International Internet Dating: Poop, Pajamas and Paris

It was about 5 years ago. I was sitting in my apartment, writing in the dark, chain-smoking and getting drunk. I wasn’t lonely, but I was. I had recently been dumped. Part of me was pissed. Part of me didn’t give a shit. Another part of me wanted to be alone. Another part of me didn’t.

I briefly tried dating. I sucked at it. I wasn’t into it. Asshole that I am, I sometimes didn’t even show up for a date.

Those online personal ads and dating sites kind of freaked me out. Sifting through people from the intoxicated comfort of my own home was somewhat appealing. I didn’t have to sober up or bother with changing out of my dirty pajamas with the food stains running down the front.

The problem was – I don’t know if you’ve noticed – but there’s a lot of goddamn freaks on those sites. Sure, you might meet a normal one, but for every regular person you encounter, you will likely receive 5-10 messages from a predator, a perv, an idiot, or someone who is plain fucking desperate.

I said “fuck this.” However, there was one place that still appealed to me: the personals section of The Onion. Most people on there were actually pretty cool and quite normal (by my standards). There was another bonus: these personals were international. It didn’t take long for me to limit my contact with people to only those who resided outside of the U.S. I mean, I didn’t want to have to go on an actual date.

I’m not as clever as I often like to think I am. It didn’t take long for that plan to bite me in the ass, because I encountered, via The Onion, this guy in Paris, France:

Obviously, I was taken in by the hat… and the knee. Did you happen to notice the knee? It is a very fine knee.

It turned out that he was spending a lot of time getting drunk and chain smoking, too. He even wore pajamas with food stains running down the front. For the next 8 months, the two of us were in constant contact. We sent emails almost every day. There were phone calls… there were even letters. Yes, on paper with stamps. Fucking stamps!

Inside jokes were created. Ridiculous stories were made up together.

As much as I hate dating, I eventually went on the ultimate blind date. I flew to Paris. Alone.

Olivier said that he would pick me up at the airport. When I arrived, he wasn’t there. I had a “Plan B,” so I didn’t shit myself. Freaking out turned out to be unnecessary – he showed up a few minutes later, frantic. Some sort of typical Parisian delay – a bus or train rerouted. Again. His hair was a crazy mess, the result of rushing through the city in a panic. Flowers in hand, his eyes distraught, searching the crowd for me. Searching so hard that he looked right over the top of my head two or three times. I enjoyed watching this for A few moments before finally chasing him down.

Obviously, once he saw me in person, there was no way for him to resist my sex appeal.

I was glad that I sobered up and wore clean clothes for a change.

Later that day, he made his move. He kissed me. Our teeth smacked together. The sound of them whacking together filled both of our heads. Olivier jumped up and shouted, “You broke my tooth!”

Okay… so it wasn’t like in the movies. It was far better, as you can plainly see.

We spent the next 2 weeks together before I had to return to Colorado. He came to see me in the states a few months later, but by then we were well into putting a plan together for him to move to states. Toward the end of his 3 week adventure in Colorado, we made a U-turn and decided that I would be the one to move instead of him.

So, I grabbed my trusty feline sidekick and headed back to Paris.

We got married in Montmartre a few months later. It didn’t seem like that big of a deal. The reality of what I was doing didn’t really set in until the night before the wedding. When I was getting my girly-like wedding ensemble together that night, it suddenly smacked me in the brain.

My American friends that had come to Paris for the wedding laughed in my face when I turned to them and said, “Holy fuck! I’m getting fucking married!” I would have laughed, too. I was ridiculous.

I didn’t experience the nervous, rapid-fire pooping that normally accompanies my anxiety. I knew that in spite of my freaking out, the absence of bowel spasms was a good thing. I even made it through the actual wedding day without any violent poo.

However, I damn near lost an eye to a fucking rice assault.

Here’s a tip: when throwing crap around at a wedding, toss it up in the air as opposed to hurling at the bride and groom’s faces.

The good news is, we survived it. All of it. The drunken chain-smoking, the dirty pajamas, and re-routed public transportation. The long-distance relationship, the broken teeth and rice assault. A hundred more things that are stories for another day.

As far as today… today is our 3rd wedding anniversary. Of course, we’re going out tonight to celebrate. Luckily, Olivier isn’t horribly ill and plagued with phlegm like he was last year. Yeah, we’ve survived a few disgusting battles with snot, too.

So, to all of those people who say that long-distance relationships can’t work: sometimes they do, so shut the hell up.

Online dating sites, for the most part, can suck it. Dating can suck it, too, along with clean pajamas.