We Met Online

When people find out that Scott and I met online in 1998, I notice a variety of responses that fall into three general categories: 1) There are the people who've experimented with online dating themselves; 2) those that know other couples who've met online; and 3) those people whose astonished faces reveal that they fully understand they're in the presence of vintage loser geeks, also known as WTF?

Ten years later, I've decided it might be fun (and possibly therapeutic) to write about how it really worked in our case.

The process began by filling out a bunch of radio buttons and answering a bunch of essay questions. Then, based on the radio buttons, they matched you up and sent you a list of potential matches, in the order of the most percentage of radio buttons answered identically, to least. Then you were free to read the answers to the essay questions of the people on that list to further prequalify or disqualify them before ever getting in touch...doesn't it sound romantic? Not quite the same as a furtive glance across a crowded room.

Our profiles, with the essay questions answered (seven pages each, but interesting history), are available by clicking the screen shots above. Scott and I matched 48%. The site said that a match of 28% and above had a good chance of being a successful experience, whether just a fun date or possibly more. It was such an interesting and peculiar process (and may still work the same, I don't know), I'd like to someday take what I know now and update our answers to reflect the real world and ten years of history. People might find that humorously enlightening or just plain painful.

For example, in Scott's profile he describes having "mild bouts of depression." My interpretation of "mild bouts of depression" would include a spoon and a carton of ice cream, or more honestly (since I don't have a sweet tooth), a bag of chips and generous amounts of guacamole. For most people it would NOT include the image of a person being curled up on the floor in the fetal position naked, crying their eyes out in pain, terror, agony and wishing they were dead. That would have been a more honest answer in Scott's case, but wouldn't have sounded as charming and innocuous to a potential mate as "mild bouts of depression." ("Artists can have that...", I thought wistfully.)

It was August of 1998. I signed up for the free trial (less than 30 days, I think) on Matchmaker.com (currently Match.com), and figured when it expired, so what? Scott paid for a 6 month subscription. He was on a mission. I signed up because my sister wanted me to log in and read her profile and see who was "matching" her...You had to have an "account" to do that. I had no intention of meeting anyone, but I like to write, so...I wrote, answering all the essay questions honestly, including the description of the man I would be looking for, if I was looking...which I wasn't.

This was in the days of the modem and phone lines for Internet access. So you'd click on a small photo and wait, as line by line the screen would paint up the picture of your "perfect match." When it finally filled the screen, it was fair game for speculation. In those early days of Internet dating, especially in my age group it seemed that most men somehow thought that a photo of them wearing a tuxedo (their natural habitat) cropped in such a way that the tiniest portion of the hand/face/arm/hair (or arm hair) of their last girlfriend/wife visible somewhere (possibly to prove they had a history with women) was the best way to entice a new relationship. I decided early on that anyone in a tuxedo was probably not a good match.

The morning after I posted my "profile", I woke up to 121 emails in my inbox, which was a heady and thrilling prospect. Since my ex-husband had been such an exhausting ordeal at the end of our marriage, I'd completely forgotten why men were a good idea. I'd spent almost three very peaceful, however celibate (if you don't count accommodating dreams or the shower massage), years without a partner. Suddenly all these seemingly nice people were responding to my heartfelt comments in such a positive way. Slowly, I started to think men might actually be a good idea again!

I searched the profiles of men who lived 50 miles or more away from my house, because I didn't want to meet anyone, live conveniently too close to anyone, or even stumble on a picture of anyone that was from my immediate area. I found out later that Scott had a different approach. He was initially responding to women who lived within one to five miles of his house (which is a lousy idea as far as avoiding stalkers goes, a woman would never do that). I figure his fantasy was that a steady stream of conveniently located new girlfriends could just walk over and offer him sexual favors. Men are so simple to figure out really (present company excepted and/or accepted...who am I to judge?).

Anyway, the emails...Scott's was in that first batch. His profile matched mine with the highest percentage of all and appeared at the top of the list. Now that I know what a gifted programmer he is, it would not surprise me if he somehow hacked into the code and made sure he had an advantage. I can't believe I'm just thinking of that only this second after all these years! As I type these words, I'm almost certain that it's true! (...give me a moment to ponder the implications....) Anyway, he emailed a brief note and a poem called Blessed with Stress, but no photos were included in his profile as yet.

The poem, Blessed With Stress

I took this overwhelming influx of admiration seriously and answered almost every email I'd received. After all, men poured out their compliments and utter amazement that we were the perfect match, each unaware that there were 120 other emails with a similar message. It was fun to see the various approaches to capturing my (or anyone's) attention. Some had an obvious "cut & paste" approach - everyone got the same sales pitch. I didn't reply to any of those. For those who obviously read my profile and seemed to be moved by it, I responded with some appreciative comment. I explained my Just Looking/Curious button. I wasn't looking for a relationship.

