by Nancy Kim
“He was standing in this long line because he had to mail a package”—she paused for dramatic effect—“for his wife.”
She tried to give me a wry look, but the tears in her eyes undermined the effort. “She was at home nursing their newborn.”
Janine took a long sip of her margarita. She reached out and grabbed a chip but didn’t eat it. “It wasn’t even that long ago that we stopped seeing each other.” She crumbled the chip between her fingers. “What am I talking about? It wasn’t that long ago that he stopped calling me.”
This time, I took a long sip of my margarita.
“It was less than a year ago. So what does that mean? That he met his wife the day after he decided that I wasn’t right for him, and then they got married right away and poof! A year later, instant family. It takes nine months to make a baby, right? At least, that’s what I heard. Not that I would have any experience with that. This is a guy who was so incredibly selfish that he never took me out to dinner, never picked me up to go anywhere. I always had to meet him, at his apartment, like some call girl who wasn’t even worth paying. And now, here he is at the post office, waiting in a long line for his wife, who’s at home with his new baby! And he looked happy, too. Not like she tricked him and got pregnant. He was so proud! He even showed me this horrid picture of the baby all covered in blood with the umbilical cord still attached.”
“Yuck. Why do people always show pictures of newborns? They are not cute.”
Janine shook her head. “Why is it always someone else? What is it about me that makes them run so fast? I used to kid myself that it was because I was too hot for them to handle, too independent and wild. But now I think that maybe they just think I’m not good enough. I’m good enough to bang, and that’s it. And I won’t even be good enough for that in a few years . . .”
Janine started to cry then, her mouth crumpling like a bird’s broken wing. I’ve seen this look over the years, and it always frightens me because it’s so different from the happy face that she usually puts on. Tonight, though, mascara blackened her eyes like bruises, and the tears made streaks through her makeup. Her cheeks were red from tequila and crying. I had a scary vision of us, twenty years from now, bitter and angry at the world for what it had failed to deliver.
“Listen,” I said, handing her a cocktail napkin. “Stop it. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You told me about that guy. You said he was awful in bed, that all he cared about was getting off, and then he was out the door. So why would you want to be married to someone like that? And as for meeting someone perfect the day after he stopped calling you, what makes you think that he wasn’t two-timing both of you? Maybe his girlfriend found out? Maybe you were the other woman, and he never told you that he was married?”
“He was at the post office, mailing a package for her . . .”
“So what? That’s what people do when they’re married to each other. They do errands for each other. That doesn’t mean that he met some woman and changed. And even if he did, why do you care? You have a say in the matter, you know. You don’t have to sit around waiting to get picked.”
Janine blew her nose into the cheerfully colored cocktail napkin. “What do you suggest I do, then?”
“Well . . . you need to go from being someone who is picked to someone who is the picker.”
She looked at me with a blank expression that I knew was a mask for skepticism, maybe even hostility. Her nose was orange from the napkin, adding to the confusion of makeup on her face. I have never been the expert on dating, and Janine knew it.
“You could . . . you could go online.”
“I’ve tried that before,” Janine said. “All I got were liars, freaks, and perverts. One guy demanded that I take a genetic test. He brought a kit to our first date! He was adopted and wanted to make sure we weren’t related. He stopped calling when I refused. Another one wanted me to invest in his stupid start-up. That one stopped calling after I told him that I didn’t have the money. The last one took me to a fancy restaurant, ordered us drinks and appetizers. We both had steaks, and I thought things were going okay—not great but okay.”
“And?”
“And he excused himself to use the men’s room and never came back. He stiffed me with the bill. Dined and dashed.”
“That’s criminal!”
“I felt so pathetic sitting there waiting for him, making excuses to the waitress about how he wasn’t feeling well. That dinner was the last straw. No more online dating.”
“It’s just bad luck.”
Janine sighed. “I don’t want to be old and alone.”
