From Dicktures In My Inbox To Build-A-Bear: A Love Story

 

Just San FranciscoImage by califmom via Flickr

 

Oh, online dating. You collossal cluster-fuck of crazy.

 

So. Many. Dick. Pics.

 

DO NOT LEAD off your first texting coversation with a woman you've just met on a dating site with a picture of your cock. Just don't. I'm not sure whom that's working for out there, but it didn't work for you, Mr. Hockey Puck. So, pop that bad boy back in your track pants because I do not want it "balls deep." Thanks so much for offering.

 

Now, I'm not opposed to a good-natured shot of a dick in a fez to cheer me up on a sullen day. That's just good use of the male member and an Adobe product, in my opinion. But, it's not going to make my panties drop.

 

I'm not quite sure when this trend of sending the dicktures kicked in, but it needs to kick out. Because all of those guys, they didn't win a spot in my heart. Sure, they might have had pieces of the Build-a-Bear I was looking for, but no way were they going to make the final cut.

 

So, I kept looking. Certainly there was going to be somebody with all of the pieces to the puzzle. All of the Build-a-Bear parts.

 

I tried OKCupid. Oh, Lord. I nearly slit my wrists. Free is not a good feature in a dating site. After answering questions like: "How do you feel about taking it up the butt while 5 people are watching?" and "Do you eat happy soy?" I would then be matched up with guys who looked like my dad, but not in that great of shape. I wanted to send them back a list of people I'd been able to date without their "help" with a note attached that said, "are you fucking kidding me?"

 

I shut that shit down. I couldn't take it. Back to my own devices. Back to finding pieces of the Bear, but not my Build-a-Bear. I dated some great guys. Don't get me wrong. Lovely, all of them, in their own ways. Just not THE guy. Not THE one.

 

I got bored one night and signed up for Match.com. Cue the cliche. I'd get emailed my Daily 5 matches and wonder, again, what kind of algorithm these people used to come up with these mismatched men who'd show up in my inbox—Ed Hardy t-shirt Guy; Never Leaves San Francisco Guy; Kayaking/Mountain Climbing/Camping Guy.

 

Seriously? Camping? I love NOT camping. Is nobody paying attention over there at Match?

 

So, I decide to use the site like my personal database and do the legwork myself. I'd grab a cocktail and dig. I'd send out an email here and there if a guy looked interesting. Most would reply. Some were worth talking to, some weren't.

 

Then, I came across this guy with this hair. And this fake porn 'stache. And his profile didn't have a single kayaking shot. He didn't mention a single trip to Europe or how he'd met the Dalai Llama. There's not a sign of camping anywhere. From his profile, I could tell he didn't take himself too seriously. He'd worked Charlie Sheen and Justin Bieber into there in a way that made me want to know more, so I emailed him about his hair. (It's awesome hair. You should see it.)

 

By the time we'd exchanged a couple of emails, we had digressed into a place of pet names, inside jokes, and dark humor that had me so hooked I didn't know how I was going to last until our date on Friday.

 

There were phone calls that ended up lasting until the early morning, like teenagers used to do before texting and IMing, back when you had to stretch the cord across the hallway to sneak the phone into your bedroom so your parents wouldn't catch you. (Shut up. Phones used to have cords!) You all remember my love of phone? Yeah, didn't matter. I couldn't get enough of his voice. Just gross, I know. I'll get you a bucket in a minute.

 

The date that should have happened on a Friday? It didn't. Well, it did. It just started a day early and lasted something like four or five days that ran all into one pile of awesome because we found out that while there may not be a cosmos, but there is a reason for things, and this thing, whatever it is, it is amazing, and we can't get enough of it. I tried to eat a bowl of it for breakfast, actually.

 

He talks, and I stare into his eyes, and hang on his words, and love his stories, and want them to go on forever. He makes me laugh so hard I will never need to do crunches. I made him laugh so hard he had to wipe the snot off his face. I'm pretty sure that means he loves me. It's in the Jersey Bible.

 

We have tripped, and fallen, head-over-heels, and neither one of us plan to get up any time soon. It just feels too good down here.

 

The last time I fell this hard and this fast it lasted twenty-one years. I don't even think I need to knock on wood. I can't believe I get to do this again. I am the luckiest girl in the world. I found my Build-a-Bear.