What are the odds?

As you are aware, a couple of years ago I tried my luck at internet dating. CL's recent antics have brought back a flood of memories of that era in my life that will surely result in my needing some therapy or at least a shot or two of good tequila.

One such memory that I still chuckle over is an experience that demonstrates that the powers that be love to put me in situations that will indubitably result in the building of my already massive "character".

The modus operendi for meeting people on the net is generally to fish through the pre-selected matches and correspond with those who seemed compatible. After one or two e-mails I would request telephonic communication and then meet for coffee or lunch accordingly.

I had e-mailed back and forth with J several times. We had similar backgrounds - time in the Navy, grew up locally, senses of humor, etc. The day and time of the much-anticipated phone call arrived. We exchanged pleasantries and then, suddenly, within the first few minutes of conversation, J's voice took on a serious tone as he began to tell me about an unfortunate injury he had sustained while in the military. The injury resulted in the removal of his large intestine and the subsequent and very permanent need for a colostomy bag. I responded sympathetically to this tragedy and he explained that he could do all the things anyone else can do, etc., etc. As he justified that it was not THAT terrible I began to envision the activities I enjoy with a mate as they would be with J: snorkeling in the Carribean with J, poo bag in tow, a school of fish close behind; skydiving with a bag floating above; intimate moments where proximity to the bag might affect the 867 positions that I once studied and know I will someday experience. Then I recalled the faint odor that always surrounded my best friend's grandfather, similarly afflicted, when we were younger, and how we would snicker and comment about farts like the children we were. Add to that my complete and utter fear of all things medical - from needles to people in white coats to bed pans. By the time he finished his explanation I had to tell him there was just no way I could begin a relationship with someone with such, well, baggage. It may seem shallow and he appeared to be a great guy, but I just couldn't do it. Better to know your limits and not get hopes up and pretend to be something you know you are not. He took the news well and we each moved on to the next candidate on our respective match lists.

The next candidate for me was M, a thirty-something writer and adventurer from Santa Barbara. We followed protocol and made it to the point of our first meeting - fish tacos during my lunch hour. Naturally, as two veterans of the internet dating wars, we began to compare stories. Mutual interest was peaking and we were on a great roll about the various people we'd met, thanking ourselves that we had finally met someone "normal" when I told the story of J and the poo bag. M laughed as I described my visions of snorkeling and other such activities. He let me ramble on and then he looked at me and said, "I have a colostomy bag too". I just laughed harder and did an Elainesque "Get out!" combined with a shove. But he was adamant and insisted he had a bag. Still thinking he was joking I insisted on proof. He took my hand and put it on his poo bag and then told me he had been in a motorcycle accident years ago in which he damaged much of his large intestine. I, for once, was at a loss for words. To his credit, he laughed it off and we parted on a good note knowing we would both rejoin the hunt.

My friends, of course, found it hilarious that in my quest for love I had managed to find the two men under age 40 in the county that had poo bags. These days it is standard procedure for me to inquire whether any prospective date has his large intestine.