As I venture farther into my Stella-Getting-Her-Groove-Back phase, I'm learning an awful lot about how dating now is a vastly different landscape than it was in my 20s. Some of it is much, much easier (thank you, Tinder) and some of it is much, much more difficult. Especially in my shoes. If ya google my name, LOTS and LOTS of information comes up. Here's just the first few images:
Now, wait, wait wait. I take full responsibility for the private stuff I've made public. I made the choice to write under my legal name about topics considered taboo and I would make the same decision if I had it to do over again. I believe that a woman's sexuality is empowering, not something to be ashamed of. That being said, am I under any obligation to share that information on a first date? I think not.
I believe that what we choose to share and what we choose to keep private is just that: a choice. And a personal one. But is Google-stalking an invasion of privacy especially when so much information is very, very public? Perhaps invasion of privacy is too strong a phrase, but as far as I'm concerned, it's definitely a party foul.
If the oral contract you've forged with someone states that whatever transpires is to be fun, light, and uncomplicated (yes, I know I keep using that word. An uncomplicated life is all I have EVER dreamed about), then doesn't it stand to reason that on a first date, I'm not going to greet a guy with a demure smile, bat my eyelashes and say, "Hi, I'm Cindy. I live with my son, two dogs, two cats, one ex-husband who is just a friend and who will probably live in my basement forever and one ex-husband who really is on his way out the door, but finances and our credits records being what they are, ya know, gonna take some time. Oh and I used to write erotica. Sometimes still do, I just don't publish it anymore. Oh and be careful on this date because what you do might end up on my blog. Nice to meet ya, big fella." What man in his right mind wouldn't run screaming? And if he stays, what the fuck does that say about him?
Oversharing has become a staple, nay, an expectation of the Information Age. Yes, if I ever find a lover that I want to become more than just a lover, yes, then we have to get into the millions of moving parts that make up the chaos of my existence. But if I'm not asking you to carry my baggage, why the hell is it any of your business what my baggage is? Just sayin'.
And yes, there's a story behind this rant, too. Before I met the gentleman I am currently bumping uglies with, I chatted with a young man whom I could tell had been kicked around a bit by life. Why am I always attracted to the broken ones? Well, that's a post for another time. Didn't hurt that he is ridiculously hot so yeah, I was struck hunk-blind for a minute. This being the case, when vetting him for our first date and he interviewed me (yes, that's how it felt) I wanted to put my best foot forward. I did not lie so much as edit the truth. As any good lawyer would advise, I answered only the questions I was asked, did not elaborate, and crafted my answers so as to present myself in a flattering light. Isn't that what first date prep is all about?
But then I slipped up. I let my last name fall from my lips and as soon as I did, I wished I could have plucked it from mid-air and stuffed it back into my mouth. I knew it was only a matter of time. Cat-killing curiosity and all that.
As a writer, I open a vein every time I sit down at the keyboard and that unabashed honesty is what makes me good at my craft. It does, however, provide a wealth of search results. Googling me does not level the playing field, it stacks the chips in favor of the Goolger since he now possess waaaaaaay more information about me than I do about him and we all know, information is power.
But, I submit for the record, my defense:
1. My living situation shouldn't be of concern if I'm trying to give you the milk for free and have no intentions of asking you to buy this cow.
2. What a person chooses to share with you over the course of ten days (yes, TEN days) is always going to be limited. And if it isn't, you might want to reconsider knowing that person. They may be sitting in their closet sniff a box of your hair.
3. I do not tell strange men that I used to publish erotica because that can lead to unrealistic expectations. It's happened before. Just because I wrote about being tied up and paddled doesn't mean I want to do it. Or maybe I just don't want to do it with you. My body, my choice, dickhead.
After said beautiful-fucked-up man found out all this about me, he stopped talking to me. Stung a bit, I won't lie, but in the end, I feel as though I dodged a bullet.
So what have we learned here today, my friends? NEVER tell a guy who's just a prospective piece of ass your last name! What? You were expecting something more profound than that?
Namaste,
Cindy
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