Match.Com

Ever since my last divorce all of my dating activity has been on hold.  And I really haven’t minded.  For years I was content keeping a low love life profile.  I wasn’t up for meeting anyone new of the opposite sex. (Or the same sex, for that matter.)  I was just burned out socially.  I needed a long relationship-free vacation.

But lately something has shifted.  I’m feeling the need for companionship again.  And Sundays have a lot to do with it.

Sunday used to be a great day of the week.  One of my personal favorites.  Sunday meant long, lazy reads of the New York Times, followed by a bout of solving the puzzles.

Sidebar: Let me debunk a myth.  I always hear about how hard the Sunday NYT crossword puzzle is.  To prove how adept they are, people brag about doing it in ink.  True puzzle people know that the NYT Sunday crossword isn’t difficult at all.  It’s about a “Thursday” speed.  It’s just bigger, that’s all.  And you get a title and a theme to help you out, too.  What I LOVE is the variety puzzle.  The patternless is my favorite, but I’m crazy about the acrostic one and the anagrams and puns one, too.  I do my puzzles in pencil.  And I’ve worn out plenty of eraser ends over the years, believe me.

Then- depending on who I was married to- there would always be some sort of family activity.  It could mean a day at the country club pool with the kids while their father was finishing yet another round of golf, or it could mean homemade waffles, (I have a killer recipe) a day on the ski slopes, a hike in the woods with the dogs, a bluesy jam session or a movie.

What Sunday never signalled was a day alone.  And I mean all alone.  This is an awful consequence one among many) of “gray” divorce.

Because Sunday has always been the traditional family day, I never want to intrude on my married friends.  Even if their kids have flown the nest, Sunday is their sacred private time.  And I don’t want to be the houseguest who came to dinner.

So… I’ve decided it’s time to go looking for someone to spend my Sundays with.  (I do love sharing my Sundays with all of you- and your pithy comments- but I want some face time with people in 3D.)

But no sooner had I started whining about my need to interact with actual human beings  when everyone leaped into the fray with the same suggestion.

“Go on-line, Ellen!” they all cried.  “With your mad writing skills and a retouched photograph, think of the men you could attract!”

Well, ok, they didn’t put it exactly like that, but that was the gist, trust me.

I’ve always demurred.  I’m just not an on-line dating kind of gal.  I’ve got nothing against it mind, but I am strictly from the Frank Buck “Bring ‘Em Back Alive” School when it comes to meeting fellas.

I like to look my quarry dead in the eye and size him up.  And I like him to get a gander at me, too.  That way we can both tell right away if there is chemistry.

Or not.

I may be old school when it comes to meeting men, but this system has always worked for me in the past and I see no reason to change it now.  And although I may not always been the best judge of horse flesh – I have been fooled big time by a couple of them- for the most part, this one-on-one zone offense method has been my best bet.

Hence no Jdating or E.(llen)Harmony for me.

And no sooner had I vowed to give my real world “meet and greet” method another try, I got handed an opportunity.

I had to take the Metra train to the Ravenswood station recently.  But when I boarded, all the seats were taken.  I would have to share with someone, and because I was wearing a delicate, fawn-colored suede coat with a fragile baby-pink lining, I needed to pick my seat mate very carefully.

I scanned the riders from behind.  Avoiding all the crying babies and sticky-fingered toddlers and sketchy-looking gang members and guys with Starbucks coffeee cups and women with greasy Burger King bags, I spotted a graying older guy with a New York Times folded neatly at his side.

Perfect.  He looked harmless.  (I hate to be a profiler but with that coat you can’t take any chances.)  I sat down next to him apologizing for making him move over.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I’m only riding a few stops.  I’m getting off at Ravenswood and then you can have the seat all to yourself again.”

“Oh, you don’t have to be sorry.”  His eyes lit up appreciatively.  “You’re not putting me out at all.  And why are you getting off at Ravenswood- if I may ask?”

“Okay, you asked for it,” I told him.  “I am going to meet with a photographer to discuss the shoot he’s doing of me for some publicity pictures.”

“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” he said appreciatively once again. “You’re very attractive.”

This might have been a cheesy pick-up line but my next one was worse, actually.

“I hate to say this but don’t I know you from somewhere?  You look so familiar to me.”

(He did.)

“You look familiar to me too,” he conceded.

Hmm.  A dating prospect perhaps?  He sure seemed intrigued.  Maybe I should pursue this a little further?  He did read the NYT after all.

We exchanged names.  His didn’t ring any bells so I asked him where he lived.  Nice suburb.  And then it was time for me to get off.  Ravenswood was fast approaching.

“Are you married?” I asked. “I wouldn’t want to anger your wife but I want to email you something.” (A post from Letter From Elba.  It pays to advertise, doncha know.)

“I’m not married,” he said.  So I hastily told him my email address.  (The train was pulling into my stop and there was no time to write down his.)  I figured if he was interested enough he’d remember it.

When I got home after the confab with the photographer, I googled the guy.  Just in case he did get in touch. It’s good to know the players, after all.

Yikes!  My iPad lit up like a pinball machine.

Did I say this yutz was harmless?  He was some kind of white collar criminal.  Had been in the slammer and everything.  In big trouble with the IRS and the Feds.

Whatever happened to my guy-dar?  Had it gone flooey after all these years of inactivity?

Maybe I should rethink the on-line dating bit.

Nah.

I’m just going to have to ride a better class of train.

And find some really tough, really time-consuming puzzles to solve on Sundays from now on.

(And a great guy to do them with.)

BTW, if you want to know if I ever heard from my Romeo of the railroad…

What’s a seven letter word for “I plead the fifth?”