Modern Bundling

After years of unsuccessful dating, Diane consulted a dating coach. ‘I’m thirty-five,’ she explained. ‘My biological clock is ticking. I always presumed that I would have children, just as I presumed that I would find and marry the man of my dreams. I’m beautiful, brilliant, and well-educated. Men have always swarmed to me. Of course, the man I wanted would want me.

“But, ironically, my looks turned out to be a curse. It was easy to meet and attract men, but not the right man. My suitors were all good looking and shallow, and they expected me to be shallow as well. Time after time, the chemistry was right, but after an enjoyable exercise session in bed, we had nothing to say to one another. Time after time, I found myself nearly engaged to someone I didn’t want to talk to, much less spend the rest of my life with. Some of them were really good in bed. But I figured out that a vibrator is better, far better, and without the baggage. They were boring, totally boring. Thank God, I didn’t marry any of them. So here I am, thirty-five, single, and childless.”

“Have you tried online dating?” asked Cara, the coach.

“Of course. I belong to Match. But there it’s the same thing all over again, the same empty flirtatious conversations, some of which lead to dancing the horizontal mambo in bed. But that’s just friction, and I want the real thing. I want a man who opens me up totally, who helps me become the person I can be and should be.

“I’m a professor, a full-tenured professor of English Literature at Yale. I’ve written books about romantic love as portrayed in nineteenth-century novels. But I don’t have a clue how to find a man I can love. I don’t have a clue what love is. I’ve never experienced it.

Then Cara asked, “And how do you present yourself on Match?”

“With photos, of course. Two dozen photos of me in different outfits and settings and activities. That’s what men want. That’s how they shop for women. I’m contacted by dozens of men every day. Some of them are very persistent. Some of them have very attractive photos.”

“But what do you say about yourself in your profile?”

“Damned little. The basic facts. All they want is photos. That’s how to meet men, lots of men, with photos.”

“But clearly, you don’t want to meet lots of men. You want to meet the man. You should present yourself in a way that filters out those who are likely to be losers.”

“You’re more of a romantic than I am.”

“Seriously. You’re a scholar. You’re aware that romantic love is a relatively recent concept. Up until a couple hundred years ago, and in some communities far more recently, marriages were arranged by parents or agents of parents.”

“Do you expect me to go to a matchmaker?”

“No. I expect you to be creative. When you blindly follow the current trends in dating and mating, you wind up meeting men you don’t want to be with.”

“‘Well, what the hell should I do? Tell me something practical, something actionable. That’s why I’m here.’

“Let’s talk this out. Yes, talk. What’s the longest you’ve ever talked to a man nonstop−just talk, no activity involved, no other people in a social group, just talk one-on-one?”

“Maybe an hour, maybe a little more.”

“And after an initial meeting, you either dumped them or let them advance on a track that led to bed, right? And on that track, there was little occasion for further talk, right?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“‘You’d have been better off in seventeenth century England.’

“‘You mean saddled with whoever my parents picked for me?’

“‘I mean bundling. You know what bundling is?’

“Of course. Not everyone did it, but it was common. A suitor was invited to spend the night in bed with a woman he might want to marry. It was a special bed with a board separating the two of them, and they were both fully clothed. But they could talk freely and get to know one another. It was a test drive. The parents picked eligible candidates, and the couple got a sample of what married life together might be like. But what’s your point?”

“Do it. Bundle. Do the modern equivalent of that.”

“What do you mean?”

“First change your Match profile. Take down all those attractive photos of you. Replace them with one photo that makes you look your worst. Then write a profile that sets a challenge. For instance, you could say that you’ll only meet face-to-face with someone you can have a phone conversation with for twelve hours straight and still be itching to talk longer.”

“But no one would respond to a profile like that.”

“Exactly. But if someone did, and if you did connect that intimately with him in a first phone conversation, that could be the one you’re looking for.”

“But what if it turns out that he’s homely or even ugly?”

“Would that really matter if you connected to that degree? And remember, he’s buying into this thinking that you look as bad as the worst photo you can get of yourself.”

“But that’s counter to all the popular wisdom. You should strive to look your best, to put our best foot forward when meeting someone, especially an eligible man. First impressions are important. People judge you based on your looks.”

“And thanks to that popular wisdom, you, a beautiful, brilliant woman, are single and childless at thirty-five.”

“I can’t believe that anyone would contact me if I displayed a photo like that and proposed an absurd challenge like that.”

“You’re a grown woman. There’s no reason you should wait for men to contact you. Scan the profiles. Go through hundreds of them. Take this seriously. Pay little attention to the photos. Look for well-written and intriguing summaries. Contact them and see if they get back to you. Then set up phone calls and see if one of them can meet the challenge. You can’t do any worse than you’ve been doing the traditional way. And maybe this will work. Win or lose, it could be fun.”

For a month, Diane looks at three dozen profiles a day, for a total of more than a thousand. From those she picked ten to contact, none of whom replied to her. As she was picking up her cellphone to call Cara and vent, she saw on her screen that someone new had just looked at her profile. She checked his profile. One photo. Ordinary. Forgettable. Very forgettable. But his profile intrigued her.

The profile read, “Would you buy this used car? This used car has high mileage but is a self-starter, with low maintenance. It has a little rust around the edges, but it’s reliable. It will take you anywhere you want to go. And it’s special. It comes with a personalized ignition system. You can turn it on easily, but no one else can. Take it for a test drive. It will make you smile.

“I am attracted to women with natural beauty, who are intelligent, self-aware, confident, who are comfortable with who they are, without pretense.

“I’m down-to-earth, very casual, and prefer to be with a woman who is the same. I keep in shape−going to the gym. I prefer home-cooked food, and I’m used to cooking myself. I’m unselfconscious, direct and candid. What you see is what you get.”

She sent him a message, “Want to talk?”

He replied immediately, giving her his number.

This was a longshot, but what the hell? She called him. His name was Rich, so when he answered, she asked, “Are you filthy rich?”

He replied, “No. I shower every day.”

A would-be author, he was unpublished, but serious about his writing. He saved up from his job as a technical writer for a computer company to give himself a sabbatical, a year of doing nothing but write, hoping to finish a novel he’d been pecking away at for years. It was a collection of stories shared over dinner by passengers on a Caribbean cruise.

They chattered away. She mentioned things she hadn’t thought about for years. And she came up with new ideas about Jane Austen and George Eliot that she could and should include in articles. She started taking notes not of what he was saying, but rather of what she was thinking and saying.

She admitted, “I enjoy talking to you. But that challenge I put in my profile is silly. We should forget about that. There’s no way we could talk like this for twelve hours or more.”

He laughed. “We passed that two hours ago.”

She checked the clock. He was right.

They agreed to meet on Saturday, in Milford, in the parking lot at Walnut Street Beach. She told him she’d be driving a red BMW, and she’d wear a summery red dress. He told her that he’d be driving a twelve-year-old purple Dodge Caravan, and he’d be wearing a straw so she’d be sure to recognize him.

Hearing that, she nearly hung up. but bit her lip and closed with a cheery, “See you soon.”

When she pulled into the parking lot, he was standing beside his car. He staggered when he saw her step out. That couldn’t be the woman in the Match photo. This woman looked like Nicole Kidman in her prime. But she was waving at him. That was her.

She too felt wobbly-legged. That had to be him. No one else would drive an old purple Dodge Caravan and wear a straw hat. But this guy looked like Robert Redford in his prime, the days of The Sting and Butch Cassidy. Like her, he must have deliberately posted an unflattering photo.

They’ve been married now for ten years. They have three boys and a cocker spaniel.

Together Tales at Amazon