Following a romance in my early twenties with an older man who, I eventually accepted, was simply at a different stage of life, I went through a series of short relationships of varying significance.
I was searching for a committed relationship with a supportive partner, someone I could love deeply and who shared my values and goals.Like many singles, I had created an online dating profile. Now I decided to take it more seriously—these days, I seem to hear fewer and fewer stories of real life meet-cutes.This trickle continued for the next year and two months, averaging two messages a day.I didn’t just wait to be noticed: I also actively messaged others.It made me feel that I was more likely to find someone with whom I actually connected—not just another pretty face.
I uploaded pictures and filled out my profile with basic demographic information—height, body type, religion, and education.
Some of my friends pegged my situation to an intimidation factor.
I’m a lawyer working toward a Ph D in management, and I am a serious athlete, competing internationally for Canada in Ultimate Frisbee.
I’m also a musician (some of my work is available on i Tunes); a dancer; and a volunteer with various sports organizations.
At first glance, my resumé and accomplishments may loom large, but I had thought that my well-roundedness would be an asset, or at least of interest, to the sort of man I was seeking. I posted a link to my profile on Bunz Dating Zone, a Toronto Facebook group, asking for honest feedback.
Meanwhile, online, I could decide between sites with free memberships, such as Plenty of Fish; paid sites with an older, more earnest clientele, such as e Harmony; niche sites such as and Gluten-Free Singles; and many others, all slightly differentiated by price, demographics, and objectives.