Am I admitting this? Yes, I guess so. I've been married (using the term loosely) twice, have four grown kids and four grandchildren. Not a particularly lonely guy and certainly not a crusty bachelor of the type who gave up on women long ago. If, however, one were poised to give up on women, online dating sites might finish the job.
In two years of fishing around on such sites I may have found some answers to Freud's famous question, “What do women want?”
If one believes the info people put in their dating site profiles, half or more women “love to laugh.” They also love their families, and animals. Where I begin to wonder is at the professed passion for hiking, camping, fishing, horses, motorcycles (almost always Harleys), whitewater rafting, kayaking and golf. Some post pictures of themselves with guns. The cynic in me thinks they are often saying these things because they want to attract men who do such things. I really can't say how many men who look at these women might be hoping for a fishing buddy. That was surely not my intent.
Over the years I have asked a few female individuals, as a matter of research, “What do women want?”
Top 3 answers:
• Satisfaction.
• Help.
• To be desired, no matter what their age.
It was a surprise to see how many listed wine-tastings as a favorite activity. The explosion of vineyards and wineries, not only in California but Oregon, Washington and who-knows-where-else, indicates a wholesale increase in alcoholism. But wine “connoisseurs” get to pretend they're not merely drinking but participating and investing in a high-class social environment. Bukowski, by comparison and for the record, was an honest drinker.
So on my “senior” dating site profile I wrote “Not interested in sports, camping, or strenuous exercise. No horses, golf, camping, wine tastings or extra pounds, please, or anyone describing themselves with a long string of superlatives.” (It is never in one’s interest to give oneself a glowing review. Let’s face it, adjectives are cheap).
“Extra pounds” — a euphemism, if not for the ages, then at least for the current obesity epidemic. You might be surprised at the number of women who post pictures taken 50 or 100 pounds ago. I am chronically underweight, and no one’s Jack Sprat. This problem came to the fore with one woman I’d had an interesting and frank online conversation with. When we met face-to-face in a Portland coffee shop, she was clearly heavier than in her photos. After some espresso and small talk, she said “I’m self-conscious about my weight — and you’re too thin to have sex with.” Well, there it was. Size matters.
I have no advice for anyone messing with dating sites, except not to say things you think the opposite sex wants to hear. If they don’t like the truth in email, they won’t like it any better in person. Did I meet somebody compatible, worthwhile, unfazed by my cynicism and caveats this way? Well okay, yes I did, but only after two years of communication with church ladies, gold diggers, hustlers and hackers, determined husband hunters, lonely midwest grandmas with poodle hairdos, and so on. Just another phase of education in human nature. Including my own.
A Madman’s Defence (sic): August Strindberg
“Women: Can’t Live with ‘em, Can’t Live without ‘em” might be all that needs to be said about this 19th century account of Strindberg’s marriage, the events leading up to it, and his conviction that his wife was consistently, deliberately, working to drive him insane.
I first read of Strindberg in one of Henry Miller’s “Tropic” books — I think — pages about his favorite writers, those who influenced him. But I’d never run across anything by S. until I found this one in a free pile at Gate 5 in Sausalito.
The author starts out by saying “This is a terrible book,” and that he regrets having written it. One eventually sees why he said these things, but not because it’s a terrible book. It’s true that the reader gets no satisfaction at the end but that’s because neither does the author. As movie critics sometimes say of film characters, there is nothing to like about this writer, or his wife for that matter. But the writing is great. You are dragged along with him, in and out of dark insanity and bright romantic love. His greatest enemy, besides maybe his wife, is his own nature.
Strindberg, already by this time a published writer and playwright of some repute, makes much of his own propriety, his public and self-image and manly pride, which of course he believes the woman is out to destroy. He meets her as the “Baroness,” the wife of a low-grade military hack with the nominal title of baron. He becomes close friends with them and nature takes its course as the baron has an affair with ... let’s say, a less difficult woman.
Some people think too much and a lot of them write it down, but very few have done it this well. It might take a reader a little courage to admit that yes, I have thought and done such things too. No spoilers here on the ending.
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