The BetsyG-Spot

By BetsyG

Despite recent statements to the contrary (see Through With Love,) I think it’s time I started dating again. I’m seeing sure-fire signs that I’m in need of male companionship, namely that I’m frisky (a word that makes me sound 80), which is manifesting itself in attractions to the wrong men (not your husband). I can tell the situation is getting desperate: when I met someone whose marital status was unknown, I launched a full-out investigation to learn the truth. Next thing you know, I’ll be doing a stakeout at the guy’s house.

Meeting a guy the natural way—without the involvement of a modem—doesn’t seem likely, given that the only men I’m around are dads from my son’s baseball teams. Years ago, I did meet someone by way of Little League, but the chance that I’ll meet two single, interesting men in this venue seems as likely as getting the ball in the 100-point hole at skee ball. Sixteen teams later, I’ve encountered just one other divorced man, and he was much more into baseball than he was women. (Imagine! He was divorced!)

Setups are a bit like the weather: everyone talks about it, and no one does anything about it. Several of my happily married male friends have marveled at my single state, telling me I am a “catch,” but when pressed to set me up, they can never think of anyone for me, or they fail to follow through on their threats to do so.

To prevent myself from doing a full body tackle on the next guy who wanders by with a bare ring finger, I must prepare myself for the humiliation of online dating. Then I need to develop my profile. You’d think, because I’m a writer, mine would be stellar, but that has not been the case; it’s not an overstatement to say that no one contacts me. I suck at marketing, and a dating profile is the ultimate sales brochure. I find myself writing lines as flat as, “I have a good sense of humor.” As they say in writing workshops, “Show, don’t tell.” But comedy eludes me when I’m looking at that blank box labeled “About me.”

Another problem is that I’m too honest. In a medium in which the norm is to lie shamelessly, my truthful portrait makes me look like an ugly stepsister. While I mean this in the figurative sense, it applies, too, to photos. Most people post pictures that are so beyond flattering they render the subject unrecognizable. I, on the other hand, don’t photograph particularly well (the alluring and retouched camera-phone self-portrait above being a notable exception) but I post whatever I think comes closest to capturing me. When I meet someone in person, invariably he expresses surprise at how much better-looking I am than my photos suggest.

Also, after so many post-divorce failures (it’s only five, but the magnitude seems to increase with each one), my criteria for a romantic partner keep narrowing. After my relationship with Gary failed because he was too fresh out of his marriage, I vowed to date only men who were ready to move on. After last year’s boyfriend went back to his ex-wife, I decided that being divorced for less than a year was no-go. After the second guy I dated last year broke up with me—it appears he, too, is reconciling with his ex-wife (see Lemonade Stand)—I now want all prospects to state, “I would not get back with my ex-wife if she was the last woman on earth.” (He’d get bonus points if he used the subjunctive and said “were” instead of “was.”)

But even that might not be good enough, because I never liked the too-friendly relationship Gary had with his ex and the influence she exerted. So the guy I’m looking for has a cordial but cool relationship with his ex—good enough that he’s not constantly frothing at the mouth about what a bitch she is, but not so good that they celebrate holidays together.

How does this sound so far?

Ridiculously honest, frisky woman, with a supposedly good sense of humor, seeks a guy who wouldn’t date his ex-wife if the fate of the human race depended on it. I’m prettier than my pictures, and all around better than anything I would write here, at least that’s what my many married, male friends say. I’m a writer, by the way, but don’t worry: I won’t use your real name when I write about you.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Think you can do better? Take a crack at it. I’ll send you a $10 gift certificate if you write something I can use.