Why is it even a quick glance at your prospects on RSVP can you give the feeling you’re walking into some nasty over 40s singles bar with toilet paper stuck to the bottom of your shoe and your skirt tucked into your fishnet stockings?
DTE Aussie divorcee, 48, healthy and well preserved for age, seeks a female (any age) to share quiet nights on the couch with a bottle of red and a DVD.
Instantly you can hear the strains of Michael Bolton waft through the room as the ultraviolet light from the dance floor shows up the dandruff on your jacket. And just like the bloke with the handlebar moustache and the tattoos standing over in the corner of the bar straining to count his gold coins by the light of the cigarette machine, you know the people at RSVP have something to hide. It’s what those profiles don’t say that’s important. The mere fact that these people don’t need to pass through a metal detector makes the process somewhat daunting. Finding love on the internet might be more productive if the profiles had to go before some kind of Trades Practices Board chaired by your Mum and a forensics team.
Down To Earth: I’m just a slave to gravity. I have no grandiose ideas about myself or the kind of woman I can attract because quite frankly, I’m boring as batshit and spend most of my time scratching my nuts during Titans’ games and wanking over the K-mart underwear catalogue. People with a healthy self-esteem need not apply.
Looks aren’t important, it’s what’s on the inside that counts: I have a face like a bunch of smashed crabs and all the hot women I fancy don’t even know I’m alive. So if you’re happy to be a mere vessel whilst I get on with the very important business of imagining I’m humping Erin McNaught then let’s meet for coffee.
Honest and Trustworthy: Rather than just prove this through my actions, I’m going to pretend that I’m these things so that I can continue screwing prostitutes in the Valley without arousing your suspicions. It’s not my fault. You should have given me that hand job last Sunday night when Chuck Norris was on...bitch!
I want somebody to grow old with: I have a morbid fear of nursing homes and I’d like to invest in home care assistance. Must have warm body and be able to make a decent cup of tea and fetch slippers...to which my response is...get a dog!
Somebody to cuddle with on the couch and watch TV: to which my response is (Ad infinitum) get a dog!
What you see is what you get: My wardrobe consists entirely of cardigans, polyester slacks, garish socks and open-toe sandals. Sometimes I lose my shirt.
People that claim they have eclectic taste in music and then list Pink, Lady Gaga and Katy Perry as their favourites. GAH!!!!!!!
Good Sense of Humour: I am really funny. LOL! LOL! LOL! I haven’t graduated from toilet humour. LOL! LOL! LOL! I regurgitate jokes from the internet. LOL! LOL! LOL!
Guys that write their descriptions like they’re a house or a car for sale: I suppose that’s vaguely imaginative but it’s still a bit naff.
Guys that take photos of themselves in mirrors: I spend a lot of time in this bathroom doing...you know...stuff. Like choreographing that pecs manoeuvre and moisturising my body with high-grade sump oil. Besides, the kids are over this weekend and I don’t want scare the shit out of that cute baby-sitter.
Guys that appear to have an extra arm grafted onto their shoulder because they’ve cropped out their last girlfriend: There is currently nobody in my life that would care to take a photograph of me. I do have a sister but she refuses to navigate the engine parts, crusty underpants and the empty tuna cans that currently serve as my lounge room decor... either that or they’re too dim to find the timer on their camera.
Guys that post pictures with no regard for the background appearance of their shots: I have a degree in the field of quantum messiness. My flat is a hole of such infinite density that not even the light from my dusty lava-lamp can escape its gravitational pull. I register abnormally high levels of adrenalin at the sight of a vacuum cleaner. My dirty clothes basket recently reported me to Amnesty International.
People that list watching sunsets and walking on the beach as interests: I have absolutely no idea what romance is.
OK so I realize that this is all a bit snarky and considering that my attempts at humour are frequently abysmal, a little hypocritical. I’m obviously prepared to overlook certain deficits in appearance and my heart does go out to all those lonely and unfortunate looking men but the one thing I cannot compromise on is the guys that can’t spell, punctuate or construct a decent sentence. It’s more than just a lack of intelligence, it’s speaks volumes about a person’s desire to learn. Let me explain. Many years ago I went out with this fantastic guy. He hadn’t been raised with opportunities for higher education but he was fascinated with learning and sought knowledge at every turn. He didn’t default to disinterest when he wasn’t sure what I was talking about but rather he would ask questions and file it away in the ‘useful’ part of his brain. He didn’t pretend to know everything nor was he ashamed of that. Basically, he appreciated me and didn’t try to bring me down. I can’t tell you how many times I have made allowances for men only to have them turn around and tease me for not knowing the line-up of the Broncos or the entire back catalogue of Bruce Lee. The problem with going out with guys that aren’t real bright is not the fact that they’re not ‘well read’ or ‘dig the same shit that I do’...it’s their unwillingness to engage in a conversation I’ve initiated. The amount of times I have opened my mouth, only to be met with a blank stare and a change of subject are too numerous to count...and it wears thin really quickly.
So this weekend I’m going to sit around in my trakkie daks watching ‘An Affair to Remember’ on DVD in the full knowledge that I’m not missing out on anything. Well that’s the plan until I actually decide to go out and get a life myself. Ahem.