Memories start flooding back. I’m 7 years old all over again. Hanging on the edge of my neighbor’s pool. Water shimmering like illuminated diamonds bathing in the sun.  Everyone is on the deck waiting for me to let go of the side. Puffed up and out with floating devices surrounding my body. Hands holding my sides. Yet, I can’t let go. Will not let go. I just want to remain at the sidelines a bit longer.  Everyone else is splashing around having the time of their life. Why can’t I?

I wish I could say I jumped into the online dating pool because I was tired of swimming alone. Continuously treading water, bumping into old shoes and worn-out jeans. That I was ready to find a synchronized swimming partner.  Someone to hold and carry me through every awkward position in life. But that’s not the reason why I chose the sport.

The reasons why we join. Everyone has one. I want to believe that most jump in for the right reasons. However, I have to take into account the strong percentage of those just only looking for attention driven hook ups. Good luck bobbing your way through that mess.  The ego ocean in a selfie cultured world.

And what is with the Just trying to find a partner in crime reason for joining. What are these crimes being committed?  Intense handholding? A hug fight? Are people out there seriously looking for someone whose interests include: bank robbing and mild felonies? “Hey, I’m Bill, I enjoy fine wine, a nice steak, and taking money from children.” After most of my dates, you’d think I’d be ready to knock someone off.

The truth is: I don’t actually remember handing my permission slip over.  What do I remember ? It was yet another typical Saturday night of drinking and dancing in the winter of 2008. Once home, I’d wind down with a pretty epic dance routine in front of a full length mirror in my teeny tiny Brooklyn bedroom.  Ceremoniously placing my ear-buds in, pushing play on a perfectly curated 7-song playlist, and lip-synching every single word as if I had written them myself. I danced my ass off in front of that full-length mirror. The cheapest you could find at Home Depot. Attached to a blank white wall by miniscule squares of double-sided foam tape. Barely hanging on. Much like me.

I probably could have that dance routine made into a workout video. It was that good.  Well, at least I think so. I remember it that way.

Because when you’re not getting laid or snuggling up to a warm body, what else is there to do: DANCE. OOOH THOSE SONGS!! Those songs were breathing life into me. They bandaged my heart tears. They were the ladder to my survival. Some songs included: Love is a Battlefield, Self Control and Live Your Life. Try it out sometime. Nowadays I return home and have mind-blowing conversations with Siri

That particular night I added a different bit to the routine. Some fancy footwork. I went skinny dipping in dark waters. Swam in that ego-ocean and came up for air.

I had just come off a particularly horrible breakup: unhealed heart still barely beating. There’s no better way to rebuild my ego and self-worth than a quick dip in these unknown waters. Little did I know, I was entering the competitive swimming championships. I had zero training. And pretty limited heart for the sport.

Now, back in 2008, online dating was just starting to gain popularity. It was still some novel idea of how to meet people. Crazy right!?!? Only 2 sites pretty much ruled that world.  Match.com and Ok Cupid.

Match.com reminded me of that gym membership for which I handed over $50 over to each month for 2 years. Side note: I only used twice after some crazy notion that I was a “gym person”.  The new years resolution that winds up going straight to my bank account. The elliptical is my new best friend! We share so many things in common! People walk all over me too!  Pass on that site and its accumulated bank account guilt.

And then there was Ok Cupid. The free choice for those of us who weren’t sure we wanted to dive in headfirst. Not quite as committed to the sport as others. Signing up for an uncommitted site for possible commitment. Jumbo shrimp style dating.

Back to the bedroom

I slowly wake up the next morning, limbs tired from dancing. Head pounding, trying to piece together the previous evenings activity, draining the water from my ears. I looked over to my open laptop. My current sleeping partner on this winters night. Who am I kidding? The only bed partner that I was getting into any pillow play with. The only thing I was massaging: small black square computer keys. Oh you like that? You want me to stroke that D key a bit more?

Uh oh. What did I do?  A bit of panic ensues. That hangover anxiety. Hope I didn’t message my ex. I tap that space bar. Boom. It’s OK Cupid. Shit. I just drunk dated. 

