First Impressions: The Profile

I’ve always considered myself a pretty savvy dater. I understand when to hold back and when to give in, I like to do fun and exciting activities beyond your standard Dinner and a Movie, I’m flirtatious without giving the milk away for free…but this internet dating is a beast of a different nature. There are rules to play by and subtleties to pick up on and it’s nothing like meeting someone in a bar.

It starts with the profile, naturally. One of the negatives of the site is that all answers must be chosen from a drop-down menu. So if you, for example, don’t want to reveal your income, you are forced to choose the response “Rather Not Say.” I think this is dumb, and the site designers should take a page out of Facebook so when you leave a field blank it disappears. I’m sure the income feature is very helpful for all the gold-digging buff chicks out there, though, and some of these old guys are practically begging for it! I had a 52-year-old guy from Virginia invite me on a trip to Australia last night. But he cut our conversation short to put his kids to bed. Um, PASS! But anyway, my profile is short and sweet. I generally opted out of all personal information with that “Rather Not Say.” Sure, I'll tell you my height, weight and zodiac sign, but I'm not listing my education level, occupation, or religious inclination. In the “About Me” paragraph, this is what I wrote:

Hi there! My name is Jackie, and you can typically find me running or cycling around Central Park. I like to stay healthy and have a great time.

Then there’s the kicker, my Just Try to Resist Me closing line:

Oh, and I will kick your butt at darts.

It gets 'em every time! I’ve received dozens of messages, all variations on the same template. “Hey, cute smile, great body, blah blah blah…I bet I can take you on in a game of darts!” Are you taking notes, ladies? Men are easy, and they cannot resist a challenge, especially one that falls under Bar Territory. I'd mentioned my incredible Buck Hunter skills, but I'm afraid then they'd never leave me alone!

The only thing really preventing me from being the best damn internet dater this fitness site has ever seen is just that, well, I don’t really wanna. I’m having a fun time trying this out, and the attention is a terrific little ego boost, but meeting someone on a dating site feels wholly modern and technological and I don’t know if I’m ready to surrender my conventional notion of boy-meets-girl romance. Besides, I’m far from being over the whole R breakup, and seeing him twice a week at running class doesn’t exactly help my feelings. Since when do you run the show, Emotions? This heartbreak thing is still a foreign concept for my cold, cold heart, so cut me some slack here, okay?

In the next installment of JackieOh's Adventures in Internet Dating, we’ll tackle The Provacative Profile Picture! And then, Contacting People Without Seeming Creepy!

The Year of Yes

So, um, when did it get to be the end of January? Have I been on autopilot for the past few weeks? (Answer: yes.) Well, enough of that – it’s time to get my life back in gear after this messy little hiatus. I woke up on time this morning! My hair is blown dry nicely and I’m wearing clean, work-appropriate clothes! I was on time for work today! It’s a start, anyway.

My new Life Plan is pretty simple: I’m going to say “yes.” I will agree to all invitations I receive – within reason, that is. I won’t double-book my plans, and I won’t say yes to something I know I hate, but the goal here is to spend more time with friends and try new things. It’s the Year of Yes…we’re just going to ignore these last few weeks and pretend that 2008 starts right now.

Now, as part of my Year of Yes, I have a confession to make. I kind of sort of joined a dating website geared toward athletic singles. I know, I know, I’m totally ashamed of myself, but I got sucked in! I posted the free profile just for fun, but then I got TWENTY-FOUR messages on the first day and of course they make you join to read your messages and the curiosity was KILLING me. First of all, the women on this site scare the shit out of me. I’m pretty sure I can’t bench-press the minimum required weight to even have a profile. I expected athletic, runner-types like myself – nuh uh. It’s mostly body-building ladies with long over-processed hair wearing leotards and photographed flexing their ass muscles. Knowing what my competition is like, I’m not quite as surprised by all the attention I got immediately. You know that scene in Eurotrip where Michelle Trachtenberg starts to undress on the nude beach and then they get chased by a swarm of naked icky men because she’s the only chick around? Yeah, it’s kind of like that. Now, most of the guys on the site are in their early thirties, and they seem to agree about What Girls Want: photographs of their chest and abs. Okay, dudebro, I’m very impressed by your oiled torso, but at least put up a headshot so I can see what you’d look like IN PUBLIC. Unless you always prance around shirtless, in which case…well I just don’t see a future for us.

