It turned out he lived right across the street from my building, a fact neither of us had known when we met a few hours earlier.Īfter three months, the only disagreement we had was over apples I liked them, and he didn’t.
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As he told me how to drive to his place, my suspicion only grew, because he was directing me to my own apartment. Our experiences and personalities were so strikingly similar I couldn’t help but wonder if this encounter was an elaborate practical joke orchestrated by my friends. He had taken the local rail to meet me, so I offered him a ride home. Gates.īy 10 p.m., we decided to call it a night. Neither knew much of anything about our work, but both had heard of Mr. exam certificates from Microsoft because Bill Gates had signed them. We stumbled upon the odd fact that each had urged us (inappropriately) to frame and display our I.T. Even our mothers seemed like the same person. We’re both tech geeks, but our overlap went way beyond that, with us sharing identical first jobs, worldviews, everything. Coffee turned into dinner, and we spent the entire evening discussing everything from religion to robotics, unearthing one surprising commonality after another. There was no chitchat about the weather or hobbies. We grabbed lattes, settled in on the patio and dived straight into deep conversation about politics and our pasts. (It didn’t look quite as odd as it sounds.) Rather than resting on his ears as normal glasses do, they clung to the sides of his head like a huge spider.
The only thing that stood out about him, other than his Slovene accent, was his glasses. To complete the stereotype, he was a founder of a tech start-up, the San Francisco equivalent of meeting a writer in Hollywood. He was thin, with blue eyes and brown hair, and he had the quintessential San Francisco geek look. We agreed to meet that weekend at a coffee shop. Turns out he, too, had created an elaborate “do not message me if” list that included everything I would have written if I had spent more time on my profile. Curiosity drove me to his profile, where I noticed that he had answered nearly 500 questions.
At the top of my list: “Don’t message me if you’re interested in dating.”Ī couple of days later, I received a message from someone who claimed that we had a lot in common, but he insisted I answer more than just 25 questions so he could “more reliably assess” our compatibility. So in the “You should message me if - ” section, I wrote a paragraph about why someone should not message me. I had just moved to the Bay Area and wanted to meet people, but I wasn’t ready to date. Her talk led my friend to suggest I create a profile on OkCupid. The museum was love-themed for the occasion, with lectures about dating and exhibits of ancient dildos, contraptions that resembled medieval torture devices.Īfter perusing the historic sex toys with growing horror, we wandered into a lecture where a woman was sharing the pros and cons of various online dating sites. Several years ago, on a beautiful Valentine’s Day evening in San Francisco, a friend of mine and I decided to visit the California Academy of Sciences.
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