“Nobody does,” I said. It was disheartening to hear Janine like this. She was usually all about partying and being single and independent.
“I don’t know what to do anymore,” she said. “Join a commune? Or a cult?”
“You shouldn’t give up on online dating so soon. Everyone’s doing it. When you tried it, it wasn’t as popular as it is now.” Janine was an early adopter. She got her first date on Match.com before I even had email. “It seems like everyone finds their mate online these days. Just look at the wedding announcements in the paper. Last Sunday, there were three couples who met on setmeup.com.”
“If everyone does it, why don’t you?”
This is what drives me crazy about Janine. She’s always trying to drag me into her world.
“We aren’t talking about me, remember?”
“We never talk about you. And it’s not because I’m always talking about me. You hate talking about you. Why is that?”
“Are those margaritas making you nasty? Because I don’t—”
“I’m not trying to be nasty. I’m just asking a question.”
“A nasty question.”
“There’s nothing nasty about it. You just told me that you thought online dating is such a great thing. Then why don’t you do it?”
“Maybe because I’m not looking for anyone.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“It is not!”
“You’re either lying to me or to yourself. Either way, it’s not the truth.”
Maybe it’s because Janine and I have been friends since junior high, but whenever we argue, we end up sounding like twelve-year-olds.
“You have a problem with the truth, you know. Sometimes.”
“I do not.”
“Have you told your mom yet?”
She was talking about my pending divorce, which was now three months from being official. I took a long sip of margarita in response. Janine knew she was pushing it. I had explained to her that it would be too difficult for Ahma to understand. There is too much stigma associated with divorce for Koreans of my mother’s generation. It would be too shameful for her to tell her friends the news. It would be too traumatic after my father’s death. So I told her that Louis and I were separated. Separated meant there was still hope. It meant that we still loved each other, that we were trying to work things out. But Ahma saw through my lies, as she always did. “You the liar,” she had said to me, fixing me with that slo-mo look. But that was all she had said. I didn’t ask her what she meant, and she didn’t say it expressly. Neither one of us mentioned the D word—divorce—so both of us could continue pretending. I could pretend that she didn’t really know, and she could pretend that I was going to stay married. Who said I wasn’t my mother’s daughter?
“You have to tell her sometime,” Janine said. “I never understood what happened with you and Louis. I mean, he’s a pretty decent guy. For a guy. It’s not like you fought or that he turned out to be a freak of nature like Megan’s husband.”
Megan was a friend of ours from high school. I guess we three formed a clique, except she considered herself a tad better than me and Janine. And to be honest, she was. She was taller than me and thinner than Janine, and she had a boyfriend who qualified as a hottie. She had sex with him the summer after junior year. That would have made her a slut if the other kids had found out about it, but he never talked,
and neither did Janine or I, except to each other. We were a bit awed by Megan’s nonvirgin status, Janine enviously and I fearfully so. It was as though she turned into a werewolf at night. She looked so normal! Just the same as before she’d done “it.” Anyway, she and I lost touch when I went away to college, but I get regular updates from Janine, who still talks to her every once in a while.
“Can you imagine? He was IM’ing teenage boys, from work! X-rated porno messages. So now, Megan is in the process of filing a messy divorce, although it sounds like she’s more upset that he lost his job than that he’s a pedophile.”
“He is so lucky that they didn’t call the cops.”
“Maybe they should have,” Janine said. “I mean, he’s probably going to do it again, even though he swears up and down that he won’t. I told her that she should force him to see a therapist as part of the settlement.”
“You can’t trust anybody.”
Janine gave me a look that made her seem almost sober. “Was there something funny about Louis?”
“No. No! Nothing at all. The most normal guy in the world . . . I mean, nice and everything, and even good in bed . . . good, but not crazy. Nothing strange like that.”
“God, you were so lucky. That’s all I’m looking for. Someone normal. The good-in-bed part is just a huge bonus.”
She looked so depressed that I let my guard down. “Yeah, me too.”
