Online Fairytales

    Man, twenty-four, seeking Woman, age twenty to twenty-six.
    Within fifty miles of Salistown, Connecticut. 
    Preferably of slender build. 
    Preferably educated. 
    Non-smoker, No drugs, No kids. 
    Must be seeking a committed relationship. 
    Must have a sense of humor (because I’m concerned this website is a joke).

    I never thought I’d turn to the world of online dating.  Something about it just seems so unnatural, so… desperate?  I thought (if I can’t meet a girl in the “real” world) there must be something wrong with me.  Maybe I’m old fashioned.  Maybe I’m naïve.  I watched too many Disney movies as a child.  (Thanks Mom.  Thanks Walt.)  I went to college and learned all there is to know about biology- except how to pick up women. 
    Maybe there’s nothing wrong with me; and it’s the world that’s messed up.
    Even so, adapt or die, right?


    Two and a half months later I’m still single and out sixty-eight dollars and thirty-two cents.  My three month subscription to Connect.com is almost finished and I’ve cancelled so it will not automatically renew.  I’m prepared to continue living, alone, as I have for the past two years.  It’s fine.  I never was unhappy.  It just would have been nice to share my indifference with someone else, and god-forbid, grow happy. 
    Someone once told me when you are happy with someone you let yourself go.  You become fat and lazy.  I told them this is why I try to never be completely happy. 
    I’m in a bar, on a Saturday night, and I wish I could freeze everything going on around me.  I find bars and clubs overwhelming and superficial.  A mating game.  I can’t be myself- I can’t be trusting- when I feel everyone is just out to get laid.  I don’t think anyone can.  The sexual tension is just too high.  I want to go out to relax, not worry about whether or not I’m missing an opportunity with this girl, over here.  The one who keeps glancing my way.  If I approach her, I have to worry about whether or not I’m one of the preconceived notions many women have of men in bars.  I worry about whether or not she will be one of my own preconceived notions.  I couldn’t even tell you what my preconceived notions (of women in bars) are.  You see my problem?  I think too much (I think), and many times my thoughts have no rational ground because they are based on assumptions.  I will continue to rely on these assumptions because they keep me comfortable, much like hospice care does for the dying. 
    If I freeze time- shut everyone out around me- I can concentrate.  I can relax.  The room is made for two- she and I; and we are the only ones who can move.  We can watch the awkward frames around us.  We see the jock in conversation with the blonde.  Her eyes up at the ceiling, the gum visible in her open mouth.  His eyes are on her breasts.  We see the dirty glances.  We see the sadness.  A guy at the bar is ready to pass out.  Will he drive home tonight?  Kill himself or maybe others in a drunken collision?  I don’t know.  What I do know, is sometimes instant gratification has long term consequences. 
    I’ve painted a pretty bleak picture.  I apologize.  That’s just my interpretation of the events around me. 
    I walk up to the glancing girl at the bar and say “Hi.”  I ask her name.  She turns her back to me, like she didn’t hear, but I know she has.  We are in my world.  Nobody else moves.  The music is off.  She whispers to the mannequin next to her, a tall, muscular man in a skin-tight shirt.  His face is tan, his jaw line as chiseled as his body.  His eyes widen.  He shakes free of my mental grip and stands up, angry.  Everything moves again.  The music is back on.  I think I’ll get the hell out of here.

*  *  *

    Work drags.  I can’t wait until 4:30.  It’s 2:30, now, on a Tuesday.  I’m suffocating. 
    I work in manufacturing, specifically of pharmaceutical packaging components (bottles, boxes).  I’m a Quality Control Coordinator.  I make sure nobody gets lazy and misapplies a label. 
    I’m lazy. 
    I see and do the same things everyday and there is no challenge in the job anymore. 
    But I need the job.  I need the money because I moved out of my parent’s house six months ago and pay rent for a small, one-bedroom apartment.  It is a huge burden; a horrible investment, but I think more respectable than living in a basement.  I cannot bring a girl home to my parent’s basement.  My mom would come down with tiny club sandwiches and embarrassing pictures from my childhood. 
    It’s 3 o’clock- time for our ten minute coffee break. 
    I go to my car to read and have a snack.  I check my phone for messages, including e-mail.  My e-mail app tells me I have a new message from Connect.com.  Connect.com tells me I have a new love interest.  Someone viewed my profile and liked what they saw.  I ignore it.  I don’t wish to see who it is (on my phone at least).  I have been conditioned to assume it is a lonely obese girl. 
    Here I go, assuming again.

