The Romantic and The Rogue

I have been told yet again that I should make a profile on eHarmony, the dating site where "experts" help you find love.  I just Googled it so that I was certain I know what I am talking about.  They have "Free Dating," "Dating Advice," "Black Dating" (I shit you not), and "Senior Dating."  This could get confusing if you are a Black senior who wants to date for free, I imagine.  But. . . you know. . . they are the experts.  I assume they cover all of that in the "Dating Advice" section.  

WTF?  Really?  First of all, I can't imagine what my profile would look like.  Yes I can.  I'd like to think it would be really special and weird, but it would be just like everybody else's.  Along with the profile, I believe, you need to post a photo.  Jesus.  I've heard from people who have done dating sites.  Apparently everybody uses a fifteen year old glamor shot for their profile picture.  I've never heard anyone say, "My God, their picture didn't do them justice!"  Never.  You should see the selfies I can cook up.  After about 100 or 150 photos, I find one I can stand.  It is usually in the bathroom mirror with the overhead lights turned off and a soft light coming from the window.  A little slow shutter speed makes things just hazy enough and adds just the right amount of blur to make me look. . . I don't know. . . .  

I often get requests for headshots, of course.  People I meet in the street give me their phone number and ask me to send them some pics.  I assume they think I am someone else, especially now that I have "blonded" my hair.  I like to tell people I am was a championship surfer.  "Really?" they ask, seemingly glad to be in the presence of someone almost known.  "Yes, there were a couple years where I was doing really well, getting in all the mags, but after the accident. . . ."  They usually nod then, eyes averted, lips pursed, before looking back into my eyes with a smile.  

I actually worked for a man who met his wife on eHarmony.  They seemed very proud of that.  She was a Life Coach--I swear to God with my hand on my heart that I am not making this up--so that might account for it.  They were as fake a couple as I had ever come across.  I mean there was not an ounce of spontaneity or sincerity that I could find, and I would have to say that the eHarmony Experts had done their job well.  They really had found the perfect match there.  

So yesterday, I took some selfies in the mirror before I climbed into the shower.  My hair looked great since I had washed it the day before.  It has just the right amount of glitter and bounce to it.  I was pleased.  When I got out of the shower and reached for a towel, I saw my phone sitting on the bathroom vanity, and. .  well. . . I mean. . . it wasn't a "dick pic" really, but. . . Jesus, this is embarrassing. . . . yea, I took a naked selfie.  

I don't think I'll ever do that again.  I don't understand it.  I see myself naked in the mirror every time I step out of the shower.  I shave naked, put on my face creams and brush my teeth and dry my hair naked.  I know I have put on weight, but I never think I look that bad.  So what is it that the camera does?  There is a line in "Barcelona," where a fellow is getting ready for a date.  After prepping in the mirror, he turns to his friend and says, "How can I look so good in the mirror and so bad in pictures?"  

I looked at the phone then back to the mirror.  They just didn't look the same.  In the mirror, I looked pretty good.  In the photo, however, I looked like a fat old satyr or a big piece of heavy machinery that retained some of its power but was broken nonetheless.  I kept looking at it, amazed, thinking if I looked at it long enough, it would start to make sense.  Maybe, I thought, if I take another, different angle. . . . 

I'll look at them again today and see if they have gotten any better.  

Don't judge me.  Don't be a hater.  You do stupid shit, too, you just don't write about it.  That doesn't make you superior.  And you know what?  I'm good at taking nudes.  Get your ass over here and I'll fix you up.  I know all the angles.  

It wasn't like I was going to go on eHarmony, anyway.  It is not just that there are 400 men to every woman on the site, or that I think it is pretty creepy.  I do think that, but it is no just that.  There is only one way for me.  When I used to go out with my friends on a weekend, I was always looking to meet the girl.  They were looking for a girl.  I never walked out with anyone.  They usually did.  

I'm a romantic, you see.  It has to be instantaneous.  It is in the eyes.  That is where the trouble begins. . . in the eyes.  That is where the immediate attraction is visible.  There is the excitement.  There is the flame.  I've also learned to mimic the face of the person, too, just so I can feel what they are feeling.  You don't believe that?  Try it.  You can feel the sadness or the anger or the madness they must be feeling at that moment.  It will tell you whether to run or not.  But really, it is all in the meeting of those eyes.  

And lips.  There is nothing more exciting than the first kiss.  I mean, if it is the thing.  It is the first permission, the invitation to everything to come.  It is the Golden Moment.  

Anything else is just internet sex.  Many prefer that.  From what I've read, most Japanese men do, but I think the phenomena is spreading throughout the world.  I've known several couples who have broken up because one or the other of them met someone online.  For real.  

I'm o.k. alone until I see something in someone else's eye.  I know, now, though, they have to like old broken satyrs.  I'm going to stick to head shots from now on.  This body has been broken and now the once powerful muscles are slathered in fat.  I chose today's illustration because that is exactly what I saw, not in the mirror, but on the phone.  In the mirror, I still look like a youngish Marlon Brando.  

Last night (since this has become a confessional site), I ended up watching the rest of the Teri Garr appearances on David Letterman.  In total, I watched Teri Garr from 1977 (on the Johny Carson Show) to 2005.  By then, this loveliest of people had withered due to MS and a subsequent but not related brain aneurism.  Her physical appearance was completely transformed.  One might say it sad or shocking, but she didn't.  She still had exactly the same personality, the same wonderful sensibility and flirty attitude toward the world.  The world will break you, I know, but even knowing, it can still be disquieting.  

To finish off the evening on a lighter note, I watched one episode of "Below Deck Mediterranean."  At the end of the episode, a good looking Zimbabwe boy who had broken up with his girl who we got to know from the prior season, confessed that he was texting her.  One of his boat mates, a roguish kid from Liverpool, comments, "You writing to tell her about your little dick and big heart?"  

Ha!  There it is!  The Romantic and the Rogue.  The kid from Liverpool was out to fuck everything.  Zimbabwe, well. . . he was pining still for his Own True Love.  

I guess I'll eat some lettuce and get ready for the gym.  I know that it is impossible to lose weight, but you have to try to keep from putting more on, right?  I just read an article, though, that says exercise has very little effect on body weight.  It is all in the genes and in the diet.  But it is Friday and tonight is Friday night, and those are not good days to start a diet.  Tonight, I'm going to party--sushi and a bottle of sake.  Woo-hoo!  Alone, sure, but maybe I'll eat outside.  Who knows?  Someone may want my autograph.