The myth of the white Jesus
Online dating crushes souls.
Back when I was still trying it, I had a date with “Sarah.” Her profile was interesting, she had an obvious sense of humor, and although she was old to be a student, her excuse seemed good (“quit my marketing job to study something I cared about.”) It didn’t hurt that she posted just one teasing photo, taken from behind, showing a trim figure and a hint of reddish hair tucked into a hat. We agreed to meet at a coffee shop.
I showed up, on time, ready to go through the spiel (traffic, weather, what I do for a living) and sure I’d brushed up on enough topical references to make the right jokes at the right time. She was sitting at a table with a laptop and a stack of papers, the only one in the place. Efficient, I guessed — she came early and got some work done. “Sarah?” I said, and moved to sit down.
I introduced myself and asked, “So, do you come here a lot?” and immediately realized how lame of an opener it was. Indeed, she looked taken aback. The seconds of silence immediately grew painful. A couple of teenagers thundered through the door, skateboards attached to their backpacks. A woman sat down a couple of tables away, tapping at her phone. Still silence.
“Anyway,” I wanted to ask, “what degree are you studying for?” It was the best I could think of. I was already off script.
“A PhD. Sociology.” At least she spoke to me.
“Cool!” I said, even though, really, I have no idea what one would do with such a degree. “Are you writing a thesis? On what?”
“The myth of the white Jesus.”
She didn’t elaborate. I tried to ask a few more questions, but I started to feel like I was living one of those naked-in-public nightmares. She was just so clearly not interested in me, and I was desperate to find the way to get out with some shred of my dignity intact. The teenagers left. The phone-tapping woman was staring at me, watching me make an idiot of myself. I finally muttered something about this not being a great idea and left.
That night I got a message from Sarah. She asked why I didn’t show up and said she’d waited a half hour for me. An idiot I might be, but I finally put things together and realized I’d been talking to the wrong woman, for whom I suddenly felt an immense sympathy. I’d just gotten really unlucky and happened upon a different “Sarah.” And she now thought she had a stalker with bad conversational skills.
My missed connection had figured this out, too, since my pictures were less coy, and thought it hilarious. She offered to meet again the next day, at a different place.
“By the way,” she said, “My name isn’t Sarah. I always wished it were, but really I’m called Peggy. I just use Sarah as my online-dating handle.”
And that was it. There’s nothing personal to it, but “Peggy” is a name that grates terribly on me. I can’t hear myself whispering “Peggy?” in the morning or yelling it in passion. I told her I’d pass on this one. I spent the next few nights, alone, wondering what the hell the myth of the white Jesus is, anyway.