So last night when I got home, NewNew Roommate M and I went through my inbox of potential suitors and weeded out the duds. Oh, there were duds. But there were a couple cute guys who actually sent me coherent messages, so hey, we’ll see. The site also has its own instant messaging, which is especially terrifying because really, I don’t know what to say to these guys. No, Mister Obsessive Skier Dude who is FIFTY, I don’t want to chat with you, even if you’re offering me free lift tickets because you’re on ski patrol. The Year of Yes has its limitations. Best case scenario, I’ll make some new workout friends. Worst case scenario, I’ll meet a dude who falls madly in love…with his own pecs.

This Post Is About Balls

Yesterday morning, an Italian artist/activist named Graziano Cecchini released half a million playpen balls from the balcony of Rome's Holy Trinity Church. Call it a protest, call it art - either way, I wish I was there.


I'd volunteer to be on the clean-up crew, and bring all the balls back home:





Meanwhile, this ad from a few years ago still makes me happy:



The song, in case you were wondering, is Jose Gonzalez covering "Heartbeats" by The Knife.

Snap Judgement: 2008 Sucks

All conventional astrology says that 2008 is going to be my year. Well, what the fuck, stars? We’re not even two weeks into the month and it already sucks. Is that your plan, stars, to make the beginning of the year so lousy that the rest of the year will seem marvelous in comparison?

I mean, I’ll be fine. I’m always fine. I’ll just pull on my Tough Girl Jackie exterior, say a quick thank you for my heart of stone, and get on with life. Once I find a way to drag myself off the sofa, that is.

Here’s a little tip, boys. If your girlfriend happens to love running in Central Park, don’t suggest you meet for a run in the morning and then break up with her right there at the 72nd street cut-off. On your sixth monthiversary. Three days after her birthday, ten days after her loved one passed away. It’s just icing on the cake, and you didn’t even get her a birthday cake. You got her a gift card to Bed Bath & Beyond to buy herself a new hairdryer instead. Christ.

It seems the older I get, the less I believe in the Happily Ever Afters of my childhood.

New Year, Same Danger to Myself

Hello there, 2008. I hope everyone had a drunken-yet-safe New Year’s celebration, and a very merry Christmas. I did! And I have the injuries to prove it!

I spent Christmas at home in Htown with the FamilyOh. Although the traditions stay the same (going to Christmas Eve Mass, eating dinner with MomOh’s side of the family, posing for a photograph on the stairs with BrotherOh and SisterOh on Christmas morning, retrieving our stockings from the mantle after breakfast with my grandparents), the notion of “Christmas at home” feels a little different and a little less possible with each passing year. Is this a mid-twenties feeling, when Home becomes My Parents’ House? It’s unsettling. Oh right, and during Christmas dinner I accidentally set my hair on fire by leaning over a candle and burned off a few inches on the right side. Whoops. It seems my personal brand of klutz is no longer limited to the falling variety – now I’m branching out to pyrotechnics.

On Friday R and I drove up to Vermont with his friends for a L.L. Bean catalog ski weekend. Now, I haven’t been skiing for six years. I’m a fine skier, a passable skier, but my experiences were limited to school trips. The Oh Family doesn’t ski; we beach. Sure, BrotherOh is a good skier, but he’s spent half of his life on an ice hockey rink. Give me a kayak, a boogie board, even a surf board any day and I’m in. But strap blades on my feet and send me down a mountain…well, I’m going to fall.

As it turned out, the falling wasn’t my issue. Sure, I wiped out two or three times, but nothing compared to pain that accompanies some jerkass flying down the mountain straight into me. Christ, there are signs on every lift pole reminding you that skiers in front have the right of way. So this reckless idiot basically cross checks me from behind, drilling me headfirst into the snow. It hurt. A lot. I didn’t even ask if he was okay, I didn’t care. I had been skiing pretty well up to that point, but the collision shattered my confidence and left me with a killer headache. R took me into the lodge for a little breather and I considered quitting entirely, but I bought a two-day lift ticket and rentals so I was going to ski, damnit! I’m glad I stuck with it, despite the wicked whiplash I felt the next morning, because Sunday was a great day on the slopes. R and I skied together on easier trails in the morning, and then we met up with the other guys for the rest of the afternoon. I got through the whole day injury-free!

Monday brought us some sledding, a snowball fight, and the construction of quite possibly the world’s biggest snowman (it was about eight feet tall!). That night we rang in the New Year in an old farmhouse surrounded by cows and trees and mountains – quite the departure from New York City. It was a fun (albeit exhausting) trip, and I’m looking forward to going back next month with R’s family, but The Beach has nothing to worry about The Mountains. He’ll always be my true love.