My friend Kathryn got married on our anniversary. Her September wedding, a traditional Jewish affair on Martha’s Vineyard, marked the end of our year-long expedition into online-dating.

 

One reason I asked her to be my partner in this venture is because we have so much in common. We’ve both worried while watching our children move toward adulthood in fits and starts.

 

We’ve both been long-lost in celibate mazes of self-doubt, the aftermath of painful, bewildering breakups. We both celebrate tenuous triumph over chronic illness -- she cancer, me MS. We’re both professional women in our fifties. 

 

To be truthful, we’re both workaholics, although I pride myself on being in recovery thanks to forced retirement. Kathryn still seeks solace in the assembly line of frail elderly she cares for. 

 

Perhaps because I had more time and fewer distractions, I was less reluctant to wade into the Internet. Kathryn had to be persuaded to stick her burnt toes into the unknown waters of cyber-relationships. 

 

“My patients … what if one of them sees my profile?” Brown eyes project a deer-in-the-headlights quality from a protective cover of curly salt and pepper brush.

 

“It’s anonymous,” I explain. “We make up names.  You don’t have to post a photo -- though the web site says that pictures increase your chances of someone contacting you.”

 

Sucking in her breath, Kathryn hands over her credit card and moves in beside me on the sofa.  I type in her chosen user name:  Sprite Doc.  The appellation captures her elf-like essence.  Watching the screen over my shoulder, she feeds me the web site’s required information: her gender and age, preferred gender and age range for potential matches, how far and how long she’s willing to search. 

 

She casts a two hundred mile net from Maine to Rhode Island and selects the six-month option.  It’s the best deal.

 

It’s my turn and there’s a glitch.  The site’s techno-geek programmers have united my computer with Kathryn’s user name. Now I will be forever Sprite Doc.

 

I’m disappointed that I can’t use my chosen handle, Mama Doc, since it captured my conflicting passions for work and family.  But my involuntary identity brings one advantage.  Another unalterable data bit lops three years off my age.

 

Sounds like a good deal for me, too.  I’ll get her options.  I click the icon to view my first set of computer-generated matches.

 

Fifty photos of New England women pop up.

 

I am straight.

 

Kathryn is gay.