I Don't Feel the Chemistry's There

The bar and grill where we meet was once part of an old cigarette factory. American Tobacco “Campus” strikes me as a really odd name for a place once teeming with blue collar workers. Smoking is outlawed here-- although the sweet smell of fresh tobacco still lingers in the air molecules. The taproom, with its high ceilings and exposed brick, features craft and import beers. Sitting across the high wooden table from me is Phil Goldman, my date from Match.com.

He places his hand over his stein of Belgian beer, then lifts it, gesturing as he talks. I look at his small, slender thumbs and recall what my friend Joyce told me, that an average man's penis is twice the size of his thumb. Of course, size doesn't matter. No, not at all—I tell myself. But I guess I should pay attention to what he's saying, instead of speculating about the tininess of his organ.

Phil is talking about his recent trip to Germany, and how he wasn't brave enough to go anywhere by himself—without the friend that he was visiting. His friend worked a lot, so he didn't see very much of Germany other than the small business district within walking distance of his friend's apartment. He says he'd walk down the street and take pictures, but he didn't want to hop a bus or train by himself. Right away I know we're not on the same wavelength, since I love adventurous solo travel. I visited a friend in Germany myself a few years ago, and I delighted in riding trains and trolleys, climbing old castle walls and ambling along rivers while my friend was at work. But I shouldn't rule Phil out because of that. Come on, be open minded, I tell myself.

Phil may not be an adventurous traveler, and he may be only 5'4,” but he has a PHD and a decent job and he is local. He's a Nice Jewish Boy. These qualities make him “appropriate” for me---unlike “Honey I'm Home!”. That's the moniker of the man who emailed me last night saying he thought my profile was “very well written”. He is “stocky” and lives in Western Pennsylvania and listed his occupation as “Celtic Grail Quest”.

But I really should be paying attention. Phil is telling me that he went back to school in his early 40's to get his his PHD, and that that transformed his life. He still works for the Environmental Protection Agency, which is where he's always worked. He worked there for a dozen years before getting his PHD-- but then he was a lowly “technician”. Now he is a “controller”. This means he supervises a few people and earns more money. He says he's not exactly a “bigwig”, but is still quite pleased with his situation. He makes what he calls “a decent amount of money”. He talks about where he stands in relation to others—at work,financially, on his softball team. I get the feeling that he has classic short man's syndrome, that he is sizing up every situation to see if he passes muster.

Phil lives in North Raleigh in a house that he designed and built himself. It includes a large darkroom in the basement. He's into photography—real shutter photography—and he has his photos displayed in a local gallery, owned by a friend. He says he just does it for fun. He really doesn't care if he ever sells anything, and he doesn't understand why anyone would waste time promoting their art. “What if you are trying to make a living at it?” I ask. He snickers and tells me he feels sorry for anyone who does.

I guess he doesn't really get that I'm trying to make a living as an artist myself. A piano teacher, really—but very much needing to promote my work. But I don't discuss my financial situation with Phil. I don't want him to think I'm a gold digger. In all honesty, I'm not really looking for a sugar daddy, although I confess I would like to find someone to help me pay the bills. That's not so unreasonable, is it? I gather from his conversation that pretty much everyone Phil associates with drives a late model car, has a well paying job with health benefits, and enjoys fine dining on a regular basis.

I tell him a little about my life-- about my piano students and being a church musician, about learning Tai Chi, about my little mill house, about walking to Weaver Street Market. He responds that that all sounds “very Hillsborough”--by which he means Bohemian—which is unlike his North Raleigh lifestyle. He is interested in the old, abandoned cotton mill in Hillsborough and says he wants to photograph it before they turn it into condominiums.

The waitress arrives, bringing his gourmet burger, and my “pub salad”, asking if we'd like more beer. He says yes, but I decline, since I'm not sure who is paying. The beers are $4.50 each. I look across the table at him as he pecks at his burger, puts it down, and dabs his upper lip with his cloth napkin. He says he eats out almost every night. I say I rarely go out to eat.

He is impressed that I've worked in public radio, so we're able to fill some conversation time with that. Then we touch briefly on relationship history. Phil has never been married, but he did live with a woman once—a pharmacist who worked for Glaxo. I skim over my failed marriage—and talk at great length about my son, who graduates high school this year, about how cool he is—an athlete and a scholar.

