Steph Not Stephanie

Just because I’m not actively online dating anymore doesn’t mean I don’t have lots of tragicomic stories to pass on. The following aren’t epic enough to get their own entries, unlike The Man with Two Faces and Anger Management, but combined they offer enough what-the-fuckery to impress.

There was the very affectionate French Canadian who bemoaned my “Anglo-Saxon” (his actual words) lack of emotions. He professed multiple times how much he liked me, needed constant reassurance that I liked him, that he was my type, and wanted me to be part of a “power couple” with him. All on the first (and only) date. The whole time I just wanted to tell him to put his purse down.

While we’re on the topic of French, I had plans to meet another guy and he told me I’d know it was him by his navy blazer and white ponchette. What is a ponchette, you ask? Don’t worry — I Googled it; it’s French for pocket square. My first thought was, “Look at this fucking hipster,” but I thought it would be rude to cancel on someone just for using a douchey word. When he showed up as promised, with a white shirt, white pants, and white shoes to compliment his nautical theme and dropping words like petrol (not British, fyi), I almost wished he were a hipster. Almost.

Next in our motley crew is the guy who whipped out his smartphone to access a doc he made of all the questions he wanted to ask me, including such gems as “What are your fantasies?” I received a random follow-up email asking if I finished the cleanse I was on at the time, and if so, to reply to him to redeem my reward/prize. I’ll take what’s behind door number never, thanks.

Not all of them made it to meeting IRL. There was a guy who tried to pay me to change my plans and talk to him, who couldn’t understand why I declined. He offered money to date him, and seemed exasperated at my refusal as if no woman had ever said no to him before. When he contacted me months later to ask if we should reconnect, he was mad that I had gone on dates with other men. I conversed with him for a bit for mere entertainment, but the crazy metre was so off the charts that it didn’t last long. When he reached out again, I blocked his address.

A favourite crazy message/profile combo involved a guy who claimed to be a 700 year old demon living in a vampire’s body.  He was nothing if not persistent.  He surprisingly had no job, lived in his mother’s basement, and had a limited grasp on basic human anatomy based on his attempts at communication.

On that note, there are a copious amount of men online who think “nice tits” or some derivative is a really good icebreaker. I don’t know what women are responding positively and encouraging this behaviour, but for the love of baby Jesus, please stop. And guys, if you wouldn’t say it in person, don’t say it online (I know this won’t stop everyone — that line has been thrown around at bars, but at least they had the excuse of being shitfaced).

Maybe that’s the secret: all these weirdos are drinking and dating. A bit of liquid courage, and all of a sudden they are the most attractive human, ever, and we should clamour all over each other to get naked for/with them.  While it may not be the best plan, I can understand the urge to have a few while dealing with the joys of online dating. I know if I return to those murky waters, I will need to employ a three-drink minimum.