explained all those participation ribbons for field day. The truth was, I’d never been very outdoorsy or sporty. I’d liked track well enough back in the day, and I still jogged regularly, but that was about it.
“How is it that you don’t play golf? You’re a doctor. I thought all doctors play golf,” Gabby complained.
“I can play golf. I just don’t like to. So if I list it and end up with some golf lover, he’ll want me to play all the time. I’d be bored. And if I’m going to be bored, I may as well be single.” I felt my jaw going stern, and I’m sure I was frowning.
Gabby pushed my wineglass closer to my hand. “Relax, I’m not trying to pick on you. I just feel like it’s my duty to warn you that this profile is going to land you on some dullsville dates.”
“No, it won’t. It’s scientific, Gabby. That’s the beauty of the computerized profile. It’s like my weighted list of criteria, only even better. It’s a carefully crafted algorithm designed to find me men I have things in common with. Like . . . guys who realize golf is boring.”
Gabby rolled her shoulders and rubbed out a knot with her hand. “Yes, fine. I get that. You need things in common, but you also need a little razzle-dazzle. A little humina, humina, humina, you know? Seriously, you ranked sense of humor as irrelevant and civic awareness as essential. Are you looking for someone exciting to date or someone you can vote for?”
I reached up and rubbed my own neck, because this husband hunting was starting to become physically painful. “First of all, I would never date a politician. And second, I’m looking for a guy who’s right for me in a big-picture scenario. Somebody who I’ll still want to hang around with once we’re old and gray. Well, he can go gray. I never will. But I want a guy who likes me for who I really am, so I’m not going to pretend to be something I’m not.”
She looked at me with an expression I’d seen on colleagues’ faces when a patient’s test results were ominous. But I knew what I was doing. I was going to be honest and trust the data. I was going to go about this methodically and logically. I wasn’t going to put my future into the hands of something as intangible as chemistry or as whimsical as fate. Fate was for people without a plan. The Bell Harbor Singles website was scientific.
“All right,” she said after a moment. “We’ll try it your way, but I hope you can do CPR on yourself, because these guys are going to bore you to frickin’ death.”
She turned back to the computer and typed. I couldn’t see the screen now. The wine had made my vision a little blurry. “What are you putting on there?”
“That you like piña coladas and getting caught in the rain.”
“Very funny. And thanks, because now I’m going to have that song stuck in my head.”
“Serves you right.” She typed for another minute and then turned back to me. “OK, are you ready for the moment of truth? Once I push this button, your profile goes live and they can see you, and we can start searching the database for your Mr. Rhoades.”
I gulped down the last bit of wine in my glass and hiccupped. “Yep. I’m ready.”
There should have been a drum roll or something, but all we had was the tiny, almost silent, click of a keystroke.
We leaned in together as a scattered assembly of pictures filled the screen with squares of text beneath each one.
“Are those all matches?” I asked, amazed at my good fortune. This was a jackpot! There were so many. Then I looked a little closer.
Tobias Fitzhammer, forty-seven, exterminator’s junior assistant. Eugene VanderBosch, forty-four, Reiki master and martial artist. Franklin Bluth, fifty-seven, sex god.
“Does that say sex god as his occupation?” I asked, blinking to clear my vision.
“Yes. It does. And is that . . .” Gabby adjusted her glasses. “Is that a monkey on his shoulder?”
It was. A monkey wearing a sombrero. There were
“How is it that you don’t play golf? You’re a doctor. I thought all doctors play golf,” Gabby complained.
“I can play golf. I just don’t like to. So if I list it and end up with some golf lover, he’ll want me to play all the time. I’d be bored. And if I’m going to be bored, I may as well be single.” I felt my jaw going stern, and I’m sure I was frowning.
Gabby pushed my wineglass closer to my hand. “Relax, I’m not trying to pick on you. I just feel like it’s my duty to warn you that this profile is going to land you on some dullsville dates.”
“No, it won’t. It’s scientific, Gabby. That’s the beauty of the computerized profile. It’s like my weighted list of criteria, only even better. It’s a carefully crafted algorithm designed to find me men I have things in common with. Like . . . guys who realize golf is boring.”
Gabby rolled her shoulders and rubbed out a knot with her hand. “Yes, fine. I get that. You need things in common, but you also need a little razzle-dazzle. A little humina, humina, humina, you know? Seriously, you ranked sense of humor as irrelevant and civic awareness as essential. Are you looking for someone exciting to date or someone you can vote for?”
I reached up and rubbed my own neck, because this husband hunting was starting to become physically painful. “First of all, I would never date a politician. And second, I’m looking for a guy who’s right for me in a big-picture scenario. Somebody who I’ll still want to hang around with once we’re old and gray. Well, he can go gray. I never will. But I want a guy who likes me for who I really am, so I’m not going to pretend to be something I’m not.”
She looked at me with an expression I’d seen on colleagues’ faces when a patient’s test results were ominous. But I knew what I was doing. I was going to be honest and trust the data. I was going to go about this methodically and logically. I wasn’t going to put my future into the hands of something as intangible as chemistry or as whimsical as fate. Fate was for people without a plan. The Bell Harbor Singles website was scientific.
“All right,” she said after a moment. “We’ll try it your way, but I hope you can do CPR on yourself, because these guys are going to bore you to frickin’ death.”
She turned back to the computer and typed. I couldn’t see the screen now. The wine had made my vision a little blurry. “What are you putting on there?”
“That you like piña coladas and getting caught in the rain.”
“Very funny. And thanks, because now I’m going to have that song stuck in my head.”
“Serves you right.” She typed for another minute and then turned back to me. “OK, are you ready for the moment of truth? Once I push this button, your profile goes live and they can see you, and we can start searching the database for your Mr. Rhoades.”
I gulped down the last bit of wine in my glass and hiccupped. “Yep. I’m ready.”
There should have been a drum roll or something, but all we had was the tiny, almost silent, click of a keystroke.
We leaned in together as a scattered assembly of pictures filled the screen with squares of text beneath each one.
“Are those all matches?” I asked, amazed at my good fortune. This was a jackpot! There were so many. Then I looked a little closer.
Tobias Fitzhammer, forty-seven, exterminator’s junior assistant. Eugene VanderBosch, forty-four, Reiki master and martial artist. Franklin Bluth, fifty-seven, sex god.
“Does that say sex god as his occupation?” I asked, blinking to clear my vision.
“Yes. It does. And is that . . .” Gabby adjusted her glasses. “Is that a monkey on his shoulder?”
It was. A monkey wearing a sombrero. There were
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