The Online Allure

I have dated and been in and out of relationships for much of my adult life. This is a fact. Online dating, as a forum, is here to stay. Another fact. It is impossible to deny its ease. It is also impossible to do it for years without either becoming jaded or learning a thing or two about oneself and the world we inhabit. Perhaps both. I'd love to write that I have mastered the process of meeting men online, but that would be seriously misleading. 

We are all familiar with that thrill after completing a good workout, winning an award, or impressing someone. That rush of pleasure is thanks to dopamine, and it is present in droves in the online dating world, just as it permeates any social media platform. I fear that I did become briefly addicted to, or reliant on, the rush that accompanies online dating. I also fear that we have become a society more interested in scrolling than in making conversation or donning earbuds rather than making eye contact. Of liking people online instead of in person. 

My love-hate relationship with online dating began shortly after the dissolution of my marriage. I was 33. The year was 2004. Months before I created my first dating profile, I grew emotionally involved with a man almost ten years my junior while my husband and I finally physically parted ways and assets. I was still in the house. Lest you judge, I left no stone unturned. I nurtured the marriage and myself, and sought counselling. I finally resolved that I could not heal my husband and needed to be whole for my children. Then, and only then, I walked away. Okay, I ran.

I agree with Canadian novelist Robertson Davies that there is hardly room in a healthy marriage for a third party. In his essay "The Pleasures of Love," he asserts that thriving marriages are founded on conversation and that there is simply no emotional space for another. I loved talking with my younger man and missed this emotional intimacy in my marriage. It felt wonderful to share the highlights of my day and laugh again at something other than a toddler giggling or wedging a sodden Cheerio up his nose. 

Following a six-month ego-boosting tryst that was filled with mainly good conversation, I was ready for something serious. He wasn't. It should be noted that I had three children under the age of seven and was a full-time teacher and mother, part-time cook, banker, and taxi driver. 

I coached, graded papers, and paid the bills late into the evenings. Heck, I was still changing my toddler's Pull-ups in the morning. Where does one meet a somewhat professional man looking for a serious relationship between washing the dishes and putting the kids to bed? Why, online, of course. 

Little did I know that this was the beginning of a fifteen-year campaign of online dating wherein I learned so much about myself, men, and the lure of virtual love. I signed up eagerly for Lavalife, which has since been replaced largely by the more modern Match.com, E-Harmony, Ok Cupid, or Tinder. For the less faint of heart: Plenty Of Fish, which was purchased at a ticket price of $575 million by Match.com in 2015. One lesson I quickly learned: know thy agenda. Many online daters do not share a consensus here. Some peruse for idle chatter, some for an affair, some for a relationship. And yes, some clearly misrepresent.

One man, with whom I chatted with for eight days, messaged me the following missive 24 hours before our scheduled meeting: 

It is important that I tell you a little more about myself before we meet in person. (Alarm bells began ringing.) I have been on this site for 11 months and have yet to meet anyone IRL. (The bells grew louder.) I was not getting much online attention last fall, so a female friend suggested that everyone lies on these dating apps, and that I should, too. (Red flags now waving to the chorus of alarm bells.) I am not actually 5'11. I am 5'6. And I have my kids full-time. Not part-time. I understand if you want to block me. I just wanted to let you know. 

I was speechless. Was it true that most people misrepresented? An estimated 53% of online daters misrepresent. Thanks, Google. I was mystified and apparently naive. I was also concerned about his other piece of conveyed information. Was online dating not a venue to meet IRL? Simply a means to an end? I quickly learned that it was not for all. For some, going on an actual date was clearly not as much fun as constantly checking their phones to see who might like to date them. 

