My two friends who met online are getting married in June. When they deleted their profiles it was because they found their one in one another. Others are not so lucky. The stories are all different but they all led to a decision to delete and sign off from digital dating for the same reason. It just didn't work out. After a full on effort for at least a year or more the outcomes were showing a negative ROI. The smarter option is to cease and desist all experiences that reflect the law of diminishing returns. I've signed off forever.
The last man I met was last one. No, he wasn't the one. Just the last man I'll ever open my heart too. No, he didn't do anything. That's why. Maybe it's a symptom of Old Maid's disease. If so, so be it. Whatever the reason it doesn't matter. Neither do the facts and details of the story. In fact, the story is peripheral. Rather, the feelings determined my decision. Emotions are not logical. So it doesn't make sense. Emotions are real and I alone bear responsibility for feeling them.
The natural reaction I had to the last man was a surprise because they are not emotions common for me. That's my problem too. Not his. He made me feel this way: (1) safe as apart to my natural hypervigilance, (2) protected as opposed to my heightened senses 24/7, (3) inspired to tell him the truth and nothing but the truth without a sense of being forced, (4) comfortable rather than guarded, and (5) a feeling that a potential kindred spirit could evolve.
The bigger surprise was that it was him who evoked all this. Why? He didn't fit the profile of the kind of man whom I always thought would. Instead of the international Old World type who spoke at least two languages and had lived in many countries before the age of 18, he was a polar opposite. Instead of a cosmopolitan European man from London or Zurich raised in an old traditional culture, he was a native son Coto de Caza in Southern California. Unlike the tennis player I had envisioned he was more Judo than racket sports. I did wonder if Colin Farrell's twin picked the French Cafe to meet because he knew of my teenage rendez-vous avec le lange et culturelle francais? (Translation: fascination with French language and culture)
Appearance wise I had the very British James Purefoy from Maybe Baby in mind not a mixture of the All-American Jackson Hurst from Drop Dead Diva mixed with a 30-something version of Revenge's Josh Bowman with an American accent. The funny thing with emotions is that they defy logic and reality.
Long story short, I met and spent time with others who did match the description of the man I had expected. I met all the ones who fit the template. Somehow the sentiment didn't happen with them. It was supposed to. At least on an intellectual level the ones I met after Coto de Caza man should have sparked. Not.