Jating

Life in the big city got really dull really fast. The novelties of being in a new city surrounded by new friends wore off but good. Don’t get me wrong, I like Tel Aviv and I love my friends, but medical school—all that unbearably dense embryology and deathly boring histology—can make a girl a little stir crazy. Excitement has been replaced with lonliness and enthusiasm ousted by self-consciousness. My initial perspective, one dancing with wide-open spaces and endless possibilities, has quickly turned into one clouded by boredom and never-ending memorization.
So, what do I do when the tough gets going? Put on my highest heals, shave my legs, and whip out the push-up bra? Hell no. I retreat to my bed, watch crime shows, and complain about how useless I am. I become a hermit, limited to communication with only the few people I find the least irritating. These poor souls tell me I should get out more, beg me to try and stimulate the other aspects of my personality, the ones that don’t revolve around diabetes, broken arms, and Downs syndrome. I promise them that I will find my energy eventually, that I need to rediscover myself on my own terms. Yet, claiming that I must be the one to take control over my life did not stop me from complaining about how much I need to get sexy, get out, and get laid. It must have been seriously draining to be around someone who desperately wanted to be someone different, whined about how hard it is to transform oneself all on one’s own, but would not accept anyone’s help. They got fed up, dragged me out of bed, and forced me to do something I would never have done on my own. Good intentions, awkward consequences.
In order to yank me out of my slump, my friends forced me to step outside of my bubble and throw myself into a different world. It would be good for me, they argued, to hang out with people outside of my comfort zone. What they really meant was, it would be hilarious to watch Danielle squirm while we sent her on dates with people she has never met. They dragged me to the computer, forced me to take out my credit card, and signed me up for Jdate.
My feelings toward the website varied throughout the course of my short time on it. At first, I was completely against it. It made me uncomfortable to have creepy, foreign-looking men send me automated messages expressing the fact that we would have “beautiful looking Jewish children” or that he thinks that he and I would definitely “make memories” over coffee. I was like: who are these people that think it’s normal to speak to someone that way? Who thought of these pickup lines and why is it okay to use them? Why is it acceptable to call someone you have never met a sassy-looking redhead? Who cut that guys hair???
Every new message, poke, flirt, wink, instant message, made me cringe. I don’t know if it was mostly to do with the culture clash, the fact that all of these men were born and raised Israelis, who, as most of us have learned by now, sort of live by a different set of guy-girl interaction rules. What I do know is that, at first, the whole Jdate thing sort of made me want to become a Wiccan (no one asks witches why they aren’t married!!).
However, as time, and my subscription, progressed, all the attention became somewhat flattering. Jdate has features that allow you to see both how many and who has viewed your profile (if Facebook was like that I would be off of it so fast it would make Mark Zuckerberg’s head spin…obviously the beauty of Facebook is it’s, ironically, faceless stalking opportunities) and I was, by internet dating standards, a hit! I got like 5 messages a day begging me for dates. When in my life have I ever been asked out by 5 different guys in one day (with the exception of that weird night at Egon when I was 18)? It was all just so exciting, I even entertained the idea of actually going out with some of these people.
All it took was one date to show me that all of my excitement had been for naught. He wasn’t a bad guy. He was perfectly nice (except for the fact that I had to speak in Hebrew the whole time). He paid for my drink, walked me to the cab, hugged me goodnight. Nothing to really put in the diary. So, why, you might ask, did it turn me off completely? Well, I’ll tell you…it was a Jate. Calling upon the few, yet monumental, dates that I have gone on in my short dating life, this one just sort of felt…different. It was almost as though he and I were both trying to pretend like our time together had not begun with a flirty message created by some, undoubtedly single, 30-something year old reader of romance novels who worked for Jdate. The word “Jdate” was never uttered in the 3 hours we spent together, as if saying the word might out us as desperate. I never would have given this a guy a second thought if I had met him under different circumstances, and he and I both knew that, and yet, we forced ourselves to talk about nothing for 3 hours, if only to finish our drinks and not feel like we totally sucked at life. The whole thing just felt so forced, so synthetic, as if I was stomaching those 3 hours just to make myself feel better about wasting 30 bucks on a Jdate membership.
The messages never stopped flooding my inbox, but my enthusiasm quickly drained. I stopped responding to the would-be suiters, ignored the site entirely, pretty much resigning myself from it completely. What began as creepy come-ons that eventually turned into exciting prospects, became sleazy automated flirts once again. Don’t tell me that you think you and I could hit it off! What, among aaaallll of the oh-so-telling information on my profile (my height, my eye color, and my religious values) would make you think that we would get along, let alone make a darling couple?!? You don’t know me! I could be a glue addict or a lover of prepubescent boys or a Communist for all you know!
Is it so wrong to want dating, falling in love, and marriage (not necessarily in that order) to be organic? Is it a crime to think that I am above the people whose mothers created Jdate profiles for them? These people don’t appreciate what I have to offer. Again, we could attribute this to the culture clash, but no guy that I find on the internet is going to fall in love with the fact that I am a driven future doctor with passionate opinions, a dirty mouth, and big hair. Those are the kinds of people who are looking for mother-wives. People like me need to win people over. We need to make them laugh at the bride’s ugly dress at a wedding reception of mutual friends, we need to surprise them with our opinions on IUD’s as we are stuck in the corner of an overly crowded bar. I can’t impress you on a Jate because, just like you, I am too self-consciously aware of how this union came to be. I have accepted this.
My Jdate membership is now cancelled. When I called up the company to suspend my subscription, a friendly young man named Adam asked a whole bunch of questions about my account and my reasons for terminating it. I am sure that Adam was expecting one of the usual responses that most people give when asked this question—it just wasn’t for me. I am joining eharmony.com instead. I met the man of my dreams at a comic book convention. But, as I have so expressly pointed out, I am not your average Jater. Poor boy…when he asked me: “Ms. Platt, if you don’t mind my asking, why is it that you are choosing to end your membership with us here at Jdate?”, I quickly responded. “Well, Adam…I am becoming a Wiccan.” Told him!