*  *  *

    Wow. 
    I got home about twenty minutes ago and logged onto Connect.com.  The girl who is interested is beautiful.  She has dark blonde hair and hazel eyes.  She is tall and thin.  Her description is smart and clever.  This is what is says: 

    Hi guys, First of all, I am sorry. I lost all of my 36,354 standing-in-front-of-the-bathroom-mirror-photos. My bikini photos from the last summer vacation are on ebay, so this is all you get :D I have no motorcycle and I'm not a rock chick. I do not wear tons of makeup or tiny mini skirts, nor do I have extensions in my hair.  I laugh about myself and about my jokes, so at least somebody does. I love to be in the rain or order pizza and watch Scrubs. I am chaotic, but lovely. Hopelessly romantic and weird. I love sports and hanging out with friends. Oh... and I love brownie cookies :)

    I love brownie cookies too.  Who doesn’t? 
    As great as this girl seems, on computer-screen, I am skeptical.  For all I know, she could be imaginary.  The pictures are real.  I’m sure she exists somewhere in the world, but her online persona could be invented by Connect.com themselves.  They could be launching a deceitful plot to have me renew my subscription.  Look!  There are pretty girls on our site!  There is hope!
    I don’t know.  I am hungry.  I think I will make dinner.

    I can cook, you know.  Maybe nothing special, but edible.  Tonight I made breaded chicken cutlets with brown rice and green beans.  I made a lot, so I will be eating it for the next two to three days.  When it is gone, I will make something else that will last me two to three days.  I only cook two to three times a week.
    Outside, the cold winter wind howls around the apartment complex and shakes the landscaped trees of their remaining fall leaves.  Mid-December starts a two-month stretch where all I want to do is stay indoors and hibernate.  I must have been a bear in a previous life.  I start ignoring friend’s texts and phone calls because I can’t imagine what they’d want to do in this weather.  I’m not going to drink just for the sake of drinking; because there’s nothing else to do. 
    Maybe I have seasonal affective disorder.  Maybe I’m S.A.D..  That’s clever.  Scientists are clever.  They’re also assholes.  There’s no need to make life more complicated than it really is by inventing new “disorders” based on universal feelings.  There’s hardly anything left to discover anymore in the objective world so they’ve turned to the subjective, and because the subjective world is so indefinite, people become scared when they learn there might be something about their own bodies they didn’t even realize was wrong with them.  They didn’t realize they had a problem because there wasn‘t one to begin with.  If something is not realized, it’s not real.  Scientists know that, so they make their own reality based on common emotions. 
    Fiction writers do this.
    More scientists should learn to write fiction.  More scientists + writing fiction = better science fiction.  Better science fiction = better entertainment to keep people’s minds off bad, paranoia-inducing science. 
    I silence my cell phone and move to my desk, in front of the two-panel window at the corner of the living room.  I power on my laptop, and as I wait, I look outside.  I watch the trash and the leaves dance under the streetlights.  The complex is dead.  Nobody is out.  We are all prisoners of the New England winter. 
    I check my e-mail.  I check Facebook.  I check my online banking.  (I’m still poor.)  I check the same websites everyday out of routine habit; and for the most part, nothing ever changes.  I suppose I live for the times something does change- when I have a new e-mail, a new wall post, new funds direct-deposited into my account.  Exciting! 
    This is what the world has turned into- everything at our fingertips. 
    I log onto Connect.com again, for old-time’s sake.  The notification of my new interest is still active.  I click on it and re-read her profile.  I scan through her pictures one more time.  She’s one of the few I have seen who don’t take the website too seriously.  Many write their descriptions like they’re formally auditioning for a partner.  Formal isn’t attractive.  At least to me, it’s not.  I like care-free and fun, but not reckless.  Sexy, but not pornographic.  A good balance. 
    Her screen name is BrownieCookie.  Connect says she’s online right now.  I can send her an instant message, if I wish.  I’ve never instant-messaged on this site before.  My pointer hovers over the “IM” button. 
    I click. 
    A new window opens, bridging the connection from my computer to hers.  She lives in Oaksville.  That’s not too far. 
    “Hi,” I say. 
    “Hi,” she says.  She adds a little smiley face, using the colon and parenthesis, like this :)
    I tell her how Connect told me she was “interested” and I thought I’d send her an IM.  She says “yes,” she was.  She is.  I suppose I am interested too.  She’s becoming real. 
    We talk for hours, far into the night.

