LOVE ONLINE: ROSEMARY MAC CABEwent online in search of love, and found Séamus Foley, pictured with her in Paris last week
WINTER IS NOT the best time for dating. Not for us the sun-soaked beer gardens of rare sunny May afternoons, nor picnics in the park. But one doesn’t want too much daylight; photographs posted online are carefully selected – dim lighting, a slight smile, and not too much tooth. In real life, one doesn’t have the advantage of careful editing, and so dusk becomes the ideal jumping-off point.
There is a reason people online date; there are often several reasons. Well-adjusted youths with the gift of the gab and self-confidence will rarely be found at the urls in question, as they are happy to booze and schmooze in what web-lovers term “the real world”.
For my part, I was there because I wanted to “date”. Endless nights spent avoiding being groped in Whelan’s had taught me that Ireland’s dating scene leaves a lot to be desired (namely that elusive launch pad: conversation).
So I went online, much to the confusion of friends and family, who had me down as the independent type, and now saw me for what I really was: a relationship-seeking lonely heart. Admitting to loved ones that you are online dating will, by the way, result in scores of set-up offers, not to mention heartfelt advice. “Just be yourself” is a favourite, followed by “you don’t smile enough”.
A word of warning: online dating is time-consuming. It can occupy your every free hour, checking who has viewed your profile and whether you have received any urgent messages. By its very nature, online dating is instant gratification, so time is of the essence – wait too long and your prospective date will have been snapped up.
The guides say to be specific about your likes and dislikes, so: I like a GSOH (good sense of humour), interest in current affairs and film. I dislike bad grammar, rugby fanatics and men with an unhealthy interest in fashion – the latter after I met a young fellow who texted me to say he’d done some “serious damage” in Brown Thomas.
As far as real-world action is concerned, I meet three people during my online dating career. Number one is (how typical) a journalist, with a provincial newspaper. We meet for drinks in a Dublin pub. I arrive 10 minutes late, nervous. What if I don’t live up to my witty profile? What if he is a balding, overweight investment banker in his late 50s? Thankfully, there is little to complain about – he says I am prettier than my photograph, is not unattractive himself, and buys me a pint. So far, so good.
We have a nice time, but something soon becomes clear: after 30-odd emails, we know an awful lot about one another, but remain virtual (no pun intended) strangers. Sarcastic jokes misfire; our senses of humour are at a disconnect, which could be hazardous. We say goodnight and stay in touch, sporadically, but don’t go on another date.
Number two is a copywriter (I begin to wonder if media folk are the only ones who won’t judge me for spelling fascism) from Cork. We go to a play, leading nicely on to the next life lesson: theatre – and, one assumes, cinema – is a bad choice. No talking, you must sit uncomfortably close to one another, and, unless you’re sure of your subject-matter, you could end up sitting through two hours of bleak, romance-killing depression.
Afterwards, we sit outside a cafe drinking coffee. It’s not quite a Parisian film, but conversation is pleasant and he is nothing if not amiable. We bid adieu at midnight and, over the coming weeks, keep in touch, planning a date that never happens, due to number three.
He is the one person I actively pursue. He is 11 years older than me, and the age difference is an issue for him. I don’t care. We trade Anchorman quotes and reminisce about the golden age of cinema (the 1990s) and, crucially, he knows exactly where to put his apostrophes. When we finally meet in “the real world”, it is in Dublin (he is from Roscommon) for a Saturday-night date, and I bully him into meeting on the Sunday afternoon to watch the rugby (dislikes be damned).
The match goes by in a blur of attempts to understand the rules (me) and rapt concentration (him), before we go for kebabs, for more drinks, then to a pub where hordes of young ones humiliate themselves at karaoke. We part ways at 2am; he texts the next day and we arrange to meet again, and again, until, one year later, we’ve all but forgotten what each other’s online profiles looked like.
Meeting someone online means everyone feels free to comment on your “choice”, as if online dating is like shopping, where you select the exact size, colour and fit. My mother is fond of lamenting number three’s age, as if I could have found a carbon copy, but 10 years younger: “I just don’t know why you picked him out, and not a younger one.” But they have a shared love of country chat, and himself and the da get on well; he’s an engineer, you see, which proves that, creepily, no matter what search terms you use, we’re all doomed to end up with our fathers.