Scott's poem (an odd choice, decidedly not romantic) made me cry. I forwarded it to my mother, I thought it was so insightful and touching. So, in my response to him, I offered him unconditional adoration if he'd written the poem (a safe gesture in my mind, knowing for sure that we would never meet). For him, since he HAD, in fact, written the poem, that was the equivalent of telling him to set the date for our nuptials! That's how it started...then the phenomenon of what I like to call "disembodied intimacy" took over and the rest is history...

After knowing him and rereading his answers years later, they somewhat accurately described the logical man he is and his core values. Lots of important information was missing, however. One problem starts with the artistic license he took when he described the emotionally connected man he'd like to be, rather than describe the intense discomfort he experiences connecting in a one on one relationship.

We discovered only a year or so ago that he likely has Aspergers' Syndrome, due to the keen observation of a friend who forwarded an article in the New Yorker about a man with Aspergers'. After reading that and getting a few more books online from Amazon.com, we really didn't need a formal diagnosis. One book in particular, written for children called "All Cats Have Asperger Syndrome" was so thorough and sensitive about describing what it's like through the use of photographs of fluffy kittens and beautiful sentiments, that by the time Scott got to the last page, he had crocodile tears making their way down his cheeks. I asked, "Do you think you have it?" "Yeah," he said.

One manifestation of Aspergers' in Scott's case is that he has a very low level of tolerance for outside stimulus...sights, smells, tastes, sounds, conversations that discuss pain or injury, surgery, loss of a pet or a loved one, etc. As for the limited palette of foods he'll eat, if I substitute an ingredient or measurement, he knows. I've always said that he can "taste a molecule." I've done blind taste test experiments on him (You're out of vanilla extract? Use French vanilla extract. Only have two eggs, but need three? Use two. Cut the watermelon with the same knife as the cantaloupe? No problem.) and he always catches it! I maintain a deadpan expression as I watch with interest. He takes the first bite, smacks his tongue up and down on his palette and says, "What'd you do different?" "Nothing," I say, trying to keep a straight face. I cave immediately and confess. I have no poker face.

In a relationship, things for Scott get intensely intimate too quickly. Physically, he commented about our first kisses as being "SO erotic," which I initially took as a curious compliment. Curious because there was a hint of confused discomfort in its delivery. I had a sense that he felt too exposed, or vulnerable...too connected. Everything I knew about what makes men (or me, for that matter) feel loved and happy didn't work on Scott.


Intimate conversation dealing with emotion was equally as uncomfortable. When discussing our relationship, he'd explain that he was really trying, but discussing emotions was the equivalent of "pouring battery acid on his brain." That was a pretty graphic description that I could easily comprehend, since it's an excellent visual image. I regrouped and quit treating him like a "normal" man. I started observing his world, with the passion and cautious respect of an archaeologist discovering a new dig, for clues as to what sort of lifeform I'd stumbled on.

Most women would have scampered off in pursuit of that bag of chips, and maybe some new shoes. After all, there were 120 other emails to consider, and more flowing in all the time. It was too late for me. I was already in love with that amazing brain housed in Scott's cranium. That thing fed a steady stream of words down through his fingers to his keyboard and produced amazing emails that arrived in my inbox. Those emails were better than any romance novel I'd ever heard of (though I've never actually read one...think of Jack Nicholson in that scene at the typewriter in the movie "As Good as it Gets"). The words in those emails took control of the bag of chemicals inside me that pumped an unending supply of the "you love this man" drug directly into my brain and then straight to my heart. I've since said that I'd still love him even if he was a brain in a mason jar. My favorite response to that was, "How would that work at holiday gatherings?"

Probably like this. Scott actually bought this for me.
Meet Brian the Brain

Eventually, I told him there was quite a bit of false advertising going on in that profile of his, and we still laugh about it today. Though initially he didn't have a photo posted, when the photo did show up, he'd chosen one where he was cupping the face of a dolphin in his hands, sending a very connected message. The truth is that animals love him, but it has nothing to do with emotional intimacy with a human. I haven't had DNA testing, but I'm pretty sure I fall into that category.

I've realized over time that logic can mask as emotional intimacy, and sometimes it actually does an excellent job of it. If you think things through carefully, you can easily figure out that the way to a mother's heart is to show care and concern for her children. Scott was amazing at applying logic and having empathy for what it must be like to be a single parent and all that it entails. Besides assuring me that we were meant for each other (delivered with the intensity of a world-class debate team), he showed great respect for me as a mother and great concern for Jillian as my child. He carefully crafted a scenario that would offer my daughter and me a safe and stable situation whether we worked out as a couple or not, and off we went to explore our potential as mates.