The messages slow down by the third day, so it’s easier to find the ones from actual people, and I start to recognize some familiar faces from at least a dozen profiles I encountered and discarded on Match two or more years ago.

One face I don’t recognize right away; it’s a picture I’ve never seen from a life I don’t recognize, but it strikes a nerve so I go to the profile to see other pictures, and even then I can’t place the face until I get to the picture of him with my former stepson.

The Departed is online dating.

I read the profile, and it, too, is someone I’ve never met – I notice right away that he’s checked the college graduate box. The text feels generic, like it came from an article on how to write online dating profiles; it is anything you want to read into it. Both a leader and a follower, a teacher and student. There are grains of truth, massaged into appealing characteristics, and when I read closely, I recognize the kernels of truth.

Then I remember that he will know I’ve visited his profile, and I block him from seeing mine.

Mr. Faraway has a profile, too, and it’s offered up to me as a good match: according the the algorithm, we’re 91% mathematical match. I consider, and then discard, the possibility of telling him this; he’s not likely to see the humor, or maybe the sadness, in it.

Unlike The Departed, who logs in often throughout the day, Mr. Faraway hasn’t logged in for quite some time, but we’re still Facebook friends, so I know why: He’s been tagged twice in photos of himself and a jolly-looking woman. She is the one who posts the photos, not him, but I see them, and see the comments from friends and family. Can’t wait to meet her. Love is in the air.

I want to tell him, Don’t rush. Make deliberate choices, they take time.

But I don’t. It’s not my place to say, anymore.

I know there are things I need to be flexible about when assessing prospective dates, but I know that location isn’t one of them. My OKCupid mailbox continues to fill, but only one of the messages is from someone whose stated location is roughly the same as mine: Washington State. Meeting someone in Washington could still involve seven or more hours of car time, depending on their location, but I like his picture, so I read the message.

“hello my name is Daniel,i work as a building consultancy i work for government and commissioners it nice seeing you on here what a beautiful woman to be precise i cant wait to know more about you,i will wait to read back from you……Daniel”

I wonder if he repeats his name to remind himself what he’s pretending it is today.

I’m bored already.

By the end of the first day, I’ve received 27 messages, but I’m already ignoring them and simply looking at profiles. There’s an app, so I download it to my phone and when I find myself with time to kill, I flick through the photos, left for no, right for yes.

John Lennon after a night of coding, left.

A man whose chin is hidden by a green glitter beard, left.

A shirtless guy in a sailor hat, left.

A guy with no shirt and no head on which to put a sailor hat, left.

A guy who can apparently jump parking meters in a single bound, left. No capes!

Emails continue to arrive, from men whose usernames profess their love, or their faith, or their other interests. BloodElf writes to me, as does MrNottoosmart. One correspondent is at his ropesend.  Superfood4you is either disturbingly health-conscious or edible, but I don’t reply, as we’re not a good fit either way. By the time I’ve found the messages from Coolsex-sweetsex, MrSteelShaft, and Pantylover, my inbox has become a wasteland of unread messages, mostly from now-inactive profiles.

Daniel writes again, and though the profile and picture and location have changed, the email message is identical, even the typos. I wonder how many times he cut and pastes that message a day, and what his response rate is.

My friend and I finish our coffee, and make plans to go to the movies and get together on Christmas, like we used to. When I get home, there’s not much going on at work, so I pay OKCupid a visit. I had tried eHarmony a few months before, because I figured the price tag would eliminate the riffraff – which turned out to include me when I discovered how much it actually cost. OKCupid is free, so I sign up and upload the one photo taken of me in the last year that I like. I fill out the profile basics, then start answering the questions that will match me with that special someone. As I type and click, little alerts flash up in the corner, letting me know people are checking me out.

By the time I’ve finished, I have 15 messages. Several of them begin, hey beautiful, while others opt for the more subdued, hey pretty.

Some of these men seem to be very familiar with me, opening with hey dear, hey babe, hello sweets.

I don’t mind the messages’ presumptuousness as much as I mind the poor grammar that is their unifying feature.

I start reading the accumulated messages and checking the profiles, and immediately wonder if I’ve checked a wrong box somewhere – the first one is from Washington, D.C., which seems like Washington State but isn’t. I could see how you could mix the two up if you’d never been to the United States.

The next message is from someone whose profile states he is from Chicago, which is marginally closer to Washington State. The sender says his name is Duran, and though I’m tempted to ask if he’s named after the 80’s band or the bad guy from Barbarella, I don’t. He’s Dutch, he claims.

I never make the same mistake twice. I reply: My ex-husband is Dutch, too, and I don’t live anywhere near Chicago. Good luck.

He replies quickly. You seems like he must have treated you so bad..May be he does not respect the custom?

May be. I consider writing a reply, then running it through google translate into a foreign language or two, and then back again, but decide against it. There were so many other options in my inbox: Guys from Virginia, West Virginia, Texas, California, Ohio, Texas, Texas, and Florida. I mentally calculate travel times, by plane and by car.

I was looking for a date, and I got a geography quiz.