Stuff I Didn't Say...

...to men on online dating sites

I’m in a pissy mood, so trust me when I tell you it could be worse. I have, at least, learned restraint of pen and tongue over the years. Okay, maybe not pen. Here are some interactions I didn’t have with men on Bumble and/or Hinge (the two dating apps where I can be found):

To the guy I politely texted “I enjoyed our chat, but I don’t see us as a match” after a phone call that revealed we were absolutely, undeniably not a match, and who texted back: "Well thanks for wasting my time….” Dude, we were on the phone together. You wasted the exact same amount of my time. Did that not occur to you?

To the 20-something who contacts me regularly, insisting that he’s older than the last time I told him he was too young for me: I am also older than the last time. The same amount older. Is there something in the Y chromosome that blinds people to equivalency? Does time only happen to men?

To the below-average-looking 60-year-old whose profile reads: “In an open marriage, NOT a sugar daddy…” what exactly are you offering, and to whom? Apparently neither the chance of a committed relationship nor an elegant evening out is on the menu. Is your dick magic?

To the male friends whom I know to be in relationships that I see on the apps: I’m not going to say anything to you or to your partner, because I don’t want to hurt her plus I don’t know your life. DADT (Don’t Ask Don’t Tell) is a thing, and none of my business. But my first assumption — that you’re a liar and a cheat — is statistically probably true, and it will affect how I look at you going forward.

To the guys who mark their politics as Moderate but pose with dead fish and live ammo, are unvaccinated and hate Joe Biden with a burning passion… sorry, but you’re not a Moderate. That’s not what “moderate” means.

To the guy standing next to the Lamborghini, the Ferrari or the McLaren in hopes of attracting a woman he can later complain is only interested in his money… sweetie, I can see that’s a public parking lot. If you want to persuade me that you own a fancy car, you have to take the picture in your own garage.

To all the men who have a drink in their hand in Every. Single. Profile. Picture… you might be fine. All those glasses of alcohol might be a total coincidence. But if you ever want to go to a meeting or anything, you just let me know.

---

Below is the profile photo that Bumble‘s algorithm decided should lead my profile page. I think they like it because I’m wearing tight pants. I like it because it was unposed; I was caught being delighted by an unexpected disco ball.

Closing note: I find the apps to be as frustrating as most women of a certain age do. Yes, men of my generation age-gate their matches to women my daughter-in-law’s age. Yes, the paradox of choice makes it hard to invest much time or energy into any one person. Yes, a huge percentage of the profiles are overseas scammers. (Hint: If the word “honest” or “honesty” appears more than once in his profile, he’s a fake.) Yes, people lie about their age, their height, their career and their marital status. But it’s still a fascinating amateur study in sociology. For one, it shows how the population in Southern California over age 50 is still mostly white, while the population under age 50 is anything but. That’s a big demographic shift. I also notice that there is a metric shitload of single men in their 40’s. You can’t even say it’s a Gen X or a Millennial thing, as it spans both generations. Men born in the 1970s are overrepresented, at least in this town at this time. What’s up with that?

Mostly, I wonder if dating apps are keeping us lonely by giving us the illusion of not being lonely. I can talk to men all day and all night, but I’m still sleeping with my dog. No shade on the dog; he’s a good boy. But virtual connection isn’t genuine connection, and maybe that’s why we get frustrated, and I get pissy. But I will try to keep my yap shut about it. My pen, not so much.