Realizing I just joined the relay race team that I wasn’t quite ready for competition, I downed a few aspirin. This self-prescription fix to my wounded ego wasn’t helping my hangover. I attempt to reassure myself: Drunk decisions are always a solid choice. Right?

When I saw Ok Cupid on that screen, I knew I had taken that leap. Seven year old me had finally let go and was floating towards the middle. I had let go of the side.

The fifth lesson I learned: Drunk decisions in dating are not solid.

To the creators of the site I have a few questions.  1. Were you also drunk when you created this? Did you go home lonely one night dancing in your underwear? Maybe sliding across the floor with a faux microphone in your hand?  2. Why the name? Are you obsessed with scantily clad children carrying a bow and arrow? Have you too resigned to the fact that there is no possible way to meet someone in the real world? An intense heart to heart moment with cupid that ended with:“Ok, you got me. Lets do this together”.

Did you know Ok Cupid was created by 4 college dudes?  Let me wrap my head around this a minute.  I am playing the most intense game of flip cup in a seemingly last chance effort to find THE ONE.  I am at the frat house with Cupid as my plus one. That makes sense I guess.. Cupid is a boy wearing a well-wrapped toga bottom.  I’ll let him shoot an arrow straight to my heart.

Did you also know that there are only 6 sites out of THOUSANDS that are created by women? That is mind-boggling to me. I have in fact used one of these: Coffee meets Bagel. Created to give women the upper hand.  I was presented with 1 “gentleman” per day. Yet, it’s the same premise of a few pictures and a short profile. I then had 24 hours to decide if I “liked” this potential mate.

24 HOURS??? What am I trying to do within this 24 hours before deciding? Saving the world with Keifer Sutherland? Hour one: I look at the photos. I mean, I’m LOOKING at the photos. Dissecting every small detail. There’s a tiger in this photo. He went to Thailand. He must travel. OOOOHHHH so adventurous. This is some real detective shit going down. Hour 2: I read the profile. Really? It takes about 2 minutes for me to decide. The next step in this elaborate screening process is to like or dislike. And wait to see if he likes me back. Does he get a full 24 too? That doesn’t seem fair. And, how is this any different from Tinder?

But I’m a glass half full type of gal so I eventually, and quite whole-heartedly get into the sport. It took some years. Pretty soon, I was all in. And I was getting good at perfecting my strokes. Locking down a few dates per week. Leaving nights open in hopes of an elusive unknown date to show up.  Every Wednesday and Thursday was on a concrete lockdown for this swim practice. Friends knew to not even ask to hangout those 2 days at this point. I was dedicated. And they were my sideline coaches. Waiting with towels to dry me off after I come up for air.

Lets call this particular toe dip Nick. Nick and I met on OK Cupid 2012 in LA. By this time I wasn’t looking for that ego fix anymore. I wanted to get out of shallow waters and try the deep end when I came across his profile. A typical Friday night for me: probably out dancing. My heart beats faster.

As you may know, I’m fancy myself an incredible dancer. I have some NY hip hop classes under my belt to prove it. So dancing was definitely a point included on my profile. That’s a sport I’m good at. Naturally, on the THINGS I’M GOOD AT part of the profile interrogation I responded with: dancing. Note to self: Be careful what you say you are good at. I should probably have gotten feedback at some point verifying that I was an incredible dancer. Best in sport.

Nick spots this similarity immediately and suggests we go to a dance class at the Sweat Spot in Silverlake. YES! Someone that gets me!! I’m ready to synchronize swim.

I’m excited, on that first date high. Choosing my best workout wear for this epic date I’m about to have. Sports bra and shorts? Too revealing? Should I add a sweatband or is that too much?  I decided on leggings and an oversized tank top.

I arrive at the destination oozing sex appeal. Immediately realizing I am clearly under dressed for this situation. I have the one-piece bathing suit on; everyone else is going to the nude beach. It’s an American Apparel ad at the Sweat Spot and I didn’t get the memo. There are tides of metallic leggings and matching high-waisted leotards stretching in the front row. Damn. These ladies are dressed to impress. I thought I was until I gaze back down at my cotton ensemble. Nothing like being on a date with 20 hot females gyrating their bodies in front of you for an hour to build confidence and win over a date.

