MatchMichelle.com

I should just opt for sticking needles in my eyes. Why do I insist on this self-torture? Why don’t I just give it all up and become a Consecrated Virgin? Why do I subject myself to online dating?

Why, because I don’t want to become a Consecrated Virgin, every person I know tells me about someone they know who met the love of their life on _______ (fill in the name of some online dating site), my friend “K” tried it and is “having fun,” and I’m tired of Saturday nights with Penny, Scout, the remote, a glass of wine and bed by 10.

Match.com is my choice of poison. This is the third time I’ve been down this road having tried eHarmony.com and ActiveSingles.com and I have a different strategy this time. I am only going on coffee dates. Just coffee. There will be no wine, no dinner, no lunch, no bike rides – just coffee. I know this not an original idea but it's new for me.

Per “K’s” suggestion I created a list of questions and qualifications. Hopefully I’m not too picky – as I’ve been accused of being before (mostly by my mom who wanted me to date Bob Strenton* – funny how those old tapes still play in your head). Study this detailed list:

• No smoking
• No more than two divorces
• Spontaneous
• Good relationship with his children
• Rides bikes
• Actually divorced (some are just separated – what’s that about?)
• Family & Friends a priority
• Spiritual
• Adventuresome
• Some initial attraction
• Good sense of humor
• Truthful about their age
• Emotionally available



Hope springs eternal, we’ll see where this little foray into modern dating takes me.



(*Bob Strenton was a huge, hulking football player that must have taken lesson from Eddy Haskell. My mom bought it all and believed that he was this kind, thoughtful teddy bear. She obviously wasn’t in the car when he took me to see Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex, but Were Afraid to Ask – Woody Allen. He must have been inspired by the movie because once back in the car, he reached his massive arm across the bench seat (it was 1972) crushed me to his side, stretched open his mouth as big as a cobra and proceed to launch his tongue down my throat. When I gagged and pushed him away he responded, “What’s wrong, are you a lesbo?” I had no earthly idea what he was referring to but I knew he didn't mean it as a compliment. Flash forward three years: I was the assistant manager of Jay Jacobs and one of the sales girls told me that she observed a man peeking into the dressing rooms – guess who it was? Yep, had to call security on 'ole Bobby)