Let's Get Personal

When my friend found out that she wouldn't be going abroad, I could tell that she needed something to look forward to, something to make the prospect of the Spring semester more bearable. So, we made a pact: we would both join an online dating website. Somehow, I had managed to talk myself into believing that in doing so, I would somehow have the fortune of meeting a John Cusack-ish fellow, à la the horrific romantic comedy Much Love Dogs. As for her, she had visions of a lanky bearded hipster biking around West Philly with a Metropolitan Bakery baguette peeking out from his messenger bag.

After thoroughly researching -- yes, researching -- the online dating scene, I settled on making a personal ad on Nerve.com. Yes, I do know that Nerve publishes the Position of the Day books. However, beyond these snarky little books, they also have a website that boasts "love.sex.culture" for thinking people who like reading about how eating vegetables is sexy, the many turn-ons of the Honda Momentum, and 21 sexiest elderly people. For someone who highly values the sharing of common intellectual ground in any type of relationship, a Nerve personal seemed like a step in the right direction to scoring a date with a smart, feminist man, who might possess any number of other interests, like art, vegetarianism, used bookstores, independent films, the beach, and/or wanderlusting. And thus, I made a profile.

Sort of. I put on the bare essentials. I think I even checked the box that prevents people from searching me. I suppose that I liked the idea of the online personal more than the actual execution. When actually putting the plan into action, I realized that that idea of meeting someone online blatantly goes against my love for spontaneity, plus there's something peculiarly voyeuristic and creepy about the whole thing. Not surprisingly, sometime at the end of February, I shut down my practically non-existent profile after considering that I would be moving out of Philadelphia in two short months. After all, why bother when I could spend late nights cozying up with my laptop and reading about my latest obsession, Ed Ruscha?

Apparently, whatever I did when I thought I was shutting down the account activated another feature: an e-mail notification service to inform me of newly available singles in my area. Yes, I know that sounds nice and convenient, but for someone who resolved to give up on online dating, not so much.

And it wasn't just that. Something else went wrong, too: Nerve magically decided that I had become a lesbian or bi. So every week or so since February, I have received Cupid Reports about all of the new single women in Philadelphia, aged 22 to to 34. At this point, I can't seem to delete the account, so e-mails about these lovely ladies just keep on coming.

The whole thing gets on my nerves.