The sixth lesson I learned: Don’t go to a dance class in LA. Unless you are in fact, a backup dancer for Beyoncé.

The 2 front rows were composed of dancers by trade. I’m the girl who likes to have a few cocktails and feel the beat. Moving my legs first, throwing some arm movements in when the beats feel right. This is not that. This is not even close. I did not perform well. I should have packed a legging flask.

But Nick, Nicks tearing it up. If ever this was someone’s jam, it would be his. I’m all noodle legs and arms trying to keep up with the routine. The small child still wearing inflatable arm tubes when everyone diving into the deep end. But he’s out there nailing every single move. And not once do I think…does Nick frequent this? Has he been practicing for this big date? If I had known what I was wading into, I might have done a few practice laps.

Nick frequently looks my way and my mind is screaming, “Look away Nick! PLEASE look away”. I just want to be in the comfort of that full-length mirror again.

I make it through. I’m never going on a date here again. 

But I will do brunch.And so the second date ensues; finally a chance to talk.  We follow each other to a small, healthy spot down the way on Sunset Boulevard, Local. And I like what Nick has to say. He’s back in school getting his Masters at Cal Arts. I’ve already been hooked by his moves. He could have been a dishwasher at that point for all I cared. He mention’s that I’m his second date on the site. A newbie! 

There’s nothing like encountering a newbie. I almost want to take all of them under my wing and give them the guided tour of the online campus. And over here we have the garden of small talk. Look how it flourishes!  Show them the ropes. But wait, I may want to date them. I’ll keep that knowledge hidden.

Nick suggests we get Bloody Marys somewhere. He mentions a few places in the area and slips in his place for good measure. And what do I agree to?  His place. Come on, I know what you’re thinking. But, Nick has a hammock!! I’m not talking about his underwear. This is a real deal hanging from a tree lazy Sunday afternoon hammock. I’m sold. I can picture it now, our Sundays to come. Dance class, relaxing in the hammock afterwards, recounting our weeks, Bloody Marys in hand. Living the life.  This is why I moved to LA!

I park at Nick’s place literally minutes after he arrives. Walk into the house and there’s a full Bloody Mary bar laid out. I’m not talking a bottle of Vodka and tomato juice. It’s as if Nick googled: how to make the best Bloody Mary to get a girl back to your place. Step one: invite a girl to dance class. This has been setup before leaving the house. In hopes I would say yes. Rather than spending time selecting workout wear, Nick perfectly constructed this buffet of tiny pickles, celery, and a festival of olives.

I suddenly realize I’m in the deep end. He had long ago cast this bait; simply waiting to pull me in. A damn bobber on the Bloody Mary.

I tip my tiny hat off to Nick that was one delicious Bloody Mary. We go for a nice swing in the hammock. Game point. Match?

kissing ensued. When our glasses have emptied, Nick suggests we meander inside to watch some episodes of Portlandia. I’m game. Dancing? Brunch? Bloody Marys? Portlandia?  YES! This is what I normally do by myself. So why not in the company of someone else?

Off into the house we go. I look around the living room. HMMMMM no TV.  Somehow we can only watch Portlandia on Nick’s laptop. In his bedroom. On his bed. I guess the Wi-Fi doesn’t reach the living room?

I’m in full episode enjoyment mode, which was probably Brunch Village. Seems fitting. It’s as if the Universe is speaking to me. I had brunch too! This is a sign!  Without warning, I feel Nick’s hands on my back.

“You must be sore from that class”.

Semi-sensual back rub starts to ensue. It probably could have been a full on sensual back rub had I actually been feeling it. But I’m not. I’m not okay with this. Where’s my lifeguard?  I’m sinking, trying to come up for air. Wondering, How did I swim out so deep? Why wasn’t the red flag up? Guess I gave Nick that green light when I said “Yes, I’d love to have a Bloody Mary at your house! Alone. After making out. Goddamn hindsight!!

