If I were to write my utterly true sentiment of the experience, I would risk sounding ungrateful, which is not the case; but I feel JDate exerted little effort matching N___ and myself. I kept a dating profile nearly eight years — long enough to pass from the time period when online dating was considered a badge of shame, until the time when popular consensus considered it a normal means of socializing.
By the time N___ and I met, the online dating experience embittered me — not to the point that I let that sentiment poison my attitude, but I could not validate N___‘s gratitude to JDate that we were so blessed to find one another. Yes, we were the beneficiaries of social media technology and JDate had some credit coming its way. However, I had to interface with scores, if not hundreds, of women, perhaps meeting a dozen or so in person — each disappointment giving me the sense I had drifted further and further from a relationship destiny I could only dream of.
I can’t speak for anyone else having to endure such a length of time to match fates. with another (hopefully) compatible soul, but having to wait that long began to feel punitive. I did not spend the eight years as a paid subscriber, but I cannot help but sense I was more valuable to JDate as a single man spinning my wheels, rather than gaining traction with another compatible relationship prospect.
This story is a tribute to the delightful young lady I met over 15 years ago. It may have been December 2007 when our JDate profiles crossed paths. N___ had been visiting her father in Sherman Oaks at the time, and she must have reset her profile domicile from Germany where she had been living, to the Los Angeles region.
N___s profile picture stood out for its flouting of portrait conventions. Somehow she appeared suspended in mid air with her head and gaze turn aside, her shoulder length hair was auburn colored. Additional pictures posted on Nadi‘s profile were samples of her figure drawings — white chalk on black paper. The images were representational, but conveyed a style I associated in my mind with Expressionism, one of my favorite visual arts genres.
I can’t recall much of what she wrote in profile prose, but nothing I can remember. provoked my annoyance or concern. I sent her a short message, probably expressing my admiration for her art, hoping that gesture would suffice to compel her curiosity. We chatted over JDate’s instant message tool, then an additional handful of times before the momentum of our conversation led to a phone call; then a date in person.
Our date took place on a Sunday evening in January 2008 at a well-known franchise called Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, which was owned by a religious family that operated all locations as kosher cafés. I chose a Coffee Bean in Studio City, not far from her father’s residence in Sherman Oaks.
I thought better of presenting N___ with flowers, rather, I purchased a volume of Rainer Maria Rilke‘s poems, featuring the original German texts and their translations to English. I really wanted to distinguish myself as a suitor for its own sake. She arrived at the time of our scheduled encounter and it didn’t take long for us to recognize each other.
N___ had changed her hair back to its original color, sandy blonde. Along with prominent blue eyes, Nadi’s smile beamed with heart-revealing intensity. We ordered beverages and sat down to converse. No gesture or moment of awkward or straining force ever intervened the entire length of our chat; it felt like the most natural impulse without pretense or posture. I presented N__ with the Rilke poems, and I recall seeing a genuine appreciation from her for the gift.
At a certain point in the evening, N__ excused herself to use the restroom. (Much later on N___ related to me that while in the restroom, she encountered her glowing countenance in the mirror; so much she had enjoyed our date.) It was during our first date when N___ informed me that she was a single mom to an 11-month-old daughter — the father, no longer presiding within their story. I had dated single moms, so having a daughter didn’t ‘frighten’ me. My own mother was a single mom by the time she had met my father. I grew up in a blended family, so the notion had never prevented me from dating or socializing with single mothers.
The outing drew to a close and I drove N___ back to her father’s home. I walked her to the front gate and leaned in for a good-night kiss, and she gladly requited. (Years later she recalled her amusement as I entered her personal space, my eyes close and lips pursed — like an innocent boy).
That very evening I would have sworn there was a sufficient level of attraction and mutual interest to justify planning a second date, however, it was not meant to be. The next time I called N___ she did demurred on the possibility of a second outing. She had interviewed and been hired by USC’s library IT team. Accepting the job meant relocating her life and belongings from Germany to Sherman Oaks. N___ couldn’t fathom having time to devote to a serious relationship.
I’ll admit I endured a disappointment that bordered on heartbreak. Here, I had met such a quality young lady I was attracted to: intelligent, thoughtful and creative. Once again love would be denied me. I respected N___‘s wishes and refrained from contacting her. It so happened I had a good friend who lived in the area, whom I would visit. On occasion I drove by the street where her father lived, and recalled, sadly, the enchanting girl who got away.
Previously Published on Medium
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