Twitterpated
LJ Idol, Week Fourteen
"My wife and I met online."
It used to be, a statement like that would raise quite a few eyebrows. Not today of course, the Internet has become such an integral part of our everyday lives that, even if you haven't tried out online romance yourself, you almost certainly know of someone who has. When Lizbeth and I met though, it was January of 2003, and the whole online dating concept wasn't nearly as de rigueur for single people on the prowl as it has become.
It was Sunday, January 5, and I had spent most of the day lounging on my back deck, reading a book and listening to music. I wandered inside around 5:00 PM or so, and discovered my laptop, happily humming away on top of my bed. I had left Yahoo Messenger running, and had received one or two messages from friends while I was outside, plus one from a totally unfamiliar ID.
"Looselips?" I read uncertainly. "That has to be a porn ad!"
I very quickly discovered that it wasn't a porn robot however, but a living breathing girl, newly moved to Austin, and searching for friends. Even so, after some typical "getting to know you" questions, I thought our conversation was going to be pretty short-lived.
She was recently separated, had two kids, and was religious. As for me, I was also recently separated, but had no desire to be around kids, and was decidedly unreligious.
"It doesn't really sound like we have much in common," she said after a while. "I guess there isn't much point in the two of us continuing to talk."
"Now hold on," I answered, unwilling to give up so easily, "even if we're not interested in dating each other, there's no reason why we can't be friends, is there?"
After a brief pause, she agreed, and we continued talking.
For some reason, even though there wasn't a lot we had in common, both of us enjoyed the conversation that followed, and continued chatting with each other in the days to come. No matter what the topic was, I never got bored, and a fair amount of flirting started to work its way into all of our exchanges. Eventually, there were phone conversations as well, many of them lasting for several hours, but chatting remained one of our favorite means of communication.
Then, on Thursday, Lizbeth demanded to know when I was going to ask her out on a date.
"Uh, well," I responded, trying to buy time, "we haven't really been talking long enough for that yet."
I found, a little to my own surprise, that I didn't mind the idea of going out with her. Still, the macho male in me didn't want to look too eager.
"What's that supposed to mean?" she retorted.
"It's just… I don't usually ask someone out until she and I've been talking for at least two weeks."
I'd done a fair bit of online dating in the past, and had developed a few steadfast rules which worked well for me.
Lizbeth was good on all counts, except that we hadn't been talking quite as long as I usually preferred. When I continued trying to put her off, I had my first encounter with her flaming hot temper.
"If you're not interested in going out with me," she stormed, "there's no reason why we should continue talking."
She said more, quite a bit more in fact, and predictably, I eventually caved.
Poor Lizbeth, when we met, she was in for quite a shock. You see, in the profile picture I had posted online, I was a clean cut guy with short hair, wearing a normal enough t-shirt with rolled up jeans, wading on a beach in San Francisco. Unfortunately, although January's in Texas can be warm at times, the weather on the day of our date was rather cold, and I decided to impress her with the coolness of my winter apparel. Several years ago, I had obtained a cloak made from Scottish wool at a Renaissance Festival, and with this, I donned my then favorite pair of shoes, Doc Martens. Add to all of that the fact that my hair was now quite long, and the result was that the guy who met Lizbeth at the restaurant we had selected for our date wasn't at all the boy she was expecting.
"You looked so intimidating in that cloak," she told me later, "I almost ran out the back door of the restaurant before you got to the table."
Regrettably, our first date adventures didn't stop there. The waiter had just taken our food order and delivered our drinks, when I committed the cliché blunder associated with blind people everywhere. I was making some sort of emphatic point, gesturing dramatically as I still do today, and managed to knock over Lizbeth's water. She got wet, I got embarrassed, and our conversation lagged for a while.
Then, her cell phone rang. At first, I thought she might ignore it to be polite, but no, she answered it right away. (Desperate, mayhap?) What followed was a lengthy conversation with one of her coworkers. I'm sure that it didn't last nearly as long as it felt to me, since, if it had, the building around us would've collapsed from old age long before she finished. When at last Lizbeth returned from her cellular discussion, I tried to pick up the conversation where we had left off, sans dramatic gestures.
Finally, the meal was over, the bill was paid, and it was time to go home. Lizbeth had doubtless been planning a quick escape, but I cagily asked her if she'd consider driving me home. After only a slight hesitation, she politely agreed, and we were off.
The drive home was uneventful, and I thought I was managing to win her over a little bit with pleasant conversation along the way. When we arrived in my driveway, I asked her inside, but she said she needed to get home. Still talking, because if there's one thing this blind guy can do it's talk, I captured her hand, and began massaging it. Gradually, I worked my way up her arm, and soon was massaging her neck and shoulders.
"When you touched me it was amazing," she confessed to me months later. "I couldn't believe how good it felt to have your hands on my skin."
Shortly after that, the kissing started, and the touching got a bit more intense. Then, with atrocious timing, the teenage brat of one of my neighbors trotted across the driveway, only stopping when he realized what we were doing. Lizbeth glared, the kid fled, and the mood, alas, was broken.
So ended Lizbeth's and my first date together. Ill-timed interruptions, spilled drinks, and poor clothing choices not withstanding, I was well pleased with how things had eventually turned out. Nevertheless, rough days were ahead, and more often than I'd like to admit, sweet Lizbeth and I almost ended our relationship together. I don't know when we finally saw it, the truth that had been right in front of us all along, but in the end, neither one of us could ignore it.
"Together we rock, apart we suck!"
Dan
"My wife and I met online."
It used to be, a statement like that would raise quite a few eyebrows. Not today of course, the Internet has become such an integral part of our everyday lives that, even if you haven't tried out online romance yourself, you almost certainly know of someone who has. When Lizbeth and I met though, it was January of 2003, and the whole online dating concept wasn't nearly as de rigueur for single people on the prowl as it has become.
