Finding love in 25 words

A carefully guarded secret among single Angelenos is our complicated relationship with personal ads.

Despite their dubious success rate, and regardless of the fact that many people find themselves unable to use the words “personal” and “ad” in a sentence without also inserting the word “loser,” the ads exert a magnetic pull.

Slumped in a chair, our lips curled cynically, we scan the columns -- only to lurch forward, heart fluttering as we home in on a particular ad and murmur (quietly if we’re in Starbucks), “Whoa, this is pretty amazing. We’re both slender. We both like wine. And a Pisces to boot!”

Not only are the personals proof of our enduring optimism in the face of relentless romantic adversity, but they also bring out the latent matchmaker in each of us.

Do your fellow singles ever remind you of drowning victims, who go down for the third time and then pop up again, spitting a lot but looking around gamely, certain that a life preserver is going to hit them on the head any second?

Someone with a breakup history more jagged than the hem of Tinkerbell’s skirt (SWF, petite, athletic, glows in the dark) may stumble occasionally, but will never give up. Consider the following ad, currently running in a local newspaper:

SF, 50, N/S, mother and grandmother, looking for SM, 42-54, who isn’t a player or a cheater.

Reading between the lines, we surmise that at least one of SF’s former partners wrestled with fidelity issues. Certainly, trust has been violated. It would be understandable if this woman gave up, or at least confined herself to blind dates arranged by an elderly relative.

But she lives in L.A. Deep down she knows there’s someone waiting for her: someone tall, dark and faithful who deserves her. Maybe her sister urges her to meet a man the old-fashioned way. Join a church or temple. Take a square-dancing class. Go to bars. But something -- she can’t explain it -- draws her to the classifieds.

Then, on the same page, not four inches away from her ad, is this one, composed by someone who clearly is no stranger to romantic turbulence:

SWM, 42, N/S, seeks a very affectionate WF, 30-50, no trauma, no drama.

You reread it. Nonsmoker? Check! Age compatible? Check! It’s not just me, is it? You want to fix them up, too. In fact you’re seriously thinking about calling that 900 number and leaving him a message: “Dude! Fourth ad from the top in the second column! Pick up the phone!”

I cannot be the only person who recently noticed two ads running concurrently, both headed “Lonely in Long Beach.” One was from a man seeking a woman; the other was from a SF (I believe she was a massage therapist) looking for a nice guy. To think of them there in Long Beach, so near yet so far apart, was almost too much. What if she doesn’t see his ad, I thought. What if they never, ever meet. Where is Long Beach, exactly?

On another page, two separate ads include the phrase “You won’t be disappointed.”

My dad says this when he’s recommending a new chip he’s discovered at Trader Joe’s. But to say it about oneself demonstrates a level of assurance that I feel could, on its own, form the base of a solid relationship.

When composing personal ads, Los Angeles singles consistently employ such glowing terminology that the classified pages themselves generate actual measurable wattage.

I find myself imagining a couple of women from Pluto arriving in L.A. to research Earth people. (They meant to get off in DeKalb, Ill., but -- pilot error.) They buy a paper and go for coffee at the Downbeat Cafe on Alvarado, where they sit outdoors and read all of the personal ads word for word. It is conclusive, they trill to each other, their huge green eyeballs revolving as they suck lattes through holes in their foreheads. Everyone who lives here is warm, communicative, shapely, adventurous, sensitive, successful, attractive, spiritual, witty, romantic, muscular and intuitive. We must take a specimen for cloning.

If some L.A. singles have a tendency toward fact flexibility when describing ourselves, it stems not from any desire to mislead but from our unshakeable belief in ourselves and our romantic destiny. We offer the self we know we could be on a good day, reasoning that that self will attract the person we actually deserve.

So I wonder: If we all stopped impersonating Ford dealers when composing our ads, what would happen? Would people stop reading the personals because the ads are so boring? Or would the city erupt in a cacophony of wedding bells clanging, champagne corks popping, feet pounding down the aisles of Rite-Aid in search of condoms?

I say we try it. What have we got to lose?

Shy GM seeks same for fun times. Likes cheese, all kinds.

You won’t be disappointed.

Leni Fleming can be reached at [email protected].