It's not you...it's us.

A few nights ago, a friend and I semi-facetiously filled out the first round of applications for eHarmony. I say semi-facetiously, because while ridicule for Dr. Warren Gray and his 29 dimension of compatability was flying high that evening, I think we were both kind of curious about who we'd see on the other end. Having recently been thrust back into the single world, I've been experiencing some bouts of Estelle Costanza-esque panic about being "out there". I wondered if there could somehow conveniently be a guy on there so wonderful I could instantly forgive him for transgressions like owning dark brown Orlon socks and not knowing that the saran wrap always goes in front of the aluminum foil in the drawer because clearly saran wrap is the much more frequently used veggie wrap accoutrement, so wonderful that he knew how to make me laugh at the right times and cry at the right times, so wonderful that he would happily sit down with me and contrive a reasonable story about meeting one another in the bulk food aisle at Whole Foods in Overland Park and how he helped me reach the basmati rice because we're both self-conscious enough to not want people to know we met online, so wonderful even that I might just let this thirty something Eagle Scout propose to me in front of God and Warren Gray and all the Nielsen TV Families in all the world and I'd start wearing khaki capris and button downs without a hint of irony and we'd live together in suburban bliss in our 3 bed, 2.5 bath home with our children Cooper and Thatcher, or McKayla and McKenzie or Tiffani and Amber Thiessen, and and and...

Anyway, the eHarmony questionnaire is actually worlds more complex than the commercials lead one to believe. I spent about 25 minutes filling in little Likert scale dots about my interests, my values, my expectations, my personality. Then there were the essays, with such charming 7th grade language prompts like "I'm thankful for...". On every essay page there was a reminder that "your potential mate will be reading these responses." Essentially, a last ditch reminder telling me DON'T SCREW UP. THIS IS YOUR ONE SHOT TO BAG A MAN BEFORE YOUR OVARIES DRY UP AND YOU BEGIN SKIPPING WORK TO WATCH YOUR "STORIES". I did not screw up...at least I don't think so. I spun words about my life into saccharine stories so heartfelt, so profound they should've been narrated by Maya Angelou for the Hallmark Channel. I was quite confident that I had passed the first eHarmony barrier.

I was wrong.

About 80% of the way through, the questionnaire focused on innocuous subjects like age, location, and marital status. Since I was trying to be as honest as possible (although the idea of being matched with a male version of me is vaguely terrifying) I submitted that I was legally separated rather than divorced. Three pages later, I received a notification that my application could proceed no further because I wasn't a legally single person.

Touche, my cyber-Yente. Touche. (Funny how without the accent over the e, it's just "toosh")

Undaunted, because I really really wanted my free personality index and at least a glimpse into the mystical realm of eligible men, I re-registered under a new name and redid the entire thing over again. This time, because I wanted to make sure I didn't get weeded out, and evidently because I have more free time than a salaried state government employee rightfully ought to have, I made sure every answer was absolutely perfect. I cross-referenced questions for consistency, and I even agonized for a full half minute over whether I enjoyed camping "somewhat" or "more than somewhat". My essays were an orgy of effervescent language and intimate insights into my personal life and expectations, and when I bit my cheek and selected "divorced" on the demographics page, I did so with an exuberant sense of triumph that I had, in fact, nailed the eHarmony initial questionnaire.

Until I was rejected. By Dr. Warren effing Gray.

Apparently for 1 in 5 people, they are unable to make a match because we represent a "low energy" segment of the population. They directed me to a disclaimer page that stated eHarmony was so committed to maintaining a quality dating pool they'd rather refuse service than try to match me up with someone who couldn't deal with my love of activities that occur primarily in a supine position. That sounded bad. I mean TV, pervs.

So basically, I am not fit for online dating. Not demonstrably perky enough. Maybe a little too honest in the "melancholy" part of the feelings inventory, and certainly not nearly interested enough in snow sports and pottery classes, I'm afraid. But still, what makes me wonder is why they wouldn't take the money from the low energy set? Are we so irredeemable because maybe we've had to start over, pick up, and figure out how to love again? Are we so reprehensible because we took that ridiculous uestionnaire seriously and were honest about how we felt about ourselves? If the 20% of us who were booted out of eHarmony were on first dates, and we told our dinner companion that we weren't satisfied with our lives right now, but we were very hopeful about the future, does that mean our date would have to leave us at the taxi without even so much as an "I'll call you?"

At the very least, wouldn't it make good business sense to make us drop the 60 dollars for a membership and then string us along for a couple of years until you tell us we're too losery to ever even begin to experience the "life-long enduring romance" you so tout on your commercials?

I dunno, eHarmony...you're making the possibility of romance by the flax seed bin seem more and more plausible every day.