Truth in Advertising

Looking for love on a free dating website is like shopping at Buffalo Exchange for a Vera Wang gown.

"I can't see likes" is in a lot of self-summaries. Translation: I check out a guy and click "Like" (a golden star) but he can't see it unless he's an "A-lister" - paying member. I won't know the handles of the guys who've given me the gold star unless I pay $10 a month. If I want the advanced filter feature to "search by attractiveness, body type, and more!" it's $14.95. For $240 a year I can "find the best messages from the right people - filter by length, specific words, and attractiveness."

I admire a man who admits straight up he's not paying for this crap.

Another recurring theme amounts to truth in advertising. There's a lot of "your profile pic should match you now... not ten years ago" and "If you weight 300 pounds, please don't describe yourself as 'average.'"

Do these things really need to be said?

I don't believe in soulmates. I've had too many Mr. Rights turn out to be Mr. Right Nows. But I try to believe there is someone for everyone, so yeah, put up a current picture (not a close-up of your adorable dog) and admit it if you're packing a little extra.

Then there's the come-ons.

Message from 84% Match: "If you held up 11 roses into a mirror, you'd be looking at 12 of the most beautiful things in the world." Two days later: "Your eyes are so lovely I just keep getting lost." I exercised great restraint by not responding, "When you look in the mirror, do you see an aging Ryan Gosling? Time to lay off the romcoms. "

Here are a couple more.

97% match: "Hey! So what are we going to tell our friends about how we met?"

72% match (plus "Christian - and it's important to me"): "Hi. What a smile yougot.how are u?"

Of course I want to be found beautiful, but I am so much more than my orthodontist's handiwork.

On the rare occasion someone gets past my virtual wall of scorn, I show up in person with a magnifying glass. I agreed to meet the chef even though he called me Sweetie and he wore grown-up clothes and close-toed shoes. But there was this gold chain I couldn't stop staring at. It was a skinny chain, nothing blingy, it didn't scream Sopranos, yet I fixated on it.

The first time I go to a stranger's house, I text his address and alleged full name to a friend. The friend understands that if I am not heard from in two hours, CALL THE POLICE. While it's unlikely I'll be roofied and locked in a dungeon, I've read one too many Michael Connelly novels and prefer my remains be found sooner rather than skeletal.

I agreed to go to Sweetie's house so he could cook me dinner. ("Professional Chef" blinded me to the jewelry.) He answered the door barefoot. Ankle tattoos and Entertainment Tonight blasting simultaneously from two televisions. The gold chain dangling daintily. There is nothing wrong with this man but his cologne reeks of Loneliness, which makes me sad and uncomfortable, so I pick at flaws like lint on a sweater. The food was fine. The conversation stilted. He never turned off the TVs.

I want to be the kind of woman who says, "Look, this is clearly never going to happen. I'm going home now." Instead of being the kind of woman who says, "Thanks, that was great!" while stumbling awkwardly out the door dodging an attempted good-night kiss.

Then sending a text I should've had the nerve to say in person.