So I am pleased to report that I have, in fact, been asked out by a seemingly normal guy – an ostensibly sane, mature, employed, 38-year-old who, judging from his photos, appears to have all of his teeth. Of course, we “met” on that wretched dating site. We’ve exchanged a few (rather lengthy) emails and assuming he’s writing his own letters (I rarely assume anything when it comes to men these days), he’s got a pretty impressive head on his shoulders. He is a remarkable writer, which is excellent, but I’ll have to tread judiciously -- I tend to become easily enamored with good writers.
The best was his initiation of this precarious next step: actually meeting. I’ll share.
The best was his initiation of this precarious next step: actually meeting. I’ll share.
So at the risk of spoiling the magic that is the Match.com double-blind email system, would you like to put our witty banter up against the rigors of real-world contact? Perhaps a drink or food or both? I am flying home on Saturday night and as yet have nothing doing Sunday eve, Monday eve, or any of the subsequent eves.
Long-winded, yes, but cliché it is not. I dig it.
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