Mango Season: The Obligatory Online Dating Commentary

(Originally published in the MIT Tech.)

During the spring of my senior year at Wellesley, I got a yen for men. I'd spent four years in the ivory tower, enjoying the luxury of snuggly sisterhood. But come autumn, I'd be joining the real world, which - to my amazement - appeared to be coed. Soon I'd be sharing apartments and classes with men. I figured, "What better way to warm up than by swapping spit?" Thus I cracked my knuckles and put up a profile.

Online dating is like mango shopping. Rather than trying your luck in the wild, you get to drive your cart right up to the pyramid and start feeling up the fruit. You can heft them, squeeze them, and sniff them.

The same sort of poking ritual occurred when I "e-met" someone through an online dating service. Here's how it goes: once contact is made, a gawky baboon dance ensues. E-mails and phone calls are exchanged. Red flags like "lemmings turn me on" or "I only eat bacon" are noted. If we meet with each other's initial approval, a date and time are set.

My first date was Jeff. His profile showed a mischievous, flame-haired young man. I was optimistic that he was one of those sexy, self-effacing liberal arts types. But when I met him in Harvard Square on a rainy February night, the first thing I noticed was that he was wearing a fraternity jacket. My heart deflated.

At Tealuxe, we got hot mugs of tea to chase the chill away. While we chatted, his eyes periodically dipped below my neckline, inexorable as a pendulum. Now, I know that boob-evaluation is normal in hetero males. After all, hetero women are capable of surreptitious bulge-evaluation. But checking every minute, as if they might have disappeared? Come on.

We got to talking about our jobs, and I mentioned my summer stints at NASA. "Oh, dude!" he said. "I turned on the TV this morning and, like, something blew up or something. And I was like, whoa. That's weird. Huh. Yeah."

That "something" was the Columbia shuttle. I was amused that God had created someone so gloriously gauche. Nevertheless, I found absolutely no reason not to be polite and congenial for the brief time we'd share.

After catching a folk concert at Club Passim (where, blessedly, we couldn't talk), we got Dutch chocolate ice cream down the street. Jeff planted his elbows on the table, leaning forward where I leaned back. As I talked about molecular biomarkers, he made a show of licking his ice cream slowly and lasciviously, flicking his tongue as if he could carve it into the Venus De Milo. Distressed at this advance, I just chewed and swallowed my ice cream in big chunks and gracelessly wiped my mouth on my arm. I hoped this would translate as a rejection.

The second date, James, went to an Ivy League law school after having triple-majored at another Ivy League school. We went to dinner at a lavish, bustling restaurant, complete with romantic lighting and latticed woodwork. His mind formed thoughts faster that his mouth could talk; his hands trembled from sheer brainpower. He asked me what my SAT score had been, and later mentioned that he had scored a perfect 1600. I burst out laughing. Who tells a first date his SAT score!? But I gave him the benefit of the doubt. After all, he couldn't have known that test scores didn't impress me. (For the record, what does impress me is the ability to execute a perfect Swedish nose-blow.)

Having grown up in Singapore, James was also a man of impeccable etiquette, especially when it came to dining. On the other hand, I grew up in an irreverent family of seven, where belching Bible verses was routine. He distastefully informed me that I cut meat "like a barbarian." I looked down at my fist, clamped around the fork like a four-year-old's. My innocence evaporated, like Eve without her leaves. Ever since then, I've tried not to cut meat like an early hominid. I owe that to James, but didn't see him again.

Will, my third date, was an alpha student training for the Senate. We had fantastic intellectual chemistry. He was a couple inches shorter than me and wore a black trench coat. He had a stride that outpaced his stature. He strode everywhere, across the earth, the parking lot, even (I imagine) the bathroom. He made fantastic guacamole and idolized feminists. His bookshelf featured People's History of the United States and Guns, Germs and Steel. "My God," I thought. "I'm dating George Stephanopolous."

On our second date, we had an impassioned abortion rights discussion. For me, intellectual debate is an aphrodisiac (geeky, I know). So, my glasses all steamed, I asked if I could kiss him. "Sure," he barked, as if I were asking him to feed my cat. But the greater horror was yet to come. With no warning, he came at me like a lamprey, all radial mouth and endless rows of teeth.

Somehow I survived and lived to go out on two more dates with him. The fourth time, we sat down to dinner at his favorite Indian restaurant. I was horrified when, mackage imminent, he nevertheless insisted on ordering us a giant plate of garlic naan. I didn't have any gum, nor was any toothpaste at hand. The complimentary coriander didn't make a dent. We were doomed to Brimstone Breath for the rest of the night. Though Athena had blessed us, Eros was silent.

Over the next four months I saw a meaty six-foot volleyball player who looked like an extra from Top Gun; an Iraqi-Scot who studied dark matter a mile beneath the earth; a wealthy young consultant who presented me with a bouquet of irises; and a blue-eyed Adonis who became "just a friend." (He was grateful when I offered to pimp him at Wellesley.)

Come May, I felt reflective. Despite some misadventures, all the young men I'd dated had been sweet, well-meaning gentlemen who'd shown me a good time. But dating had become a part-time job, just another penciling in my Day Minder. When shopping, ennui comes after surveying rows upon rows of pretty fruit, sprayed by the hour and perfectly presented. I wanted to take a walk in the wild again, alone with my thoughts.

Graduation fast approached, and my little mango season drew to a close. I shut down my online profile and dreamt of wild kiwi groves at MIT.