Every time I consider blogging about something not related to my dating life, something else ridiculous happens that deserves acknowledgement.
I think I've officially been catfished.
Someone who sounded too good to be true (cute, in the entertainment industry but actually successful, supposedly owning a house in the Hollywood Hills and able to attend a gym with a monthly fee that makes me nauseous to even think about); or at least too good to be on Tinder. Especially on Tinder in search of a serious relationship.
[Now I know you're thinking to yourself, dear readers, that some of those same things could be said about me...]
I was understandably dubious, but marginally pretending to believe in most of those things. Maybe he was short? Or perhaps there was some other social deficiency that would reveal itself eventually and I, of all the people in Los Angeles, would find incredibly endearing? Or maybe he was so fresh on the market he hadn't had a chance to bump into into a leggy modelista at a coffee shop yet?
Warning sign #1 was when he wanted to talk on the phone before meeting.
A. I hate talking on the telephone. I cannot fully explain why telephone conversations give me such anxiety, but it probably stems from being tasked with placing the Pizza Hut order when I was a child and not feeling fully prepared to answer the rapid-fired interrogation. What size??? What crust??? And this baseline fear was compounded with the similar feeling of inadequacy when forced to call consults as a medical student - a situation where I knew I was going to (and I did) sound like an uninformed idiot to attending cardiologists or nephrologists, invoking their uncontrollable rage. So I still hate it. I pace. I circle. I hate the feeling of the phone on my cheeks. I cannot focus on listening to the conversation and instead browse the internet until I realize my mind has been wandering and I have no idea what was just said.
B. I especially hate talking to dudes on the telephone. My mom used to embarrass me for deigning to receive a phone call from the opposite sex, hollering my name at the top of her lungs [whether I was upstairs or standing right next to her] in a bewilderingly mocking tone "REBECCA........a BOY is CALLING". As if it was not only an unusual occurrence and the gentleman on the other end of the line should really reconsider his notions of me, but also that it was something to be ashamed of. [Like having breasts or showing your figure with clothes that actually fit.] I was beyond beet red by the time I would get to the phone. And, in the era before widespread cordless phones, was hopelessly tied to the wall and forced to carry on a very public conversation in our kitchen, open to continued teasing. The thought of someone listening to my conversation was unbearable. So when a certain unnamed teenage boy took advantage of that fear and secretly recorded one of our conversations with his friends, all trust in telephonic security was lost.
Warning sign #2 was the conversation itself.
A. He obviously was trying to be deep when attempting to ask thought-provoking questions instead of the usual small talk or deal-breaker checklists. Unfortunately his only go-to question was "tell me what you're thinking right now" in a voice bordering on psychoanalyst. Once would have been ok, if my mind hadn't already wandered to checking Facebook. But over and over at various points in the conversation made things more uncomfortable than a job interview where the dick interviewer just keeps asking if you have any more questions and you have to keep digging deep for non-superficial questions in order not to look like an oblivious asshole.
B. He kept saying all the things that he probably thought a girl would want to hear. Like that he wasn't looking for a hookup, and that he made a better boyfriend than a date. Hold your horses there, guy. Even I have to be able to survive a first date before I can get attached to anyone. What he didn't know is that I disdain flattery from strangers. I am immediately suspicious of someone who wants to tell me how hot I am. I may be able to admit to myself that I'm at least symmetric, and not entirely obese. On good days I will give myself "cute". But I'm never going to be the hot girl. Not in this town. Not with my lack of giving a fuck about flashy clothes. And I don't want to get into an argument about it.
Warning sign #3 was that he didn't want to meet.
Every time I suggested it, he dodged it. And the final blow came when I said I didn't have time for another extended telephone conversation (with someone who was already starting to talk with terms of unearned familiarity) but would be willing to arrange a meetup soon. His paraphrased response [via passive aggressive text message after saying talk to you later on the phone] was that we would never talk again and he had already unmatched me. In dramatic lower case pouty face sentences.
So this means he probably wasn't who he said he was, right? At the very least didn't look like his photos. But more likely nothing he had said was true and he has some horrible fetish or sex dungeon that I have narrowly escaped by being a normal person.