One thing I can say for Janine is that she makes a quick recovery. In an instant, her features lifted and her eyes brightened. “Aha! You admitted it. You’re a hypocrite. You want me to do it, but you think you’re too good for online dating.”
“Not true!”
“Prove it.”
So we made a pact. We would both post our profiles on setmeup.com. It would be something we would do together.
To be perfectly honest, I’ve toyed with the idea of signing up with setmeup.com ever since Louis and I separated. I often wondered how I would fare with just a thumbnail photo and a few lines to capture someone’s attention. But, like most things, it wasn’t something that I actually had the courage to do, for a lot of different reasons. Mostly, I was afraid that someone I knew would find me on the site, which was a bit illogical since almost everyone but Ahma knows that I’m single again.
But after my conversation with Janine, I wonder, What is there to be afraid of? If someone sees my profile, what are they going to do? Laugh at me? Think that I’m pathetic because I need to advertise for dates? I’m not any less pathetic because I don’t advertise for dates and instead sit home alone, binge-watching shows on Netflix. Besides, anyone who finds my profile on setmeup would be trolling for dates, too, so what’s the big deal? We would be in the same club.
What I don’t want is to sign up, have my pathetic self out there for all the world to see, let everyone know that what I want is a mate . . . and then end up with nothing. Nobody. But the odds of meeting my soul mate through friends, coworkers, or a random encounter are miniscule, especially the random-encounter odds, since I don’t go anywhere except El Toreador, and then always with Janine. I could meet a lot more men through setmeup.com than I ever could through friends or acquaintances. The numbers work out in favor of setmeup.com. Maybe that is the real issue. When I told Janine that I wasn’t interested in meeting anyone, she accused me of hiding from the truth, of breaking Rule #1. But maybe it is the truth—or at least something resembling the truth. I do want a man—just not any man. I want Louis, or the life I had with him. I don’t want to be divorced. I don’t want to come home to a dark house. Of course, I can’t tell Janine this. I can barely admit it to myself. Comfort isn’t the same thing as romance. Familiarity isn’t the same thing as passion. I know I should expect more. Shouldn’t I?
The next day, Janine calls me when I’m in my car on the way home from running errands.
“I already got six emails. Three of them look good. I’m going to meet one of them Monday after work.”
“You’re not going for drinks . . .”
“No, coffee. He doesn’t drink.”
“Sounds promising.”
“He skis. He surfs. He’s thirty-five.”
“Too young.”
“Only three years younger than me.”
“Four.”
“Right. Four.”
For some reason, Janine’s last birthday hasn’t quite stuck, even though she’s had plenty of time to get used to it. She turned thirty-nine eight months ago.
“His picture looks really cute. He’s six feet tall.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s an astronaut.”
I almost rear-end the car in front of me. Astronauts are posting their profiles on setmeup? The car behind me honks.
“And he plays the guitar.”
“He sounds perfect.”
“Yeah, I know.” Janine sighs dreamily.
“Listen, I got to go. I’m hitting a lot of traffic.”
Forty minutes later, I am sitting in front of my computer creating a profile on setmeup.com. I type in my birth date, name, and email address. Should I create a fake ID? Oh, what the hell. I change my birth date by a couple of months. I try to create an email account, but all the Alice Chang IDs are taken. I think about using a phony name, but that doesn’t seem like a good way to start a relationship, virtual or not. Be brave, be honest, be true . . . I settle for [email protected]. Height. Five four. Okay, it’s probably closer to five three, but that sounds so . . . short. Anyway, what’s a guy going to do, measure me on our first date? Body type. Slender? Average? Slender sounds too svelte, and average seems to mean dumpy. Deciding that in this case, less is more, I click “Slender” and vow to lose five pounds, just to keep it honest. Eye color. Brown. Or is it black? It’s really dark brown, but that’s not an option. I click on “Black” because brown sounds too light, even though black sounds like an exaggeration. Hair color. Dark brown is an option here, and while it’s factually accurate, I don’t think it’s the right choice. Dark brown is really brunette, and Asians aren’t brunettes, no matter how light their hair color. People generally think of Asian hair as black, even if it’s really brown or dark brown with red highlights after a SoCal summer. My hair isn’t the same color as Janine’s bottled-black shade—I think it’s called jet black (she’s naturally a mousy brown)—but selecting “Black” for hair color makes the most sense, so I do. Next is “Body art.” I had pierced ears at one time, but they closed up years ago. I click “None.”