I excuse myself and head to the ladies room—mainly just to take a break from the rather forced and awkward conversation. The check comes while I'm gone (as I'd kind of hoped it would), but it's just sitting there untouched. I spot it as I walk back to the table. He seems to be collecting himself, sitting up taller, as if he's ready to get up any minute. I politely offer to pay for my salad and my beer. Regrettably, he accepts my offer. Then he asks if I'd like to do something again sometime. It would be rude to say no, so I say, “Sure.” Why not? I mean I could see going to a concert with him or something. But I can't in my wildest dreams imagine anything romantic developing. I am earth and he is air. If I put my arms around him, I would smother him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

I get home and there is an email waiting from “Honey, I'm Home”. Oh no! He has googled “Vivi801”, the “handle” I only use for internet dating sites. He has found a posting I made to an E-harmony advice site—which I went to in desperation about a year ago. The holidays last year were a real low point for me. That was right after Dave ended our six month relationship because he “wasn't feeling attracted anymore.” I had posed the question: “If lots of men click on 'I don't feel the chemistry's there' when they close a match with me, is that E-harmony speak for 'you're fat and ugly'?” My fellow lonely hearts had advised me to “Get a new photo. Fast.”

“Jeez”, I write to “Honey”, “I can't believe my insecurities are the first thing you've learned about me”. “Yeah”, he replies a couple of hours later, “I almost feel like I came over to meet you for the first time, you didn’t answer the door, so I invited myself in only to see you running out of the shower in your elegant birthday suit”. Now that's down right creepy, I tell myself. Yet I answer his email anyway.

As the week progresses, I don't think too much about Phil—but I continue my correspondence with “Honey, I'm Home!” He tells me his real name is John and he is currently collecting unemployment after being laid off from a dot.com warehouse. I wonder if the “Celtic Grail Quest” listed as his occupation in his profile refers to the job search. He is very absorbed in his hobby, which is going to yard sales and collecting old DVDs, CDs, jewelry and musical instruments.

I google John O'Leary. There are not a lot of references, and all is consistent with what he's told me about himself in his emails. He's participated in a discussion about taxi driver rate hikes, and I see that he worked as a cabbie in the DC area for about ten years. There's a forum where he's asking questions about the value of a particular model of Jaguar and the metal it was made out of. This would be consistent with what he told me about his interest in “precious metals”. Also, I find a reference to a dialogue about a prescription drug called Paxil—but I'm not able to access the actual conversation, just the website that sells the drugs. The website's ad for Paxil says it's for OCD—obsessive/compulsive disorder. Could it be that his habit of collecting yard sale “treasures” is not an innocent hobby, but a demented obsession?

We discuss contra dancing, which is one of the interests we have both listed in our “about me” column online. He says he needs to lose some weight so he can “get back into the swing of things”. I tell my friend Joyce that while I don't mind “stocky”, I don't think I can live with anyone with a weight problem so serious he can't dance. Just how bad is his weight problem? I wonder. His profile photos are only head shots. What if he's more than “stocky”? What if he's “obese”?

The weight issue coupled with the yard sale habit are making me feel queasy about John. Where does he store all those DVD's, CD's, musical instruments and toy pianos that he says he might sell on E-bay someday? I bet they take up a LOT of room. I am rather a minimalist myself. I don't buy anything I don't need or don't have room to store. It all sounds a bit overwhelming.

Politely, I write to him that I'm uncomfortable with a long-distance relationship because it puts too much pressure on a first meeting. I tell him I'm really looking for someone local (which is totally true, it's even in my profile) and that maybe I need to “take a break” from our correspondence for awhile. He writes back “Gee, I wasn't asking for your hand in marriage. Yet. (smiley face).” He says maybe he could travel down to meet me at LEAF (the Lake Eden Arts Festival) or a contra dance weekend in the spring. Something fun and lighthearted, low pressure. Then in closing he writes “Maybe I'll Be Home in the Spring”. Oh no, I cringe, This is moving too fast. I'm not ready for this. I am earth, he is water. If he comes down here in the spring, I will drown.

On a whim, I google Maybe I'll Be Home in the Spring because of how he wrote it out-- with first words capitalized, like a title. I find out it is the title of a made for TV movie. Then I discover that his online name--- Honey, I'm Home is the title of an old sitcom. Then I google a lot of the poetic turns of phrase in his profile that I have admired, and learn they were all lifted from song lyrics. “Quoting without attribution is cheating”, I always tell my teenage son when he is writing papers using online sources as references. That's it. That's the last straw. He's definitely not my soul mate. I'm not answering his emails anymore.

I play a game in my mind. I compare the men I've considered to different breeds of dogs. Choosing John O. would be like finding a large, old mutt at the pound-- that can't run anymore and is about to be put to sleep if you don't adopt it. This lonely, overweight man in Chambersburg Pennsylvania is truly all alone—even his parents are dead and he has no siblings—no children, no ex-wife, no career, no house. Choosing Phil, on the other hand—with his large house and his respectable job-- would be like getting a dog with a pedigree— a small one, possibly a Yorkshire Terrier. BTW, he still hasn't called me for that second date.

Maybe I'd feel more in my element, I think, if I let go of this man thing altogether and start searching for a good dog instead. I let my subscription to Match expire. I peruse pictures of pooches available for adoption. I browse breeds on line and consider their characteristics. I enter the animal shelter, regarding each furry face and wagging tail as I search for my new best friend.