It was Sunday, January 5, and I had spent most of the day lounging on my back deck, reading a book and listening to music. I wandered inside around 5:00 PM or so, and discovered my laptop, happily humming away on top of my bed. I had left Yahoo Messenger running, and had received one or two messages from friends while I was outside, plus one from a totally unfamiliar ID.
"Looselips?" I read uncertainly. "That has to be a porn ad!"
I very quickly discovered that it wasn't a porn robot however, but a living breathing girl, newly moved to Austin, and searching for friends. Even so, after some typical "getting to know you" questions, I thought our conversation was going to be pretty short-lived.
She was recently separated, had two kids, and was religious. As for me, I was also recently separated, but had no desire to be around kids, and was decidedly unreligious.
"It doesn't really sound like we have much in common," she said after a while. "I guess there isn't much point in the two of us continuing to talk."
"Now hold on," I answered, unwilling to give up so easily, "even if we're not interested in dating each other, there's no reason why we can't be friends, is there?"
After a brief pause, she agreed, and we continued talking.
For some reason, even though there wasn't a lot we had in common, both of us enjoyed the conversation that followed, and continued chatting with each other in the days to come. No matter what the topic was, I never got bored, and a fair amount of flirting started to work its way into all of our exchanges. Eventually, there were phone conversations as well, many of them lasting for several hours, but chatting remained one of our favorite means of communication.
Then, on Thursday, Lizbeth demanded to know when I was going to ask her out on a date.
"Uh, well," I responded, trying to buy time, "we haven't really been talking long enough for that yet."
I found, a little to my own surprise, that I didn't mind the idea of going out with her. Still, the macho male in me didn't want to look too eager.
"What's that supposed to mean?" she retorted.
"It's just… I don't usually ask someone out until she and I've been talking for at least two weeks."
I'd done a fair bit of online dating in the past, and had developed a few steadfast rules which worked well for me.
- Don't agree to meet girls who can't hold a decent conversation. No matter how cute they are, things'll get nasty when they open their mouths.
- Don't agree to meet girls who have voices you find unattractive. Too squeaky, or too masculine, and the romance will just disappear when you're cuddled up with them.
- Don't agree to go out with a girl who won't flirt, at least a little. What's the point?
- Get to know someone pretty well before you meet them. The misfits and liars will usually reveal themselves with inconsistencies after a few lengthy conversations.
Lizbeth was good on all counts, except that we hadn't been talking quite as long as I usually preferred. When I continued trying to put her off, I had my first encounter with her flaming hot temper.
"If you're not interested in going out with me," she stormed, "there's no reason why we should continue talking."
She said more, quite a bit more in fact, and predictably, I eventually caved.
Poor Lizbeth, when we met, she was in for quite a shock. You see, in the profile picture I had posted online, I was a clean cut guy with short hair, wearing a normal enough t-shirt with rolled up jeans, wading on a beach in San Francisco. Unfortunately, although January's in Texas can be warm at times, the weather on the day of our date was rather cold, and I decided to impress her with the coolness of my winter apparel. Several years ago, I had obtained a cloak made from Scottish wool at a Renaissance Festival, and with this, I donned my then favorite pair of shoes, Doc Martens. Add to all of that the fact that my hair was now quite long, and the result was that the guy who met Lizbeth at the restaurant we had selected for our date wasn't at all the boy she was expecting.
"You looked so intimidating in that cloak," she told me later, "I almost ran out the back door of the restaurant before you got to the table."
Regrettably, our first date adventures didn't stop there. The waiter had just taken our food order and delivered our drinks, when I committed the cliché blunder associated with blind people everywhere. I was making some sort of emphatic point, gesturing dramatically as I still do today, and managed to knock over Lizbeth's water. She got wet, I got embarrassed, and our conversation lagged for a while.
Then, her cell phone rang. At first, I thought she might ignore it to be polite, but no, she answered it right away. (Desperate, mayhap?) What followed was a lengthy conversation with one of her coworkers. I'm sure that it didn't last nearly as long as it felt to me, since, if it had, the building around us would've collapsed from old age long before she finished. When at last Lizbeth returned from her cellular discussion, I tried to pick up the conversation where we had left off, sans dramatic gestures.
Finally, the meal was over, the bill was paid, and it was time to go home. Lizbeth had doubtless been planning a quick escape, but I cagily asked her if she'd consider driving me home. After only a slight hesitation, she politely agreed, and we were off.
The drive home was uneventful, and I thought I was managing to win her over a little bit with pleasant conversation along the way. When we arrived in my driveway, I asked her inside, but she said she needed to get home. Still talking, because if there's one thing this blind guy can do it's talk, I captured her hand, and began massaging it. Gradually, I worked my way up her arm, and soon was massaging her neck and shoulders.
"When you touched me it was amazing," she confessed to me months later. "I couldn't believe how good it felt to have your hands on my skin."
Shortly after that, the kissing started, and the touching got a bit more intense. Then, with atrocious timing, the teenage brat of one of my neighbors trotted across the driveway, only stopping when he realized what we were doing. Lizbeth glared, the kid fled, and the mood, alas, was broken.
So ended Lizbeth's and my first date together. Ill-timed interruptions, spilled drinks, and poor clothing choices not withstanding, I was well pleased with how things had eventually turned out. Nevertheless, rough days were ahead, and more often than I'd like to admit, sweet Lizbeth and I almost ended our relationship together. I don't know when we finally saw it, the truth that had been right in front of us all along, but in the end, neither one of us could ignore it.
"Together we rock, apart we suck!"
Dan