     It’s Friday and I’m at work.  I’m exhausted, having been up late the last few nights, talking to Lilly.  But there is something in the exhaustion I find refreshing… perhaps it is the excitement of a new experience.  There is new potential in my life.  It’s not every day you meet someone you can carry a conversation with- someone smart and pretty, funny and…
    I don’t want to get ahead of myself.  I haven’t even met this girl; and something about having found her on an online dating site still makes me wary. 
    I am an expert at finding the smallest flaws in a person and exacerbating them exponentially.  I once didn’t date a girl because I thought she wore too much eyeliner.  I thought it made her look like a pirate.  That aside, she was fine.  Still, I don’t think Lilly has anything to worry about.  Her charm overshadows any flaw she could possibly have.  Everyone is flawed.  It’s how we deal with our flaws that make us relatable. 
    Did I mention Lilly is German?  (From Germany.)  I don’t necessarily find this to be a flaw, but it certainly could complicate things should the relationship bloom.  She is here, in the United States, Connecticut, working as an Au Pair until at least August.  That is eight months away.  A lot could happen in eight months.  A lot could not happen in eight months…  I suppose the only way to see if something happens (or not) is to give it the opportunity to happen… or not.  I hope that makes sense… perhaps this physics equation will help to explain:

U = mgh

U is the potential energy of the object, relative to its position on Earth,
m is the mass of the object,
g is the acceleration due to gravity,
and h is the altitude of the object. (1)

    If one takes away gravity, there is no potential energy.  (No potential.)  Fortunately, or unfortunately (floating would be fun), gravity exists.  Just let gravity do it’s work, and there is potential energy. 
    I like to think there is some form of gravity between Lilly and I; and you can’t stop gravity.

    Lilly appears to be a skeptic of online dating, as I am.  It was one of the many things we spoke about.  We hypothesized, what would we tell our friends, our family, if our communication developed into any kind of meaningful relationship? 
    “Well, for example,” I said, “if I was to ever meet someone on an online dating site, marry them and have children, I would certainly lie to my children about how I met their mother.” 
    “Of course,” said Lilly. 
    “They have to believe in fairy tales, not the internet.” 
    “Absolutely, I agree.  And naturally, we will have met at the deli counter in the grocery store.”  
    “Yes, or in a café.  You were reading the newspaper and sipping hot tea, I approached and asked you ‘What’s good in the news?’  You said ‘nothing, of course.  I can’t even speak or read English;’ (but of course you do) and it will have started a long conversation about being skeptical of everything.” 
    We agreed that sounded fine, should we ever meet, in person.  That would be what we told our friends and family, to start.

    Lilly and I spoke of general things, to become acquainted.  I asked her what it was like in Germany; how she liked America.  Naturally she said in Germany they rode on horseback, milked their own cows, and had never heard of this thing we called “Pizza.”
    “The technology in America is astounding.  I sure hope we get the internet soon because I don’t know how I will be able to live without it now.” 
    I told her I felt for her and her family- for her country, for that matter.  I said it was probably our fault, as a result of World War II, that we set them back so much. 
    “Still, I think you brought that on yourselves,” I said. 
    “Yes, I suppose.”  she said.  “I don’t think we will ever live that down.” 
    “Probably not.  You know, you have pretty good English for a German girl.” 
    “Yes, though I am better at writing it than speaking it.”
    “How did you learn so well?” 
    “Amerikanische Filme, natürlich” 
    “I think I understand that… say, German isn’t that difficult.” 
    “Nein, is einfach.”
    “What?  You lost me…”
    “Ja, dumm American :D ” 
    “Ooooo, okay now I’m back.” 
    While speaking with Lilly was highly engaging and enamoring on it’s own, I found there was still one question that lingered in the back of my mind. 
    “So, what are you looking for, here in America, with a guy, when you will be returning to Germany in eight months?” I asked. 
    “I am just looking for someone to enjoy my time with,” she said. 
    “Oh, okay,” said I. 
    I thought that was a perfectly fine answer.  Aren’t we all just looking for someone to enjoy our time with?

