So Mr. Unusual wants to “pencil it in,” which immediately rubs me the wrong way, because in my experience, that particular turn of phrase means “I’m penciling in several different things for that day and will only ink in the best of my options.”

Then I think, maybe that’s not what that phrase means and I’m just overreacting based on one bad experience a long time ago, involving an attorney I dated very, very briefly. He was handsome and charming and seemed only to write in pencil.

So I google the phrase. Apparently, I am actually being generous with my assessment: the internet tells me this is what you say when you make plans you have no intention of following through with. Only nobody says this anymore, because nobody uses filofaxes anymore: they put stuff into their iphones and then delete the things they don’t feel like doing.

Being a cad is much tidier than in olden times.

Mr Unusual, I think, nobody pencils me in, because first of all, I’m worthy of ink, and second of all, you are not a Luddite. Put it in your iPhone. Delete me at your own risk.

And then it dawns on me: He’s given me no information with which to follow through on this penciled-in coffee date. Everyone else has given me a full name and phone number at this stage. I have a first name and precious little else. Not even a direct email.

I hear a sound: A gauntlet has been thrown.

I get an email back from my wink to Mr I Am Unusual. His message is pleasant, if brief; he makes a light joke indicating he’s actually read my profile (bonus points!),  asks about my New Year’s Eve plans, and ends with a breezy,

“The name’s Nic, by the way.”

Right, OK. You spell your name in an unusual way. How … unique. But still, he’s nice looking and has a sense of humor and I’m writing to Bachelor #4 at the same time so I don’t really give either of them too much thought. I’ve got this whole thing figured out, by now – we’ll get together for coffee and I’ll decide fairly quickly.

I notice something about Mr. Unusual that I hadn’t when I sent over my initial wink – he lives in Seattle proper, which is to say, he’s on the other side of the bridge from me, which is somewhat inconvenient for the initial “Let’s have coffee” thing. In the long run, if he’s worth spending time with, he’s worth crossing a bridge for. And if he doesn’t feel the same way, well – he’s not worth spending my time with.

But we’re not at that point yet – we’re trading emails. New Year’s comes and goes, so we share what we did, and each carefully end our emails with a question of some sort – offering the other the chance to respond. It feels a bit disjointed, but then again, the whole match.com thing feels kind of weird, and pressured, and stilted, so I don’t hold it against him and nor do I take it personally.

Mr Unusual’s profile pictures, although nice-looking, are kind of odd and obviously professional – but not the usual professional corporate resume or brochure pictures. In one of them there’s water splashing around him like he’s in a shark tank. In another he’s posed in a suit in front of some Jimi Hendrix thing. Another reminds me of a 1930’s Chesterfield ad.

None of them look like the same person. I inquire about the unique photos – what’s that about?

He replies:

There is a simple story about my unusual pictures, but in all honesty, it’s hard to explain without sounding like a jerk. I don’t like to toot my own horn, so I might like to explain it in person. If you’re game. Maybe meet for coffee or a drink this week?

Nicely played, I think. Smooth, says my father. Except there’s one small problem – the bridge, which makes getting together for a quick drink kind of … a hassle. But I realize that The Child is scheduled to take her middle school entrance exams on the other side of the bridge – just not “this week.” So I offer up the option of him coming to my side of the bridge one evening (while she’s in rehearsal), or I can meet him for coffee on the 14th – when I happen to be in his neighborhood anyway.

He replies: Great, let’s pencil in the 14th.

Great, I reply, see you then.

The next day, there’s an email from Mr. ex-Mormon. Subject: Thanks and dinner.

Ugh.

I quite enjoyed getting to know you a little yesterday. I only lament that we didn’t get to talk about your work or movies.

I know you’re busy, but I would like to buy you dinner. If you haven’t yet been to the best Italian on the entire East side, I could take you to xyz. Or if you want to be fancy wined and dined, the absolute best steak in the world is on the menu at abc.

My week is already all scheduled up except for Sunday. Would that work for you?

I feel ill. He wants to take me out for a fancy dinner that I am quite sure he can’t afford. I do not dislike him in any way. I have no wish to be unkind, or rude.

I ask my father. Tell him, he says.

I do.

Upon further reflection, I prefer not to pursue this. I enjoyed meeting you and wish you all the best.

He replies.

OK, thanks for the reply. Good luck to you too!

If you’re interested in staying connected professionally, send me a linkedin connect invite.

Below this is a link to his Linked In profile.

I cannot imagine any scenario in which I might find this connection useful professionally. I do actually spend some time thinking about this.

I had thought, given how many people on match say they want to “go slow,” “take time getting to know someone,” or any of the other permutations of this language, that I might meet someone who was interesting and, if there was no attraction, would be fun to do things with as a friend.

No, I won’t.  Nobody signs up for any of these online services looking for anything other than a relationship.

There are easier ways to make friends, and it’s becoming clear I must find them.