A MESSAGE...AT LAST

Eureka! A message.

That’s what my dating site inbox says. There’s a “1” plain as day.

Please let this one be a possibility. Please don’t allow myself to dismiss him for some shallow reason like ear hair you can braid or the fact he lists “Napping” as one of his few interests. (Both of these real guys have sent me messages in the past.)

Stop delaying. Just click on the inbox.

Hru

That’s it.

Hru

No punctuation. No words. No effort. Pretty sure the capital letter was only on account of an auto-correct.

I know, I know…“How are you?” But seriously, is that so hard to type? And, if it is, maybe the first message should be:

Asdf  (Aha! Auto-capitalization, just as I suspected.)

Even better, to show you’re a conscientious dude with true ambition and a commitment to finishing what you start:

Asdf jkl;

That would be much more impressive than hru. Was I really supposed to respond? If I type, “imok”, it feels like I’m going overboard and trying too hard with a response almost twice as long as the original.

And here I’ve gone and given it ten times the thought it deserves.

Delete.

OUT OF RANGE

Unread. Return to sender.

It’s the kind of rejection that should be easy to brush off. Nothing personal. I just didn’t meet the criteria. And yet that’s what stings.

I logged in to Plenty of Fish, the dating website where fish—at least of the gay kind—are not plentiful at all. It’s an understocked koi pond, a few bottom feeders mixed in with the perennials that haven’t changed their photos or profiles in a decade. The fact that I know this makes me a perennial, too. But my photos are current, crow’s feet and all. And not a single pic comes with freaky Instagram bunny ears.

Years ago, I recognized that the Plenty of Fish had been overfished. A logical person would simply delete his profile. But a logical person does so with a Plan B in mind. And I can’t find a viable Plan B. I joined a gay running group and simply found myself jogging solo at a set time and place that wasn’t even convenient. Not only did that prove fruitless in terms of dating and making friends, it just made me feel worse. Now I jog according to my own schedule. Just me and Carly Rae Jepsen or K.C. & the Sunshine Band. I joined a gay volleyball league, but that led to a freakish finger dislocation on the third outing, such that my volleyball days are over, my pinky permanently gnarled. I’m not a big drinker and I cannot imagine going old school, hanging out at a gay bar or pub. I suppose I could hang out in the produce section of my local grocery store, but I don’t want to be that guy who keeps fondling melons or eyeing cucumbers.

So that’s my long-winded defense for sticking with what doesn’t work: (Not So) Plenty of Fish. And, as I mentioned in my last post, it’s not working more than ever. It seems my inbox has been shuttered. (See above self-reference as a perennial.) If I sit back and wait, nothing changes. I become an insufferable whiner. Okay, more of one. Can you hear the whining springing from my fingers on the keyboard? Sorry ‘bout that.

It takes reminders that I need to be proactive, search the site and send a message or two every now and then. Cast the rod, see if anything comes other than a snag on some rocky shoal.

While my inbox remained out of order, I did notice this week that I’d at least been viewed. I clicked the profile. He’s 50, I’m 53. Nice photos. A smile even. Positive sounding profile. Worth a shot. Certainly nothing to lose.

I crafted a breezy message, pointing out similar interests and views. I suggested a coffee and/or a walk to see if there might be a connection. Then I pressed send.

The next screen was blank except for this tiny note at the top:

He accepts messages only from certain users. Why not try one of your Matches instead?

All my years on Plenty of Fish and I’d never experienced this. My message had been swatted away before it could even be read. I had to confirm my hunch so I looped back to his profile. At the very bottom appeared the following:

To send a message to this person you MUST meet the following criteria:

Male

Age: Between 30 and 50.

You must have a picture to contact this user.

Male: Check

Picture: Check

30-50: XXX

Two out of three ain’t anything. And he’d been the one who viewed my profile despite the fact each person’s age is stated before you even click it. Over 50. And he looked.

But I was aged out anyway. He’ll never know I tried to send a message. He can go on fishing for a thirty-year-old. His thing. Fine.

But it still feels like a face slap. Fishing prospects are looking even grimmer.

OFFLINE

Seems I’m constantly asking, Does this site work? Not with regards to its effectiveness in finding the man of my dreams and eventually posting a wedding announcement in The New York Times. (Yes, I see that another happy couple met on Ok Cupid.) That kind of success is all too far-reaching. I’m questioning the actual functionality of these dating sites. As in, How come every single time I log in there are no new messages? None. Zero. Must be a virus. My passwords are infested with online crickets.

There’s always that tried and true test: power off, power on, log out, log in. No difference. I even tried an electrical outlet in another room. No messages.

And so I’m rueing the good ol’ days of online dating which, to be clear, weren’t so good at all. But there were messages. Guys that struggled to type an entire line or even real words.

Sup?

U R kwute.

Instantly deletable but, in that nanosecond between realizing I had a message and actually seeing the message, there was hope. Sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G, love, marriage and all that. It’s been ingrained in me since grade one.

This time around, I don’t even get those presumably dubious messages from boys in Brazil or the Philippines. Scams of some sort. I never repled but technically they counted as messages in my inbox.

It’s nada now. No deliveries. I may have to take up knitting. Please don’t let it come to that. I’m afraid of needles, even the knitting kind. God knows what kind of injuries I’d incur. Solitaire is safer but I tired of that during my recent hospital stay. When I buy a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle that’s a red-hued Rothko or one big gray-blue swath of the Pacific Ocean, things will officially be bleak.

I’ve messaged a couple of guys on each dating site. OkCupid tries to temper my expectations immediately after I press the send button. “If it’s meant to be, you’ll hear from him.” No response. It’s not even meant to be a rejection after coffee. (Egad. Do I actually miss that?!)

Perhaps I should click on the FAQs page or contact a site administrator.

Dear Sir,

I wanted to alert you to a glitch with your dating site. I am not getting any messages. Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.

I heard laughter even as I typed that. (You’re welcome, Site Manager. I’m guessing most days are rather boring. Forgotten passwords, complaints about pop-up ads and all that.)

Guess I’ll have to keep powering on and off, logging in and out. I’ll try to catch myself when I hum “Someday My Prince Will Come” and make it stop. And this Sunday I may give the Vows section of The New York Times a pass. Happy for you, all the same, Blake and Stanley with your degrees from Harvard and your lovely wedding on Martha’s Vineyard. I just have to focus on my computer conundrum.

It’s not me. It’s my computer.