Superjew

What do you think of when you hear of the town of Cherry Hill, NJ?

Well, if you're my mother you think, "Oh, he's jewish."

Before you start penning strongly worded letters about the intolerance of my family, my mother was born and raised in New Jersey, long before the era of fist pumping. This was simply a statement of fact and the first thing that came to mind when I told her I was going on a date with a guy from Cherry Hill. It caught me off guard and of course, I had to tell said Jewish guy that I was going on date with what my mom said, which he found hilarious. Thus, the name Superjew was born.

I met Superjew on the dating website, right around Thanksgiving. It was a bit of a unique situation because he was based out of LA, but currently living and working in NYC. So we spent quite a bit of time playing the getting to know you game via email. Long philosophical messages were exchanged, inside jokes were created...and I was sure that when we met in person it was going to be a disaster.

We met in person at Christmas in NYC. Before your mind starts filling with images of us locking eyes across Rockefeller Center and embracing under the Christmas tree (everyone knows a good jew can still appreciate a Christmas tree), let me tell you it was freezing, he was late, and we met in a restaurant. Sorry to burst your Carrie Bradshaw bubble.

Superjew was shorter than me (as most Jewish men are), but it didn't bother him, which was cool. As time went on I began to realize it was "cool-bordering-on-fetishist" but whatever. I'd rather have a guy who appreciates my long limbs than a man with a Napoleonic complex who is constantly challenging me to arm wrestling matches.

I broke my "drinks only" first date rule and had a full dinner with him. I figured if I had traveled 3000 miles, the least I could do was get a free meal out of it. (full disclosure: I was at my aunt's house for the holidays and she lives in the NYC area, so I wasn't actually being as generous as I like to portray myself.)

Superjew and I had spent a lot of time talking about fitness and working out and our exercise regimes. I appreciate a guy who works out as seriously as I do, but I was a little wary of the fact that ne'er an email or phone call went by without him asking how much I was working out that week. I figured he was just trying to force a feeling of intimacy by making it "our thing" but I was finding "our thing" really annoying. More warning flags were waved when, after I declined to partake in the bread basket, he said, "Good choice. Bread is nothing but simple sugar." Judge my shoes, judge my hair, but do NOT judge my food. I have enough of a complex on my own without your help thank you.

I realized I was being harsh though, since I had willingly participated in all of these fitness and nutrition discussions. So he probably thought he was impressing me with this knowledge, not making me want to call my therapist. Onward!

The rest of the date was perfectly acceptable and lovely. No nausea inducing butterflies, but no urge to punch him in the throat either. He kissed me, walked me to my train, and home I went. We continued texting and emailing throughout the holidays and in January he was coming back to LA. Great.

Superjew had a deprecating sense of humor, but the problem was, it wasn't self deprecating, it was LL (that's me) deprecating. If I didn't answer the phone on the first ring, he gave me a hard time. If I didn't sound enthused enough when I said, hello, he gave me a hard time. I began to notice that I couldn't say anything, fact or opinion, without Superjew telling me why I was wrong.

Note to men: that's annoying.

The final straw came when I was talking to him as he was waiting for his flight to LA. He began the conversation as he always did: by asking me how much I'd worked out that week and how my body was looking. I said I had gone to the gym 4 days in a row but taken today off and he called me a slacker. I gritted my teeth and defended myself. He didn't pick up on my annoyance and switched gears to ask me about the weather. I looked it up online and told him that in my neck of the woods, it would be about 65 which meant that down by the beach where he lived, it would probably be about 62, 63.

His response? "Well, what do those weather people know anyway? It's not like this kind of thing can be predicted."

I had had enough. I laughed, loudly, and said, "Actually, yes that can. That's what a weather forecaster DOES!" He grumbled, dismissed me, and told me he had to go because his plane was boarding.

When I hung up my observant co-worker apologized for eavesdropping (not that that could be avoided, I'm a loud talker) but she couldn't help but hear how I was defending the fact that I had worked out 4 days in a row but clearly the person on the other end of the line didn't think that was enough, and that that was kind of a jerky thing for him to be saying.

Eureka!

She was absolutely right. And for once, I felt no guilt about sending him a thanks but no thanks email.

(Yeah, yeah, I know, email is a bitch move, but hey, in my defense, he was on a plane so he wasn't going to answer my call anyway.)

And thus, the end of my online dating experience. Back to meeting men the old fashioned way: by being drunk and slutty. Ahhh, it's good to be back!

Let's have a party and invite your pants to come on down,
LL