Now I have to describe my “best-case scenario for a date.” The website helpfully suggests possible responses like “white-water rafting” or “sushi and a movie.” I try to think of something more creative but can’t, so I go with “sushi and a movie.” Next, it’s “Name your best feature.” The only options pertain to body parts. What about sparkling wit? Intelligence? I guess those aren’t features. Anyway, who really cares about those? It’s a brave new visually oriented world. I click on “Butt” because it’s true, but then I immediately regret it. What if I get ass fetishists? Guys who are obsessed with anal sex? But “butt” really is the honest answer. It’s certainly not my belly or chest or lips. Too flabby, too flat, too dry and thin. My arms and legs are okay, but I wouldn’t consider them my best feature, since they’re just arms and legs—nothing special, although they work. At one point, I might have clicked on “Hair,” but the wiry gray strands that rise from my scalp like cobras have got me in a serious funk. My butt isn’t quite as perky as it once was, but I value it for what it isn’t yet—too flabby, too flat, too wide, too wobbly. Maybe next year I’ll have to create a new profile if my butt, too, succumbs to gravitational pull.
Do I really want to be doing this? Grading my body parts for the highest bidder? Now comes the sneaky part. Status. “Single,” “Separated,” “Divorced,” “Widowed,” and “Other.” At least they have the decency not to have “Married” as an option. I guess that’s what “Other” means—“Married but cheating,” or it could mean “In
a relationship but thinking about leaving.” I briefly consider clicking “Widowed,” rationalizing that my marriage died, our love died. But did it really? Is that why I have this heavy lump in my throat and a pain in my stomach? Louis accused me of being indifferent to our relationship. If I were truly indifferent, wouldn’t that mean I would be over this by now? He obviously is, if his globe-trotting, career makeover, and new relationship are any indication. I click on “Divorced” because I don’t think anything will change in the next three months, and that seems closer to the truth now than “Separated.” One small click for reality, one giant click for Alice.
Next comes the hardest part. “Describe yourself in 50 words or less.” I tap my fingers lightly on the keyboard, feeling like a sprinter waiting for the starting gun. Fifty words or less . . . finally, I settle on “Looking to hang out with someone who appreciates good coffee, freshly baked bread, and engaging conversation.” I might as well have written, “Boring woman looking for boring man.” I hit the “Complete” button before I can change my mind, click “I agree” to the terms of the setmeup.com website agreement, and then wait until I get the message, “CONGRATULATIONS AND WELCOME TO SETMEUP.COM!”
Now comes the fun part—I get to create a setmeup “wish list.” I’m F seeking M ages 35 to 45. One click of the mouse, and boom! Fifty pages of eligible men. At ten profiles per page, that’s five hundred eligible men in my zip code! I would have never guessed it. Where are they all hiding? Where do they do their grocery shopping? Literally hundreds of single men in my neighborhood. Wow! Who knew? I browse through the listings. The men come in all shapes and sizes. I realize that more than a few of them are wearing baseball caps, which I construe as a bad-faith attempt to conceal a receding hairline. Many of them have posted pictures of themselves outdoors, wearing shorts and weighted down by oppressive-looking backpacks. Some of the pictures look disturbingly like mug shots. A couple of deranged-looking men have taken pictures of themselves shirtless, flaunting their hirsute chest and bellies. Are they trying to prove their virility? Or are they just being honest about their flaws up front?