Ladies and Gentleman the search for the perfect man is hard work.  I am telling you, all you married peeps… you’ve forgotten how hard this shit is.  Some of its great, meet the guy, get all nervous… is he going to ask for my number…. and then the various forms of rejection.  And it’s awesome now … they can stop texting, stop calling, unfriend you on facebook., close communication with you on eharmony, not reply to your wink on match.. 900 forms of technology to aid in my rejection.

But sometimes, it’s just plain funny.  One rainy July 4 weekend in Galveston, while we were all trapped inside a house on the beach – I joined match. com… the boys played cards in the living room and the girls created an online marketing plan for Brand Sherry in the kitchen.  For awhile it was great, I called it shopping for a husband.  And with that came the desire to join eharmony.  And this is where it gets funny.  Maybe pathetic but I like to think of it as hysterical.  Because frankly, even now, years later… the situation I found myself in was funny.

I used to absolutely hate the first date.  Dreaded it.  So much effort.  But then my friend Marla shared with me an incredible bit of wisdom, she said, “What have you got to lose? If its good, then you met someone and if it sucks, then you’ve got a new funny story to tell everyone.”

(insert law and order bong bong noise here)

This is that story.

On eharmony, you complete a personality profile and the online system uses that information and matches you to people.  According to the commercial, on 27 levels of compatability.  If you like what you see or vice versa, then you email each other.  One such match apparently found me appealing (which is nice). He emails. I email back.  Witty banter ensues.  He gets my number.  He calls.  Witty banter ensues. 

“Let’s meet for drinks.”

Meanwhile, I’ve reviewed his profile about a 100 times trying to find out what could be wrong, analyzing pictures, and reviewed in detail all his information with my best girl friends.  The only thing that really puzzled us was his occupation.  Entrepreneur.   I wondered… does this really mean unemployed?  However, since each time we talked and I said “how was your day?” he answered with the number of holes he played and which courses… Holly’s suggestion of trust fund baby was starting to seem more realistic than unemployed.

So the first date… goes well.  Seems nice enough, good laughs, good time.  But through the whole thing is the nagging question, what the hell does he do? 

He pays the bill with a hundred dollar bill.  Pimp?

He drives a Tahoe with two sets of clubs in the back.  Golf pro?

He drinks Scotch.  Trust Fund Baby?

And then I just couldn’t take it anymore.  I had to know.  So I asked.  “What the hell do you do?” 

He hesitates, and then clearly he decides to trust me.  “I keep a book.”

I am so confused – he’s a librabrian? And then I get it.  He is a fucking bookie.  He takes bets.  E-mother f-ing harmony thinks my perfect match… based on 27 levels of compatability… is a bookie.  How bad had I screwed up the personality profile?  What exactly makes me the match for a bookie?  For someone whose occupation is ILLEGAL?  How could I introduce him to my friends?  And what if they started betting with him and then owed him money? 

I would love to tell you that I got up and walked out.  That I summoned all the righteous indignation that I could find, drove home and changed my answers on that personality profile.  I would love to tell you that I didn’t make out with him.  But I did.

What did you expect?  A man isn’t defined by his occupation.  This was a Tahoe driving, 36 holes a day, cash carrying, Scotch drinking, living breathing man and he was a smoker.  He was perfect.  Perfect for that moment.  Perfect for that night.