Day 14 / January 6, 2011

Continued from January 5, 2011

Type 2 -- The accelerated method – meeting in cyber-space:

This is nothing new, in the old days this method of introduction would be an arranged marriage or the family paying for the services of a matchmaker. In any case the desired effect is to eliminate the riff raft, the games, and all the people not seeking a serious permanent relationship. Oh -- even typing the word permanent gives me the willies. My mind pictures all those endless attempts of trying to wash off India ink from my hands after a day of drafting. I would then go out with black smudges on my fingertips – no wonder it was only artists that would date me.

This is the preferred method of my shrink and according to him most of the world these days. It removes the -- if factor. You sign up, complete a profile about yourself, and begin the search for the perfect girl. Sounds as easy as making a pot of spaghetti, doesn’t it? It would be except that people lie, specifically women. I’m not saying that men don’t lie, but I don’t lie – so the problem for me using this method is that it only works if both people lie or if neither person lies. I think in was Helena Rubinstein that instigated this faulty flaunting of the opposite sex.  The Helena’s cosmetic commercials were my earliest memory of the before and after looks of the average beauty queen. Birds are born with colorful feathers, usually the males, but no, women have to purchase these neat applied colors that get more appealing as the night wears on to confuse the male species. The what you see isn’t exactly what you get.

I’ve tried cyber mating in Vegas and joined a nationally recognized dating site, not some sleaze site looking to meet porno queens on their day off. Not me, I was hoping to find movie stars and waitresses on their way home. I actually met six different women for coffee before I pulled the plug and decided this wasn’t for me. The definite turning point was the drama queen with anorexia and six scars that ran from the sides of her eyes to her temples displaying the number of face lifts she had over the years. They wore like the rings on a tree that define age. She had four cups of coffee during an interview that lasted fifteen minutes, and couldn’t keep her hands still for a second. It was one of the only times in my life I was embarrassed to be seen in public.

            Ali is quick to say Chiang Mai is not like Las Vegas. If a women states on her profile that she likes art gallery openings and light conversation over coffee she probably means it. They don’t know what they’re supposed to say that’s cool so they tend to say what they mean. My ears perked up a bit, women that tell the truth? Ali continues; that is not to say you’re not going to get a certain number of women that hustle Caucasians for a living. Meaning they’ll approach each encounter with the intentions of a monk then collect boyfriends like precious saving bonds and try to extract interest payments from each one,  long distance. And, of course the few pros that surf the dating sites for extra disposable income.

            It appears both of the English and the Canadian councilors have met their current squeezes via DateinAsia.com, a free and legit dating site for anyone that has serious enough balls to roll the dice. I’m game, after all what do I have to lose as Ali says. Probably more than I want to admit, I think to myself. My problem, as I have discovered, is in my head. I have no idea now old I am. I think any female from thirty-to-eighty is fair game. In case you are wondering, I didn’t hit on the twelve-year old nurse at the acupuncture clinic – and she was seventeen by the way, and her telephone number is . . . I could never last through her giggles, but they were refreshing. I haven’t heard anyone giggle in a long time.

            I see my shrink again today at 3:30. I’ll ask what he thinks about my age denial or maybe it’s just a loss of memory. I forgot all those birthdays between forty and sixty. If I’m not looking in the mirror – now for example – if I close my eyes and picture my own face I appear to be about fifty. I certainly can’t picture the additional ten pounds I harbor nor the added lines of life that have been appearing in greater numbers, like Chinese fans expanding from each eye reaching for my temples. Try it yourself. Close your eyes and picture how you look, then compare that thought to a recent photograph. See I’m not totally crazy; I’m just as nuts as all my friends.


To be continued . . .

1/6/11 / Larry Rubenstein