Constant vigilance, people. Thank god for gut feelings.
I think I've officially been catfished.
Someone who sounded too good to be true (cute, in the entertainment industry but actually successful, supposedly owning a house in the Hollywood Hills and able to attend a gym with a monthly fee that makes me nauseous to even think about); or at least too good to be on Tinder. Especially on Tinder in search of a serious relationship.
[Now I know you're thinking to yourself, dear readers, that some of those same things could be said about me...]
I was understandably dubious, but marginally pretending to believe in most of those things. Maybe he was short? Or perhaps there was some other social deficiency that would reveal itself eventually and I, of all the people in Los Angeles, would find incredibly endearing? Or maybe he was so fresh on the market he hadn't had a chance to bump into into a leggy modelista at a coffee shop yet?
Warning sign #1 was when he wanted to talk on the phone before meeting.
A. I hate talking on the telephone. I cannot fully explain why telephone conversations give me such anxiety, but it probably stems from being tasked with placing the Pizza Hut order when I was a child and not feeling fully prepared to answer the rapid-fired interrogation. What size??? What crust??? And this baseline fear was compounded with the similar feeling of inadequacy when forced to call consults as a medical student - a situation where I knew I was going to (and I did) sound like an uninformed idiot to attending cardiologists or nephrologists, invoking their uncontrollable rage. So I still hate it. I pace. I circle. I hate the feeling of the phone on my cheeks. I cannot focus on listening to the conversation and instead browse the internet until I realize my mind has been wandering and I have no idea what was just said.
B. I especially hate talking to dudes on the telephone. My mom used to embarrass me for deigning to receive a phone call from the opposite sex, hollering my name at the top of her lungs [whether I was upstairs or standing right next to her] in a bewilderingly mocking tone "REBECCA........a BOY is CALLING". As if it was not only an unusual occurrence and the gentleman on the other end of the line should really reconsider his notions of me, but also that it was something to be ashamed of. [Like having breasts or showing your figure with clothes that actually fit.] I was beyond beet red by the time I would get to the phone. And, in the era before widespread cordless phones, was hopelessly tied to the wall and forced to carry on a very public conversation in our kitchen, open to continued teasing. The thought of someone listening to my conversation was unbearable. So when a certain unnamed teenage boy took advantage of that fear and secretly recorded one of our conversations with his friends, all trust in telephonic security was lost.
Warning sign #2 was the conversation itself.
A. He obviously was trying to be deep when attempting to ask thought-provoking questions instead of the usual small talk or deal-breaker checklists. Unfortunately his only go-to question was "tell me what you're thinking right now" in a voice bordering on psychoanalyst. Once would have been ok, if my mind hadn't already wandered to checking Facebook. But over and over at various points in the conversation made things more uncomfortable than a job interview where the dick interviewer just keeps asking if you have any more questions and you have to keep digging deep for non-superficial questions in order not to look like an oblivious asshole.
B. He kept saying all the things that he probably thought a girl would want to hear. Like that he wasn't looking for a hookup, and that he made a better boyfriend than a date. Hold your horses there, guy. Even I have to be able to survive a first date before I can get attached to anyone. What he didn't know is that I disdain flattery from strangers. I am immediately suspicious of someone who wants to tell me how hot I am. I may be able to admit to myself that I'm at least symmetric, and not entirely obese. On good days I will give myself "cute". But I'm never going to be the hot girl. Not in this town. Not with my lack of giving a fuck about flashy clothes. And I don't want to get into an argument about it.
Warning sign #3 was that he didn't want to meet.
Every time I suggested it, he dodged it. And the final blow came when I said I didn't have time for another extended telephone conversation (with someone who was already starting to talk with terms of unearned familiarity) but would be willing to arrange a meetup soon. His paraphrased response [via passive aggressive text message after saying talk to you later on the phone] was that we would never talk again and he had already unmatched me. In dramatic lower case pouty face sentences.
So this means he probably wasn't who he said he was, right? At the very least didn't look like his photos. But more likely nothing he had said was true and he has some horrible fetish or sex dungeon that I have narrowly escaped by being a normal person.
Constant vigilance, people. Thank god for gut feelings.
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