Without so much as a flirt, I already I had a mark against me. I’d been rejected by the online photo police for posting a picture that was too revealing.
I put the kabosh on my continued investigation of dating sites. Instead, I did the unthinkeable: cleaned house, washed my floors, lifted the burners of my stove and scrubbed away burnt crud, there from the time when I had first moved into the apartment. I even watched reruns of “Twin Peaks.”
Finally, I came face-to-face with myself. As a middle-aged woman, I’d left my bar hopping days far behind. But I could join the profilerati, those legions of faces with nothing more than a song and a dance and a headline.
You can do this, I told myself. And once again, You can do this. I brought up my empty profile page and began to type. Others might choose a dating home based on personal recommendation, but I opted for a free site where I didn’t have to pay for membership, and choose between the one, three, or the recommended six-month plan (for best results).
I moved ahead, staked a claim, here on this online ground where I hoped to show off a new pair of Levi jeans and discover some golden heart. I wanted to tell the truth about myself.
And what, you might ask, had brought me to this particular crossroads? That’s easy: Love’s Labour’s Lost, “I that have been love’s whip.”
Shakespeare, my man, meet the Forty-niners.