In the span of several months, I chatted with countless men online, on the phone, and in person. Some wanted to meet the next day, and some wanted to text and email endlessly. Some seemed sweet, while others seemed angry or sexually aggressive. One prospective suitor messaged before our first meeting, instructing that he wanted me to wear a red thong and no bra to lunch. I kid you not. I never found out if he intended this under my clothing or in lieu of clothing. Another man relayed in his second message that he had black underwear on. I messaged back that I was eating a cookie and that the colour of his boxers did not turn me on until I knew him much better. He wrote back respectfully: Noted. 

The night I met the man I would spend the next nine years with, I was decidedly early. I circled the busy block around the Thai restaurant for 25 minutes, dreading another contrived first meeting. I was pleasantly surprised: He was intelligent, active, groomed, interesting and funny, albeit thirteen years my senior. I did not know the colour of his undergarments at our first meeting, and he was six feet tall, just as he had indicated in his profile. I know now (hindsight much clearer than foresight, of course) that I was simply craving decent company after kissing many frogs. The psychological danger is that an ordinary man with whom you may only share a few common values or interests may very well present as a shining knight. With time, I realized this, and realized also that he was not seeking a true lasting partnership, nor could he forgo his need to travel solo constantly, and he did not anticipate or always welcome the busyness of three young boys. 

Fast forward nine years. After grieving the loss of yet another dream and, in part, the years I had devoted, I turned to the internet once again. Lavalife was no longer, so for those intent on pursuing a relationship, Match.com seemed the best fit. It was 2014, and by now, many more singles had turned to their phones and laptops, hoping to find a partner. An estimated 40% of adults aged 18-40 were now online looking for love. It was a virtual jungle out there, teeming with singles.

In conjunction with online dating, I worked on myself. Improved my EQ. Looked inward. Took responsibility for my role in past relationships. I devoted myself to my children. Coached their sports teams. Volunteered in the community. I signed up for a whitewater kayaking lesson. What could go wrong? I also took yoga and meditation classes to stretch my body and clear the cachéd cookies of my mind. I was a lonely, devoted single mother trying to look through the windshield instead of in the rear-view mirror. What I found was a screen filled with men's faces. 

Match.com proved fruitful by the numbers (I grew flattered and exhausted) but not necessarily by the quality. I received a congratulatory message from Match after my first week. "You are having a great week," it read, “206 men have recently viewed your profile!”. I felt like a new shirt on display in a storefront window. I did not enjoy this feeling. "You received 38 messages and 92 winks this week. That's fantastic." What this failed to reveal was that many were 20 years my senior or junior, lived at home with their parents, or 40 miles away, and sent messages that began and ended with, "Hey, baby." 

I vowed to be genuine and honest and met a plethora of men in the weeks and months that followed. Some were quite nice. I met just as many who were angry and resentful. Their wives had cheated, they had a lot of baggage, they missed sex, they were looking for love in all the wrong places, and they needed either a hug or a therapist. These were their words, not mine. Essentially, though, I met many people like myself, yearning to connect. I dated one man for a year. I'll call him Chris…because that is his name. When I finally listened to my instincts and felt something was amiss, I created a fake online dating account and saw his active profile still on Match, with a green little circle below his smile and a newly uploaded photo I had taken of him at his cottage months into our relationship. When I confronted him, he did not deny this and admitted that he had been online throughout our relationship. It struck me then: he was addicted to the car lease aspect of online dating, where one not only compares ruthlessly but feels he or she can trade in on a moment's notice. I realized that online dating was eroding my trust in men. I suppose this time, with good reason. 

Online dating lends itself not only to a climate of car shopping, but also a paradox of choice and a climate of spying and bruised egos. In the beginning, I would keep my profile briefly active after a promising first date. One date does not a relationship maketh. This changed over the course of my time online. Initially, I chatted with many men simultaneously, trying to keep the details of their lives in the brume of my mind. This is no easy feat! Was he the one with three grown children? The IT guy from Gatineau? The basketball player who liked to joke? I would have to revisit our previous messages and the man's electronic profile to review these details before a first encounter, lest I confuse him with another. Sometimes though, his profile would then be hidden. I have heard many women keep spreadsheets. I hid my own profile frequently while 'juggling' conversations with men. In the later stages of my online foray, I felt completely disingenuous and removed my profile for a week or two while 'chatting' with simply one or two men at a time. This seemed to mirror the more organic unfolding that occurs when one meets and dates in the real world.

