I’m old news on match.com. No new e-mails or winks – at least not since the guy who mentioned that he’d just bought new art that looked great above his Crate and Barrel sofa.
There’s a very haughty (and delusional) part of me that thinks, “I could buy and sell you without a second thought. Don’t try to impress me with your Crate and Barrel sofa.”
Or, like Phil Hartman’s brilliant Sinatra impression, “I’ve got chunks of guys like you in my stool.”
So, there’s that. And there’s the exhaustion. And the fact that I can barely handle all the flower-giving beaus currently beating down my door.
But I logged in tonight and – funny thing about match.com – instead of extending me for one month? The sort of extended me for three. So, I’m on match until September, whether I like it or not.
Ok, then. It’s like a death march of dating.
I should add more pictures to my profile. Or I should at least log in every once in a while so that my profile doesn’t get the “active within three weeks” tag of slackerdom.
But just to give you an idea of where I am? I came home from work today, stripped down to my skivvies, and lounged about in bed reading until 7:30. At that point, I got up, put on my nightgown, and retired to the couch, where I’ve been watching Hallmark movies ever since.
Yeah, my life is pretty great. I’m not sure why I’m looking for a mate.
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