Plenty of Broken Fish

Little known fact: Tim and I met on Plenty of Fish (so did my sister and her husband, Jeff). Now, I’m not endorsing the app, merely stating a fact: Yes, you can find worthwhile companionship via online dating.

It may require years and endless bad dates, but it IS possible.

Plenty of Fish Questionnaire

I get nervous easily.

Every time you suggest we meet for a date, I have a mini panic attack. Do you want to engage in physical activity like a walk along the beach? (Why is no one aware of how much energy sand sucks out of the legs?) Will you notice the shadows under my eyes despite the three hours I spent attempting to copy a contouring tutorial from YouTube? Have I overlooked an enormous bruise in my choice of outfit, so I’ll need to concoct a scintillating yet believable story? And then there’s the risk I’ll pull off a successful in-person conversation and prompt you to ask to see me AGAIN, starting the entire process over.

I tend to work too long and hard.

My sense of self-preservation needs work. I understand Spoon Theory, but I don’t practice it. I’ll crawl home after working overtime, complete an exercise routine (have to do my best to resemble that idiotic photo you admire), and stay up late to entertain you. No point in begging off to get desperately-needed rest; I need to demonstrate my allure and carefree attitude. As I hang half off the bed and curse my existence.

I am a very productive person.

I can balance an ice pack on my head to calm a migraine, a heating pad on my shoulder to soothe a pulled muscle, and our (semi) coherent messaging. For all you know, I’m lounging in a nest of pillows in a teddy. The reality is so much—well, realistic. As I battle with my body’s onslaught of nerve impulses and attempt to catch up with a backlog of TV episodes, you’re convinced I’m hanging on your every word. I am the queen of multitasking.

I would much rather eat dinner at a restaurant than at home.

Eating out involves food cooked on a stove or baked in an oven. It isn’t heated for a few minutes in a microwave. Why would I want to stay home and watch a bowl spin around on a turntable? As exciting as it is to boil water in a matter of minutes (I’m one of those gifted individuals that burns water), it lacks magic and finesse. And if you’re willing to be seen in public with me and demonstrate the age-old principle of chivalry by footing the bill, I’ll consent to shedding my sweats and cobbling together a respectable image. Besides, restaurants have dessert menus. I have Oreo cookies in a Ziploc bag.

I am comfortable interacting with strangers.

Naturally. That’s why I’m hiding behind a five-year-old filtered picture on a dating app, conducting a background check on everyone who sends me so much as a “Wink.”

Basically, I am a happy person.

I’m a fucking delight.

It is important that my romantic partner is liked by my friends.

The closest people in my life will interrogate you. If you don’t pass their inspection, our relationship will be over immediately; don’t bother to attempt any negotiations. Their opinion counts more than mine (so, yes, even if I like you, I will side with them). The fact that my friends are cats has no bearing on the matter.

I often do or say things I later regret.

I clean my entire house in one afternoon. Despite a weather front approaching, I attempt to weed every flowerbed on the property. Pasting a smile on my face, I assure you I’d love to go out for a drink at the last minute, even though I just removed my bra and put on my most comfortable pajamas.

I have high standards for myself.

Every morning, I wake up and look in the mirror. I tell myself I will stop my terrible habits. No more letting everyone else dictate my life. I’ll take better care of myself. My health will have priority, even if that means resting, eating properly, and getting to sleep at a reasonable hour. My reflection and I enjoy a hearty laugh together.

I would love to spend a holiday backpacking through another country.

I only need a team of EMTs on standby to complete the trip. I’m assuming you have access to these medical professionals.

My ideal vacation would be on a tropical island.

I also have the ideal beach body to go with this vacation. While I’m at it, I have a completely healthy system that doesn’t experience pain and enjoys ANY vacation, regardless of where or when it takes place.

I enjoy cooking.

In theory, I feel I would enjoy cooking. If I had a functional GI system that didn’t reject everything I attempted to put into it. People I watch on cooking shows as I sit up in the middle of the night with nausea and indigestion appear to enjoy what they’re doing. I assume the act of combining ingredients into a coherent dish is an agreeable hobby to pursue. Crafting that mean concoction of packaged noodles and saltine crackers in college empowered me. I think I could be a wicked chef given proper digestive motivation.

I enjoy solving crossword puzzles and games.

I despise crossword puzzles and games. However, daytime television sucks. And as I’ve spent excessive time in the hospital, I’ve become a connoisseur of such things. Do not ask me if I’ll engage in a sudoku tournament with you; I gave up attempts at the puzzles within a month of the fad. If you bring me a coloring book and crayons, there’s a real chance I’ll ask you to marry me.

I often get angry about how I’m treated by others.

Eventually, the state of my health will find its way into our conversation. You’ll treat me differently. And I’ll lose my temper. The way you look at me will change. And I’ll get angry. You’ll speak to me in a softer tone, choose alternate words in our conversations. And I’ll blow up. I’ll fight tooth and nail to avoid that moment as long as possible.

I love to have excitement in my life.

Sometimes I go up and down stairs without using the handrail. (Actually, using the stairs in the first place is a risky maneuver) I’ve been known to refuse a wheelchair despite my inability to walk or stand. Even when my blood pressure borders on negligible, I will insist on hitting the gym to impress you with my athletic prowess.

I don’t like scary movies.

Don’t offer to take me to see the latest flick featuring healthy, well-adjusted 20-somethings engaging in everyday activities. The horror of choreographed dance numbers to upbeat club music gets my heart racing—and not in a good way. I’ll have nightmares of flailing limbs for days.

People probably think I’m stubborn.

You’re free to suggest a rest break, a time out, or a quiet night in; if I believe you think I’ve demonstrated weakness, I’ll refuse. My pride refuses to let me concede defeat to the conditions ravaging my body. It doesn’t matter how slow I move, how frequently I wince, or how many curse words fall from my lips, you’re never going to convince me to stop “for my health.” And don’t try appealing to my better nature—I don’t have one.

I am looking for someone to go out on dates with.

Against all rational thought, no less. Dating requires me to interact with human beings who don’t know all of the ins and outs of my malfunctioning system. So I have to pretend to have a health I’m not actually acquainted with. It’s a complicated dance that requires more spoons and energy than I can reasonably spare. Hardly seems worth it for occasional sex.

I tend to avoid questions about my personal life.

You’re not REALLY interested in learning everything about me. Opening that can of worms will have you scrambling for the door faster than if I set the house on fire. I don’t want to talk about my scars. You don’t want to peek in my medicine cabinet. And let’s agree to avoid any discussion of my declining life span.

I have a completely different persona when I’m online than when I’m with my family and friends.

I’m a lively, bubbly riot online. You find me energetic and engaging. I bet you believe I run around the house as we chat. (No clue what you think I’m doing as I juggle our conversations. Frankly, I’m frightened to ask) Every word that comes out of my mouth is hilarious—not the slightest edge of sarcasm. You’re convinced I’m the sweetest, most charming girl you’ve yet to stumble upon. And my friends and family are laughing hysterically in the background. They’d warn you—if they knew who you were.

I am drawn to others for their strengths, especially the ones I don’t have.

I’m prone to respond to messages on days when I run low on spoons. And if you’re dumb enough to volunteer to drop by and help me paint my house or tackle the overgrown grape vine in my backyard, that’s on you. I can’t help it if you assume that assistance will get rewarded with anything more than thanks. (Can I interest you in some microwaved noodles?)