I learned, too, while online, that a second form of spying also occurs when singles succumb to tracking the online behaviours of previous matches, suitors, and partners of days, months, or even years gone by. I often had dates and exes checking out my profile and messaging for a drink now that I was single again. We are exes for a reason, I wanted to explain. In addition, I had two former partners create elaborate profiles on both dating websites and social media to lure me into re-engaging. No joke. I knew immediately. A Harvard grad and soccer player? Who volunteers in orphanages? A teacher, too, with only travel and athletic photos and a day-old profile? Really. One man readily admitted it. The other gentleman (I employ that term loosely) did a month later. To what end did they concoct these amusing illusions? I surmise it was to ironically test my honesty and authenticity, or perhaps to confirm or to deny what I was looking for in a partner. Again, maybe they just enjoyed texting over in-person interactions. 

After four months of healing from this man who referred to cheating as overlap, I grew determined to give online dating another reverent shot. Following twelve more weeks of awkward coffee and drink dates, I could write the manual on meaningful small talk. I recognize the oxymoron. Dating now felt like another full-time job. I met for walks, red wine, beer tasting, and picnics. Drinks on patios or a funny movie after chatting online ad nauseam. I met men at hiking trails, Starbucks, pubs, restaurants, and in parks. I have 'ghosted' and been 'ghosted.'

I used to enjoy a church hymn as a young girl entitled "I Am Determined to Hold Out to the End." I think you get the picture.

On a sunny patio one late afternoon in June of 2014, I met a man with whom I had a little chemistry. He stood tall, palpably nervous, and had blue, deep-set eyes and a kind face. He was a good listener, and we shared stories and a love of red wine late into the evening. We dated for well over two and a half years, though we truly were not a good long-term fit. He broke up with me by text at the beginning of a cold, snowy weekday morning. Almost three years together ended with not so much as a conversation. Though I was in part relieved, the impersonal finality left me stunned. My children had grown close to him. My then-eighteen-year-old was shocked when I relayed what had happened. His response? "That is weird, mom. He seemed like such a nice guy. And I learned not to text-dump in grade seven." 

The truth? It was for the best. Had I listened to my inner voice, I might have realized what a poor fit we were for one another in the third month, not nearing the third year. I think, however, I was growing afraid to be alone. I had also adopted skewed standards in the watered-down, one-dimensional dating pool that was my computer screen. 

I turned to online dating yet again in May of 2018. I know, I know. One would think I had learned my lesson. I had indeed learned many lessons. This time, I was determined to be genuine, open, and perhaps pickier and more thoughtful. I did fear, by now, the dependence on both the notion of possibility and the inbox inundation. The dopamine rush. The feeling that someone or something better is waiting for me at the click of a mouse. The hopeful green beacon below a handsome face indicating the man is online. I felt like Jay Gatsby at the end of his dock gazing longingly towards the green light in the distance and I wondered if Nora Ephron could have predicted this 20 years ago when she directed the hit movie You've Got Mail.

It was at this time that a close friend of 23 years told me, "I think you have a real problem with online dating." I agreed. I hated it. As difficult as it was, I came home and immediately deleted my profile. Months later, I created a new one and went back online cautiously optimistic. As the old adage goes, the heart wants what the heart wants. If a forever relationship does not work out, the universe may have another calling for me. My life is replete with wonderful relationships of other kinds. I have raised three happy, autonomous young men who adore me. I have a fulfilling career. I am blessed to be surrounded by close friends. I love my cats. Should that not be enough? I hold out hope for now, but if I am wrong, I might adopt a few more cats.

Heather Nimmo is a writer and teacher.