegan for a week proved to be among the easiest of the new ventures I’d experienced so far. I figured I was overdue for something slightly less challenging or frightening. Besides, three things played to my advantage.
First, my only dinner party that week was a cookout that I hosted. I made grilled portabella burgers, corn on the cob, and vegetarian baked beans, with frozen mushed banana “ice cream” for dessert. If I’d been a guest someplace where my host was serving up cheeseburgers, deviled eggs, and potato salad (with mayo, which I had never considered was made from eggs), I may have failed. A person can only be so strong.
It also helped that I attempted this in autumn. Farm-fresh produce in early fall was as abundant in Ohio as our chirping cicadas. (No, although I had recently choked down a few crickets, I wouldn’t be eating cicadas. They weren’t vegan-friendly.)
And, finally, after my recent low-carb, high-protein diet, I had consumed enough meat over the last eight months to last any normal person beyond a lifetime. That week, I hardly missed it.
From a humane standpoint, I knew forgoing meat forever would be rewarding. For me, however, it was not realistic—at least not yet. I couldn’t imagine a life without occasionally indulging in a New York strip or a sweet, buttery lobster tail. Or, without cheese. Oh, the wondrous meals prepared with cheese! Eggplant parmesan or a humble but fabulous grilled cheese sandwich! Vegetarian diets were one thing, I thought, but vegans take the challenge to a whole new level of crazy. Cheeseless for life seemed an ungodly burden to bea
r.
I returned the next week to a carnivorous lifestyle. My backslide was not without guilt but was at least accompanied by a bit of redemption. I succeeded in making some permanent switches in my diet. I incorporated far more meatless meals, explored other tofu and soy options, and began buying eggs only from pasture-raised chickens. I began dining at restaurants that offered these alternatives.
And, I eventually gave up pork. After reading several stories about the intelligence and social traits of pigs—not unlike dogs—this seemed like a natural first move toward a vegetarian lifestyle. I’m still working on eliminating all other meat from my diet. Personal evolution, even for a hypocritical humanitarian, can surely be achieved through baby steps.
But I gave myself some credit for these small changes. I celebrated my victory with a glass of pinot grigio. I was pretty sure not a single animal was harmed in the making of that.
Chapter 17:
RIDING SHOTGUN
When I called to inquire about riding along on a Toledo police officer’s shift, I expected to be turned down with a polite, “No way in hell, thank you very much.” As much as I anticipated a dead end, after explaining my project and undergoing a simple background check (thankfully, my youthful escapades had gone undocumented), I was given the nod. I continued to be amazed at what I could gain permission to do, if I simply asked.
I assured my local readers they could sleep soundly that night: I would be keeping the streets of Toledo safe.
The officer randomly assigned to me could have been handpicked as my BFF. In the small world that was northwest Ohio, I discovered she was only a few years younger than me, had grown up in the same part of town, and graduated from the same high school. Her father and my former husband’s late father had been police partners and best friends. What were the odds? We also shared some personality traits, most notably a similar sense of humor.
Finding My Badass Self Page 7