*  *  *

    Even as I stand in line to clock-out at work, I find myself thinking of Lilly.  Everyone around me is probably thinking of how fast they can get out of the building, for the weekend.  I am not.  Not today.  We move towards the computer, towards the blinking apparatus that scans our fingers, in small shuffles of our feet.  I find it strange, how much of my day is spent in a line.  Traffic, work, the deli, work, traffic, the store.  Where do the lines end?  Home, of course; with loved ones.  Love has a way of making all the time spent waiting worth it, I think. 
    I go to my car, in the parking lot.  I open the door and step inside.  I don’t want to go directly home, today.  I think I’ll drive around a while.  Maybe sit in a Barnes and Noble, while they’re around.  (I’ve heard e-books are putting them under.)  There’s one just down the road.  I haven’t read in a while.  Reading could be good for me, now. 
    I walk through the wooden double-doors with the tiny glass panels, through the vestibule with the awful coffee-table books- the ones they hope someone will steal, into the main lobby.  Starbucks is off to the right, cashiers to the left.  Directly in front of me is the stand where they sell the new e-readers.  Books at your fingertips.  Books in sixty seconds.  The male clerk greets me with a warm smile and a “Hello, welcome to Barnes and Noble.” 
    I nod and say hello.  These new e-readers don’t appeal to me.  I like to feel the weight of an author’s work in my hands, not the weight of the publisher’s mode to commercialize it.  Paper is comfortable. 
    Paper comes from trees. 
    Trees come from the earth. 
    Really, I’m just torn between my desire to stick with what’s comfortable and my desire to go with what’s efficient- to “go green.”
    Adapt or die, I guess. 
    Someday I’ll switch to an e-reader… when I’m established and appear worthy of the technology. 
    I move to the “Fiction & Literature” section and scan the shelves.  For what, I don’t know.  I just scan, hoping the right book will find me (like magic).  I pick up Joseph Heller’s Catch-22.  I’ve tried to read this book several times, and I’ve failed to get through it every time.  Each time I get a little further, though.  I understand what Heller’s trying to do.  It’s a good trick. 
    I bring the book over to the Starbucks and sit down.  I open the book, try to find where I left off last.  I read a few pages and close the book.  I realize I don’t care.  I don’t know why I’m here.  Lilly creeps into my mind again.  How can she do this?  How can she have such a strong presence in my mind when I haven’t even met her? 
    It’s crazy. 
    Across the way, a girl sips coffee at a table identical to mine.  She reads Popular! Magazine.  She’s pretty, I think.  She looks at me, between sips from her coffee cup and the pages of the magazine.  (I’m not imagining it, I don’t think.)  Her eyes are outlined with mascara and shadow, so they pop!.  She wears a white winter coat.  The hood is lined with fur (hopefully fake).  There are suede boots on her feet, outlined in fleece. They rise halfway up her slender, spandex-covered calves. 
    She is definitely checking me out.  I’m not imaging it. 
    Lilly comes to mind. 
    I decide it will be in my best interest if I never talk to her again.  Who meets people on the internet anyway?  There’s nothing romantic about it.

