So I decided to try a trendy free online dating site that uses algorithm-based logic and an iterative process to supposedly find your perfect match. You answer a gazillion questions; the more you answer, the more information they have, and so, says the logic, the greater their ability to match you.
As I answered the questions, it became clear to me that the information they explore is heavily weighted to obvious questions about sex and your flexibility in relationships. No, I will not date a married person. Yes, kissing another person is cheating. No, cheating is not justified by circumstances (I began to suspect this site was written by and ex of mine who was a master of hairsplitting and bad-behavior justification.)
I answered several hundred questions and was told that this would allow a total possible match of approximately 93%; that is, the site could theoretically match 93% of me to another person. Simplified, there was 7% of me that was an unknown factor (I didn't answer some questions either because they pertained to having kids or were just stupid.)
After all that, the highest matching percentage of "My Matches," or men who matched me, was one that came in at 74%, and that was a good 10% higher than the others. 74% wouldn't be too bad if Mr. 74 didn't comment specifically that he's "not a vegetarian, but doesn't mind having them around in a snowstorm if food runs out." HYAR! HYAR! HYAR!
The next best match is handy; he sews his own costumes for the Renaissance Faire. I'm on fire, Baby.
Rather then being frustrating, this is kind of comforting, because it quantifies mathematically what I've been intuiting all along: there are very few men for me. I can't tell you the last person I had a crush on, other than Mr. Communicative Two Dates, and I think that was mostly hormones talking.
Speaking of which, I'm not cold. But I should be; it's rainy and 60 degrees. I should be chilly and wrapped in sweatpants. Instead, I walk down the street wearing a T-shirt, grateful for the wet wind's cool breeze.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you: Miss Menopause.
That, plus the almost overwhelming urge to call everyone I've dated in the past ten years and yell, "FUCK YOU!!!" are my biggest hints. Well, OK, and the urge to yell "FUCK YOU!!!" at pretty much everyone.
Fasten your seatbelts; it's going to be a bumpy night! -- Bette Davis, All About Eve