Most humbling moment? You’re in it

Warning: The following is a snapshot from my Internet dating career. Please don’t let my incompetence dissuade you from pursuing the man/woman of your dreams. He/she is out there. Perhaps not in L.A., or even North America, but out there. Somewhere. No, really.

Starbucks, 2 p.m.

I’m here for an Internet date, but I’m pretty sure I look like I’m going to rob the place. Nervously eyeing the customers, I try to pick out my future wife/soulmate/Scrabble partner. Right now, in thousands of Starbucks across this great land, scenes like this are taking place. My “date” never posted a picture, but I do know she’s 5 feet, 7 inches and carrying a “hot pink” folder. When I joked in one of my e-mails that pink was sort of a cool color, she quickly countered, “I’m not wearing hot pink.” Hey, thanks for playing along.

Six weeks earlier

My online dating “profile” picture looks a bit off. My hair’s misbehaving and I’m wearing a T-shirt, but it’s the only photo I have. I’m a guy who’ll have to compensate with the always in-demand “sense of humor.” I’ll charm these gals with razor-sharp wit, a hint of self-deprecation and cool pop-culture references. The weapons of choice for those of us who don’t look like Matt or Ben, and don’t have a TV show like Bill “Would he be carousing with Playmates without one?” Maher. My personal opinion: not likely.

I choose the hippest, non-cheesiest online personal ad service I can find. The site has offbeat profile questions like “In my bedroom you’ll find ... “ and “Most humbling moment.” My response to the first: “A boulevard of broken dreams. And a ceiling fan.” As far as humbling moment: “Worked as a substitute teacher. Called into the principal’s office and was fired after four days.” Don’t ask.

My ad posted, I prepare to entertain offers from L.A.’s most interesting women. Suffice to say, I retire to my sleeping chambers with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.

One week later

Not a single response. I purchase vodka, heavy rope and a staple gun. Then it hits me. Much like the non-Internet world, I’m going to have to do the “asking out.” Back to the keyboard. I narrow my search to women between 39 and 45 (I’m 42, but look 41) who live within 25 miles of me. Overall, I make very few restrictions. I could, for example, eliminate drinkers, drug users, Celine Dion fans, money launderers and smokers (I don’t light up myself), but my goal is to meet as many women as possible. The two therapists I had -- before the one who recommended the one I have now -- both said the same thing: “It’s about quantity.” How true. Just ask Charlie Sheen. My search allows for profiles with or without pictures, which I take as a sign that I’m not as shallow as I truly aspire to be. I’m also open to every race, creed and color on the menu. Let them eliminate me, I cry. I move my hand to the mouse and click “search.”

Hello, ladies!

I come up with about 50 or so “matches.” Despite my quantity pledge, I do some winnowing. While I’d love to woo Cameron Diaz’s spitting image, I blow past the “good-looking women” who claim to be looking for “good-looking men.” I also find people overly concerned with birth signs a bit creepy, although for no apparent reason I do draw the line at women born during the Chinese Year of the Hare.

My upcoming coffee date with the hot pink folder teaches freshman English at a local university, which appeals to me. I respond to her ad by saying I find her occupation “refreshing.” It’s true. I have a thing for teachers. She quickly suggests we meet in person. “I’m really new at this,” she writes. “And I don’t trust the Internet as a way to really know somebody.” Wow. We agree on a time and a Starbucks.

Starbucks, 3 p.m.

Nice folder! Actually more magenta than pink, but who am I to quibble? Oh, and my date’s pretty cute too. Still, I get the distinct impression that she’s not real interested. She’s very bright, quite personable but, alas, a bit distant. So we meet, we chat, we sip, but in the end, like lots of other Internet dates, we lie about getting together again.

I walk out to the parking lot murmuring something about celibacy and the priesthood, but for a nonreligious guy like myself, it seems like a longshot. Besides, black makes me look fat.

Howard Leff can be reached at weekend@latimes.com.