*  *  *

    It’s now Thursday, December 23rd, 20__.  The time is 9:30 p.m., and I’m in my apartment, alone, as usual, at my computer.  No new e-mails, no new friend-requests, no new “interests” on Connect.com.  And I’m still poor. 
    My friends want me to go out.  They want me to go to this Irish pub downtown and get drunk.  I don’t think I will.  Not tonight.  I have a busy day tomorrow.  There’s no work, thank God- or Jesus, for his “birthday.”  I have last minute shopping to do.  Then I have to go to my aunt’s house; see my family, for dinner. 
    I’m not looking forward to that. 
    That sounds mean.  That sounds ungrateful, especially around the holidays, which are supposed to be about family.
    But you don’t know my family.  That’s a story for another day. 
    I’m on Facebook. 
    I don’t know what else to do.
    It’s been nearly a week since I decided I should not speak to Lilly.  The girl at the Starbucks, in Barnes and Noble, had nothing to do with it, if that’s what you’re wondering.  She was just there. 
    I didn’t go up and speak to her. 
    I didn’t smile, or wave. 
    Should I have?  I don’t know.  Shoulda, coulda, woulda, didn’t, over, done, forgetaboutit.  I’ll just spend the holidays with my (ugh) family.  They’ll ask if there are any girls in my life and I’ll shrug.  I’ll say “maybe.”  I’ll give them, my parents, some kind of hope their only child isn’t a romantic failure- the end of the family line. 
    It’s not like we’re a royal family, anyway.   
    It would be nice, to find someone.  Just nice.  And when I say that, I hope I’m not just giving myself some kind of hope- false hope, false notion, that I really don’t need anyone. 
    Christmas Eve morning and I wake at 6:30 a.m to the annoying chime of my cell-phone alarm.  I flip the phone open, dismiss, flip the phone shut, irritated I forgot to turn the alarm off for my weekday off.  I go back to sleep until 9:30, when I wake naturally to the sunlight creeping behind the blinds. 
    I shower and get dressed.  I don’t bother having breakfast.  (I’ll grab something out.)  I want to get my shopping over and done with.  I despise shopping malls.  Last minute, before Christmas, won’t help.  But I guess that’s my fault. 
    I drive to the Barnes and Noble.  I figure I’ll see what they have, for gifts.  I’ll grab a coffee, maybe a muffin, at Starbucks.  I’ll read a bit more of Catch-22.  It’s not as crowded as I expect, for Christmas Eve.  Perhaps I’m a bit early.  Perhaps the rush comes after lunch.  Surely there must be someone who studies the traffic patterns of holiday shoppers, who knows this.
    I pick up Catch-22.  I got to Starbucks and get a coffee, to start.  I don’t know what to eat- what I feel like- yet.  I open the book to where I left off.  I get a little further each time.  Maybe someday I’ll complete it. 
    There’s a girl sitting across the way, at a table identical to mine, by herself.  She wears a gray pea coat with a fuzzy white scarf draped over the shoulders.  A long cardigan emerges from underneath the coat.  Dark leggings, knee high socks.  Black Converse sneakers are on her feet.  She has dark blonde hair and hazel eyes.  She is tall and thin.  In her hands she holds a newspaper, The New York Times.  From above the paper she peers at me.  She is beautiful.  I just know it. 
    We are maybe five feet apart, separated by the aisle.  I place my book down.  I gather some courage.  I turn and ask her, “What’s good in the news?” 
    She replies, “Nothing of course.”  She has an accent.  German perhaps?  “I can barely speak English, let alone read it.” 
    “You’re English sounds pretty fine to me… you’re not just saying that, are you?  Perhaps to keep the guys, who must flock to you, away?” 
    “Of course not.  I really can’t speak or understand a thing.” 
    “So you wouldn’t mind if I joined you then?” 
    “Well, I suppose not.  You seem like a nice enough guy.” 
    I get up and move to her table.  I sit across from her.  I look into her eyes.  I’m a little nervous.  I say:  “I usually don’t do this, you know… pick up girls in coffee shops.” 
    “Of course not.” 
    “Really.” 
    She smiles. 
    I smile. 
    I get a sense of Déjà vu.  I feel like I’ve met her before.  We talk for hours, far into the afternoon.  I tell her it’s a nice coincidence, our meeting.  The two of us just happened to be in Starbucks, at Barnes and Noble, on Christmas Eve; and things just click. 
    She agrees. 
    It’s kind of like a fairy tale, really.


(1) Potential Energy, Wikipedia