The subject line on the first email of the day jarred me awake:
“SINGLE CHRISTIANS IN YOUR AREA ARE LOOKING FOR YOU!”
Why? What have I done? What are they going to do with me when they find me? I think it was the “in your area” part that got me. Were they headed across the state? Were they just across town? Were they turning onto my street? Were they OH MY GOD THE CALL IS COMING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE!
My mind raced. Why would all these single Christians come after me?
Was it because I once described Franklin Graham as “looking a little like Don Draper without all the bourbon hangover stubble.” I mean, that’s a compliment, right?
Only after a few seconds of half-hearted soul-searching and outright caffeinated panic did I realize this wasn’t a personal warning but rather just another online dating service trolling for clients in the wrong waters. Still, the phrase has stuck with me all week and makes me laugh out loud every time I think about it.
As a married Christian, I think religion-based dating sites should be especially careful when choosing whom to stalk. This isn’t the same as the suddenly stranded “friend” who wants me to send her $10,000 to get her out of trouble and, if I do, she will turn right around and send me $100,000 because apparently she is the world’s worst math student.
And, as we all know, the Internet would simply keel over and die if it couldn’t send countless daily emails to women asking them just how much they would be willing to pay to have their nonexistent penises enlarged.
But if you’re running a Christian dating service you shouldn’t send stuff to married folk. I’m not insulted, mind you. After I recovered from the shock of picturing all those sincere, fresh-faced folks standing on my doorstep with pitchforks, I simply deleted the message and got on with my life.
But I can’t help but think that in 2013 there really isn’t an excuse to make this kind of mistake. Other companies know too much about you. The other day, I had an email from a company whose name I won’t reveal but which rhymes with “Blurban Moutfitters.” The email consisted of photos of the shoes and tops I bought there the day before and asked, heh-heh, wouldn’t I like some more of the same kind of stuff? Dang. Even a crack dealer would give you time for the cravings to set in before they hit you up. Or so I’m told.
I don’t like that a store with such a ridiculous made-up name knows my closet contents. When I whined to a friend, she pointed out that I love the texts from the grocery store when my favorites go on sale.
“What’s the difference?” she asked.
“That’s easy. Refrigerator? Not personal. Closet? Very personal. I feel so violated!”
She looked at me hard. Something told me she wasn’t thinking “Married Christian.”