I swore; I wasn’t going to do this.

Here’s the skinny. Years ago, the almost-daily emails exchanged between one of my closest friends and I was the inspiration for wanting to write the book I’ve neglected to finish. This close friend of mine was so impressively vehement in her search for her One, she was going on at least 3 and sometimes 5, 6 on-line dates per week. There would be a 15 minute coffee date here and an extended dinner date there. Not long before she had accumulated almost 60 dates, I couldn’t remember the names of the guys she was and was not interested in. Only the situations stood out.

“Is this the scary guy, where you walked in and out of the coffee shop when you saw him, or is this the other guy you know isn’t any good for you, but who you’re still totally attracted to and going on a second date with?” I’d ask. “No, no. This is the other guy who I wasn’t going to go out with at all, but now I’m going to give a chance to,” she’d say.

Back and forth our emails sailed, and born was the idea for a book that was originally going to be called Fe-mails, a title another very close and clever friend of mine came up with for a book that was supposed to be about two great friends who were serial on-line daters. But, over time, the book told me it wanted to be something more than just a compilation of emails about on-line dating adventures.

Once I relinquished control to the bigger story that seemed to want to prevail, and, as I amalgamated a main character who was born from the stories of my friends, from my own life’s tales, and from the experiences of the beautiful women I’ve met in my life over the last 30+ years (some of which came from two-minute grocery-store-checkout line encounters), it became my hope that the story I was telling would respectfully represent the bliss and grief of the estrogen experience as seen through the main character’s journey and desire for growth.

But, before the new story emerged, and before I could start backing my way into all of the emails I’d collected from my vigorously on-line dating friend, which I was still going to use in part, I needed some personal experiences of my own. Isn’t a writer is supposed to write what they know? Aren’t writers supposed to start from the truth before they can create fiction?

As an aside, that would explain why it’s sometimes emotionally difficult to write—to recount—my own non-fiction life. When I don’t get to twist the truth, to come up with a different outcome, it makes me feel a little twisted. I’d rather start with what I know and then end up with what I’m rearranging. That way, I’m simply telling a story as apposed to feeling harnessed by the truth.

I felt guilty that my primary goal for going on-line was to apprehend the reality of on-line dating. I’d be using unsuspecting men for the purpose of gaining insight. But, it was easy to console my guilty conscious. I knew whatever information I’d gathered that would end up on paper wouldn’t be their truth, or my truth, it would be what I took from the truth to tell a different story.

The truth is, I became so dedicated in my desire to develop a story that would speak to many women, that it became difficult for me to recognize the tales I’d used from my own life or from the life of others. Once the tales were absorbed into main character’s color, they came out with a different sets of circumstances and resulting emotions.

What I did continue to battle with was the idea that, during my field research, I might actually meet someone. I didn’t feel any differently then than I do Now. I didn’t think I would meet the One on line and didn’t particularly want to meet him that way. However, I was much more open to being wrong then than I am Now. Then, I was willing to explore every possibility.

Now, I’m questioning whether or not my intuition has gotten keener, and that’s why it feels even less like on-line dating will work for me, or if the inability to go against my gut isn’t what is really in play here.

F’eghh! Do you see what I’m battling? After a long-ass hiatus, I’m finally, finally, open to love again. Or, am I?

If I was truly open, then it shouldn’t matter how love comes to me, right? So why do I vehemently prefer love to find me regular style? I want a man to see me as I am, not as he imagines me to be from my on-line picture. I want to see a man as he is, and then trust the energy I’m getting from him. I want to get the flutter, feel my weird gut rudder thing, and then have that potential guide me to the next ping.

Put simply, my gut is useless to me when it comes to on-line dating. I can’t get a read on a guy from my computer, which means I’ll have to talk to him on the phone and that still isn’t going to give me the read I want. So then, I will have to meet him in person to see where my inner rudder guides me.

Do you know how much time that takes? That’s going to take at least 15 minutes on the phone. Approximately 45 minutes of getting ready for a date you are not even sure you want to go on. Then, depending on what kind of a date you set, you have to give up another 20-60 minutes, or more, before you can gracefully bow out and try the process all over with another guy.

That’s anywhere from an 1 ½ - 2 hours of time I’ve given up to figure out what takes me less than a minute if I’ve already met the guy. Does someone have a bad attitude?

Me! I do. Which is why I swore I wasn’t going to turn my blog into any version of a bitch spot for what ticks me off about on-line dating. But, I’m a habitual liar so I’ve got some bitching to do.

A handsome-as-hell French man sent me an email, which read: Let's meet. Call me (number inserted here.) Then, during the course of a mostly forced conversation, which was going like most conversations go that stem from an on-line connection, he asked, “When are you going to be in my neighborhood so we can meet?”

That’s when my but cheeks clenched up for the fifth time and I wanted to put a drill into my ear. Go, brain matter. Spill out, now. We’ve lost our battle. On-line dating will never make sense to us.

Really? Frenchie? You saw my zip code. You contacted me. Now I’m supposed to make the hour drive to get to you, the man, after one email and a 15 minute conversation? Ah, Frenchie. You’re blowing it. During our little chit chat (our what’s-your-story exchange), I’d already told you that I was old-fashioned. “I’ve always felt the man is supposed to at least make the effort for the first date,” I’d said. Yet, you came back with, “Okay, fine. We’ll meet in the middle.”

Be still, my heart. A good-looking Frenchman, who is probably used to getting women to jump through hoops, doesn’t appear to want me to be an exception. Why, oh why, is it that the internet makes men lazy. I’ve never in my life had a man that I’ve met regular style ask me to drive his way for a date.

What’s more disturbing is that the only time my ass cheeks have ever seized is during the various phone conversations I’ve had with prospective on-line dates. I’m an intensely comfortable social creature. This is not about talking to someone I’ve only just met. I’ll meet you’re grandmother in the cheese aisle and she’ll tell me about her bone-on-bone arthritis and the surgery she’s going to have next week. You’re brother, who just got out of jail and wants to live a drug free live now, he’s confiding in me, too. The cute guy at the bar, the one I’ve been talking to for a half of an hour and still don’t have any idea if he’s interested in me, he doesn’t make my ass pucker, either.

Sorry, Frenchie. Whatever percentage of me that was previously open to the just-in-case scenario while I was accumulating first-hand knowledge about on-online dating for my book is now an insanely minuscule percentage in comparison. My ability to budge sucks now, so you are going to have to come at my arsenal, my intuition, my cocooned resistance, and my age-found confidence, with something better than, “I was just kidding. Fine. I’ll drive your way if that’s what you really want.”

What am I missing here? Is this my age? Am I so set in my ways that I have worked my self into an unyielding corner? How is it possible that the girl who used to be a hopeless romantic would rather watch an episode of How I Met Your Mother than follow up on a possible ass-net lead?

Kill me now.

I no longer know if this is me being comfortable in my skin, me being arrogant in spite of whatever insecurities I have, or me being trepidatious because I’m going against my gut.

One last question: Is my confusion the privilege or the curse of getting older?