ONSIDERING THE FACT THAT I LOVE TO SLEEP AND NEEDED TO SET UP my bookstand in two hours, pulling an all-nighter probably wasn’t one of my brighter ideas—but it was oh so gratifying. When I felt saturated enough to tear myself away from the internet profiles, I decided (like there was really a decision to be made) to set up a profile of my own so that some of those godly men out there could find me.  

 

Unsure of exactly what to put in my profile, I checked out some pages by other female members. Wow! There were some beautiful women on there! I wondered why. Maybe, as in my case, there were slim pickings in their immediate surroundings; or maybe they’re just plain picky? Anyhow, I was still holding my own…even grading myself harshly, and in the spirit of modesty, I’d give myself a seven. 

 

I then looked for some Christian women’s pages. How inspiring! 

 

Scripture, poetry, testimonies, thought-provoking questions and answers, a list of expectations and affirmations of self respect, and then … screeeeeeech … way at the bottom of the page, in all its hoochified glory, a picture with tatas and/or hind parts hanging out all over the place. 

My fingers itched to send them a note about misrepresenting the body of Christ. Something to the effect that they were sending conflicting and embarrassing messages to the world at large and men in particular. A carryover from being the youngest of eight, my level of boldness has its limits … plus, I handle being cussed out very poorly. So, minding my own business, I began to fill out my profile. 

 

The profile called for an alias (seemed kind of silly to me but I did it anyhow). In the style of the Old Testament, where parents chose names for their children based on character, I chose the name PrincessDian. (The e couldn’t fit. I wasn’t so much aiming for Caucasian, anorexic and blonde—my emphasis was on the royal, kind-and-giving yet lonely aspect of the name.) I’d hated my name all my life because it’s pronounced “Dee-Anne” but spelled “Diane.” Uncomfortable in an assertive role and tired of correcting everyone, I mostly let mispronunciations slide while I stewed inside. Right around the time that I discovered I had some serious self-hate going on and decided to begin loving me, I discovered that my name meant “Divine.” What a breakthrough! 

 

I realized that my hatred and denial of the name Diane paralleled my hatred and denial of who I really was, as a woman first and as a child of God. 

 

Anyhow, I put in my request for someone tall and muscular in the age range of 35-39. No more short men or their mentalities for me. I wanted someone who could give me a piggyback ride if I asked. I also stipulated that he needed to be a Christian. Hopefully, if I mentioned the faith of Job, I’d be less likely to receive a response about the fate of my job. Educated? Definitely. I didn’t spend summers studying the dictionary as a teenager to let words like “scintillating” and “proselytizing” go to waste. But since I’m not a snob, he didn’t have to have a formal degree, just a certain level of intelligence. What I particularly liked about this medium was that I didn’t have to hurt someone’s feelings face to face. I could look at their specs (that’s computer talk for qualities) and then politely respond with a yay, nay or the kiss of death: “Let’s be friends.” 

 

I completed my page and added the makeup-free headshot from my Driver’s License. I then rounded up a good book and sat there reading (if you could call it reading—holding a book in front of you with your eyes darting back and forth like a Ping-Pong ball from book to computer screen). After sitting there expectantly for a bit, loath to answer the call of nature, I finally got up and took care of business. Upon my return, there was an email message telling me I’d received a note from Batchelor No. 1 at BP! Results! So quickly! 

 

I did a praise dance. “Somebody likes me! Somebody likes me!” Mind you, it was about 3:00 a.m. The entire household was asleep, and there I was like a slaphappy fool, celebrating like I’d won the lottery. 

 

Hey, cut me some slack. I am ready for something. Heck, you know I’ve been studying up a storm, fasting and taking care of my temple (that’s Christian talk for body) and all that good stuff. Started mending family fences, volunteering for babysitting duty. Yes, me, drop-it-when-it-wets me—babysitting. Now I’ve gotten to the point that if I have to see another movie with a family member or anyone under seventeen, there’ll be consequences and repercussions…or is that repercussions and consequences? Oh, who cares…you get my drift. 

 

Time to get a little shut-eye before I face the cold and customers.