Digital Dating

In desperation to not appear like a loser and that I, like my ex, can “get” someone else, I decided to join RSPCA- at least that’s what I told everyone on Saturday night after several champagnes.

Van: That’ll explain why you’re only meeting old dogs.

Marg: Or young pups.

Me: Why? [it takes me a while to catch on.] Damn. They’re so similar…

Anyway, it struck me how many men were so hurt and desperate. The language used, the photos shown. So many shots displayed men hiding behind sunglasses and wearing hats and sporting beards- nothing to do with fashion either. It was plain hiding and ashamed concealment. There is low self esteem in abundance and uncertainty about their age, their looks, their worth, dribbling from pores and hair follicles. And it was just so heartbreaking.

Many had the expression of being whipped; their eyes were filled with sadness. And I just wanted to join the RSPCA and take them home and feed them and help them find a new owner.

I don’t mean to judge, because I am right there with them; there in the middle of the slops bucket, swilling around in the misery and confusion. So many are not ready. I know I am not ready and have not engaged with anyone; just strictly looking just to see if there is even the remotest possibility of anyone other than an old dog, an eager puppy who could be my son or a sleazebag. I cannot yet imagine being with anyone other than my husband.

These men make comments about how happy they are and love to do this and that- usually action packed adventuring, travelling etc. but then add that they need someone to do it with. Right there; admitting to being needy, unconsciously of course.

Of course I’ve had to sell myself; it’s all an exercise in PR. Make yourself look good (or better) and attractive to be with. Don’t be a boring sit-at-home gardener or knitter or gnome collector; gnever.

You have to be a mountain climber or the latest fad of cycler (just kill me- and don’t get me started on inappropriate lycra). Some include a list of what they used to do. What the fuck is that? That’s just admitting you don’t know who you are anymore. You need to go find yourself and you won’t do that through some stranger.

And the ones who ‘kiss’ me (their term for contact *shiver*)- well you have to wonder if they even read your profile. Really? You love camping and trailing around Australian desert communities gold prospecting in your psychedelic van and you think I  would be a perfect match?! Where in my profile did I ever mention I am anything other than an urban organism who loves theatre and her creature comforts? I get the feeling they see tits and that’s enough. Well great; I did sell my best feature, but really? The tits are ensconced in a Chanel classic evening gown. There are no dungarees and desert boots in sight.

It’s all a reflection of the fear of being alone. The fear of being unlovable. The fear of being a perpetual Cinderella or Mark (Tristan & Isolde) or Arthur (Lancelot & Guinevere)- everyone else is at the ball ‘getting some’ and you’re home alone doing chores in your sad little universe of one.

As a society we are so influenced by not only beauty and ‘success’ whatever that is, that we no longer have a clue of who we are or what we want if you’re not George Clooney or Elle MacPherson. When the image of the ‘family unit’ fails and fades or is torn asunder, there is a profound emptiness.

The left behind, the widow/er all feel a desperation to be someone other than who they are. They only recognised themselves before as Mr Someone or Mrs Someone- part of a pair, a couple, a gestalt entity that has been suddenly rent. Who are you without them?

Why do we do this? Why do we only identify ourselves as part of something else? I guess humans are generally relational creatures on the whole. We derive our identity as a composite from the mirrors held by loved ones. But as De Mello will tell you that only leads to tyrannical puppet mastery and you are at the mercy of their moods and worldviews instead of standing your own ground. Eg. Today I feel good so I tell you how wonderful you look, are… some compliment; how do you feel? Spectacular and grateful.

Tomorrow I crawled out of bed on the wrong side and I criticise you; what the hell are you wearing?!; how do you feel? Crummy and humiliated.

There; I am your puppet master (or mistress). You are shit. Because of my mood. Because of the false recording now playing in your head. Society plants plenty of false recordings in our heads; you must be beautiful, successful, an integral part of the capitalist dream, active, confident, rich, that elusive “happy”… We all know that affirmations work; but the negative mantras work even better. Who of us can truly say that we are all of these things that our society demands we be before we are ‘worthy’?

Well? It is a set up. We are failures from the get go. Because it is a demand for the impossible.

And in addition to that, our very souls are laid bare by the unreasonable demand that we be party to the perfect union, the soulmate, the magical ‘other’ who will fill our dreams, make us happy and complete us. Without that you are nothing; unlovable, a loser. Alone.

Why is being alone the worst imaginable punishment? We have friends, we have other family. Why does that not sustain us sufficiently? Why is their love not enough for us? Why is the stigma of being single so intensely promoted? Why can’t we be happy saying in response to, ‘are you single?’ answer happily, “I’m between husband number 2 and husband number 3? It may take some time.”

I’ve decided to redo my profile. I’ll begin with “I don’t know how to say this without sounding like I’m blowing my own trumpet, but along with Elle MacPherson I’m a genetic freak; they call me ‘the Biddy’.”