Why do we never see it in the moment? Living in each moment and never looking forward. Forgetting that every second counts towards something bigger. That grand finale. Never seeing the bigger picture of how my actions may affect the outcome. Date accountability.

The seventh lesson I learned: Always check yourself mid date.

Literally go to the bathroom or an off site location and have a quick conversation with yourself and maybe a few slaps across your face.  All right, you’re here. You placed yourself in this room. Find your escape

I snap back to reality as Nick’s hands are trying to unfasten my bra. Nick moves swift and fast. Things Nicks good at: dancing, Bloody Mary bar, unfastening a bra. Just like the pre arranged booze bar, I get the inkling that Nick mapped out each play of this date. Dancing. Check. Hammock. Check. Portlandia. Check.  This guy’s got some serious game.

Meet over. While I’m in the sport for something longer than a quick dip, Nick is already on the last leg. He’s trying to snag the gold medal. And he’s surprised when that’s not my end goal too.

“I think I should be heading out,” flies out of my mouth with his next move. I think?! I know the only place I do not want to be is with Nick on this bed right now. I really did just want to catch up on Portlandia. He’s trying to convince me to stay. Not through words, but by massaging me deeper. As if he’ll work out my objections.

I make up some lame excuse I have some work to finish before the week starts. This gets the hands to stop moving. He mentions he probably should head to an Oscar party soon. Oh LA.

The eighth lesson I learned: Pack a life vest; an escape route always at the ready.

And so I leave. Knowing that I never want to see Nick again. Still searching for the perfect partner. One that is content with just floating down the river with me and and not race to the finish line. So, back in I go, pinching my nose as I dive back in. Armed with a pool noodle for support.

Months later I’m enjoying some mimosas on a sunny Sunday afternoon with 2 girlfriends, Julie and Lila. My friend Julie mentions she should call the new dude she’s been hooking up with that lives close by and points to the Silver Lake Reservoir. She’s joined the team to merely find guys to hook up with, zero commitment. Recently back in school there’s no time for something more. Julie might be the only woman I personally know that got into it for the pure enjoyment of the game. I admire her. Knowing and going after what she wants. We all have our reasons. Whether it is that life partner. An ego fix. Some good dick.

As her hand points towards the reservoir, my instincts flare up and questions fly from my mouth.

“Does he live at the light by the dog park?”

“YES”

“Does he go to Cal Arts?”

“YES”

“Does he drive a pickup?”

“YES”

It’s him. It’s Nick. I know it is.

“Is his name Nick?”

“YES”

World’s collide. Waves crash. It’s a hot tub pool party. Human soup.

I animatedly narrate my encounter with Julie. But she already knows about our date. Well, the dancing part. Guess he left out the parts that led up to rejection.

“OH, you’re the dance class date.” And goes on to say how he discussed how bad he felt for not reaching out again. Thank you Nick, thank you for not reaching out again.

Lila has been silent this entire time taking it all in. I’m thinking she’s in awe of the fact Julie and I have been on dates with the same man. Not the case. Lila pipes up.

“I went on a date with Nick too.” What? How does this happen? How do three LA ladies that are intertwined as friends go one date with the same dude? I always say that in big cities worlds are so small, but, damn. This is too small.

Lila details her date. It’s the date Nick told me about. His first date. Sitting here. Sipping champagne and supermarket orange juice we realize we are dates one, two, and three. DAMN! Nick has good taste in women to say the least. Cheers to you my friend. The ladies and I have a good laugh over it. And Julie’s probably happy it never went past a quick rub down. Happy that my parts didn’t touch his parts that now currently touch her parts. Julie will continue to sleep with him. For Lila and I, we both know that what we set out for in this online sea,  Nick didn’t sign up with. All is well in the world.

And I realize, you believe you’re setting out to sea, but in all actuality, you’re just a big fish in a small pond in this game of dating. Continuously bumping into each other trying to get a bite. And back to the murky waters I go, waiting to see who will reel me in this time.

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