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I find a picture of myself wearing teacher glasses and I write a tag line: Let’s Grow Together.A fourth glass of wine and I find the fortitude to post my ad: Seeking someone interested in literature, theatre, learning, personal growth, and commitment.With the flick of the enter button, this old school dater bursts into the twenty-first century and the prospect of cyber love. For days I desperately and feverishly log in and out of my online dating account hoping for a picture of a man holding a glass slipper that will slide perfectly onto my size 8 feet.Feminists don’t believe in frogs that turn into broad-shouldered men with a kiss or wealthy princes who ride white stallions into a woman’s life to save her from the drudgery of candidacy exams. I imagine staring into his ocean eyes as he effortlessly scoops me into his brawny arms, whisks me out of the library basement and off to a steak supper at a restaurant I can’t afford. Looking for love the old fashion way was easier when all I had to do was sit longingly by the telephone and hope the handsome man I met at my friend’s party would call.I would have stayed profoundly and passionately disappointed in myself had my inbox not filled with messages from potential and handsome suitors. I go on two or three dates a week and the university librarians wonder where I am.I am no longer the 12-year-old hoping to be noticed. I meet accountants and bald men, chiropractors with fat fingers, a chef with a glass eye, a farmer whose profile says he’s 6’ 3” who couldn’t possibly be over 5’ 2”.A nurse spends the entire date explaining that there isn’t anything feminine about a man being a nurse and then stands up in the middle of the pub to flex his biceps.

However, after three desperate and lonely months of online dating and the only attention my profile garners is from a married man who seeks a third for intimate encounters, I cave. I feel like a traitor who’s trying to look sexy at a Take Back the Night rally.They say it is about exposure to the width and breadth of dating prospects to which one wouldn’t normally be privileged.Being old school, I don’t see it and I don’t buy it.Praying for a message from a potential suitor feels pathetically like I’m 12 years old again and lined up along the back wall of the school gym hoping that a boy, any boy, will muster up the courage to ask me to dance. posts a shirtless picture of himself tickling his fingers through his bathroom mat-like chest hair. The Slick Lane says he’s: “Looking for a real woman.” What the fuck is a real woman? Igive Up On U must be an extraordinarily lonely guy.The only message I receive is from a twenty-one year old who outlines, in colourful detail, his librarian fantasies, sans white stallion. Newly Single’s profile: “Blah blah blah blah you won’t read this anyway ‘cause women only care about a man’s pay check.” Eek. I think about emailing him just to compare stories as I’m feeling online weariness myself.

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