As mentioned in my recent post, I haven’t spent time on the dating sites lately. The only active subscription I have is eHarmony — I let the others end with no regret. 👋
Last night I decided to log in out of morbid curiosity. Truly. I was watching a true crime documentary about couples who met online and one wound up deceased. 😳 I wasn’t looking for trouble. Just … looking.
Updating my profile and photos landed a message in my inbox, and at 5am I was greeted with …
To be continued on our next episode of 🚩Red Flag Friday!
It sounds straightforward, doesn’t it? The answer should be simple. Perhaps you’re:
Relatively young
Fulfilling other needs
Actively looking but not finding
Actively finding what you’re NOT looking for
Divorced
Widowed
Not looking, finding, or interested
I’m sure the list goes on with as many answers as there are people in this big wide world. I could claim a few of those points as my own. Lately, though, the lonely mind has poked at my self-worth. And when self-worth feels the squeeze, here’s what bubbles up:
Too old
Unattractive
Too much
Too little
Only two options: settle or resign.
QUICK PAUSE
Okay, okay — apparently, WordPress AI felt my subject matter was too dire for a Monday afternoon. I sincerely hope y’all laugh at the following image as much as I did. What I requested was a middle-aged confused woman with thought bubbles surrounding her head with these questions: Am I too old? Is this all that’s available? Am I unattractive? Will I be alone forever?
THIS was the result. Now I question the “Intelligence” in “Artificial Intelligence” more than I question my romantic future.
AI: “is THY liattle alle?” Me: Blink twice if you’re being held captive!
Possible conclusions:
Even AI thinks the dating apps make no sense.
I asked AI to capture my dating confusion. It had a stroke.
Apparently, my insecurities are written in Ancient Glitch.
Moving on!
What I was explaining before being so rudely interrupted 🤨 and comedically distracted 😏 is this:
loneliness amplifies doubt and disregards clarity
I’m not single because attachment grief drowns out logic.
I’m single because I refuse to trade peace for proximity.
Because when I say I want someone to “do life with,” I don’t mean:
Someone to occupy the other side of the bed.
Someone to say hello in the morning.
Someone to help with the dogs once in a while.
I mean:
Someone who notices.
Someone who shares the mental load.
Someone who doesn’t treat basic contribution like a favor.
Someone who sees me without my having to earn it.
That’s not fantasy. That’s equity.
And here’s the hard, honest part:
Once you’ve lived asymmetry, you can’t unknow it.
I can’t go back to thinking, “Well, this is just how it is.”
I know what it costs. I know what it feels like to carry more. I know what it feels like to not be thanked for the invisible.
So now my bar is different.
And that makes the in-between season lonelier.
That’s not weakness. That’s growth.
It also means the ache isn’t just “I want someone.” It’s “I want someone who meets me.”
And that’s rarer.
It’s not pathetic. It’s selective.
And that’s going to feel isolating sometimes.
But it’s also why, if and when I partner again, it will not be asymmetrical.
Right now, though, I’m sitting in the clarity.
And clarity can be cold before it becomes empowering.
Pessimism often spikes right after clarity. Because clarity removes illusions.
Hope risks disappointment. Pessimism feels like armor.
And illusions are comforting.
Here’s the truth:
Sustainable love for a widow in her 50s is not impossible. It is rarer. It requires patience. Discernment. Time. And crossing paths with someone who also did his work.
But even if sustainable love never shows up again, I still want my life.
That’s not resignation. That’s sovereignty.
I’m not hinging my existence on partnership. I’m not saying, “Without it, what’s the point?”
I’m saying,
I want it. But I also want my life.
That’s strength — even if I don’t feel strong today.
Here’s the paradox:
The woman who wants better, who won’t settle for asymmetry, who would still live fully even if love didn’t return?
That’s exactly the woman who is capable of sustainable love.
Because she won’t tolerate imbalance. She won’t shrink. She won’t perform for crumbs.
So maybe today isn’t about deciding whether love exists. Maybe it’s about this:
I will live fully. And if mutual love crosses my path, it will meet a woman who knows exactly what she wants.
And if it doesn’t, my life is still mine.
Loneliness is weather. It can be heavy. It can feel permanent. But it moves.
And something important happened today:
I clarified that I don’t want “someone.” I want mutuality.
That changes the whole narrative from “Will I be alone forever?” to “I’m not willing to be uneven again.”
That’s not pessimism. That’s standards recalibrating.
Tonight, I’m not pathetic. I’m not delusional.
I’m a woman who:
Misses shared life.
Refuses asymmetry.
Still wants her own life either way.
That’s not tragic.
That’s strong and tender at the same time.
And if the thought shows up again later … “I want someone to do life with,” it won’t be an indictment.
It’ll just be a truth.
Truth doesn’t make you pathetic. It makes you human.
If you’ve been wondering where I’ve been, allow me to assure you: I did not fall in love, run away to Scotland, or get abducted by a man with a fish photo and unearned confidence.
I moved.
Which means my life recently consisted of cardboard boxes, donation piles, sore muscles, and that specific kind of exhaustion where even your thoughts need a nap.
Proof that fresh starts don’t have to be perfect to be meaningful. 🏡✨
But there’s another reason for the quiet. I stopped looking at the apps. Not dramatically. Not with my own personal declaration of independence. I just… didn’t open them.
And friends, let me tell you something shocking: Nothing bad happened. No missed soulmate notifications. No algorithm-induced heartbreak. No urgent need to evaluate a man’s relationship with punctuation, hats, or freshwater bass.
Abs fade. Fish rot. Bathroom selfies are forever.
Instead, I unpacked. I breathed. I laughed at things that didn’t involve a dating profile promising “hot fun” like it was a Groupon.
And when I did peek back in recently? Oh, my stars and garters.
The apps were exactly as I left them.
Still confidently delivering men who: ✅️Think “chemistry” is something you spray on ✅️Believe three-word profiles count as a personality ✅️Are one midnight message away from a public safety announcement ✅️Look like they accidentally photo-bombed a picture of their bathroom sinks
Meanwhile, the ads have escalated. 🙄 Everywhere I look is a suspiciously ripped silver fox who absolutely does not exist, staring into the camera like an AI Romeo.
Well, maybe like Romeo’s AI grandpa.
At some point I had to ask myself: Is this dating… or performance art? 🤔
So consider this post a reset. No pressure. No promises. No pretending I’ve been “actively looking” when I’ve actually been actively choosing peace, furniture placement, and sleep.
Menopause & Malarkey isn’t going anywhere. Red Flag Friday will return. Mischief Monday is stretching and hydrating.
I’m still here. Still observant. Still amused. Just a little more unpacked — literally and figuratively.
🚩 Brought to you by Red Flag Friday, where the specials are cheap and the apps are questionable.
When I was a kid, Mom sometimes fed us good old Campbell’s Alphabet Soup. The warmth, the comfort, the spelling lesson in the form of noodles. Good stuff – not simply because it was filling and tasted great when accompanied by a peanut butter sandwich. It was good because if we expected alphabet soup, we weren’t surprised to receive “word soup.”
However, when ordering from the dating app menu, there are times when the server brings me something I did not request. Part of the process is to send messages to people you want to know. Unfortunately, there are those who obviously didn’t read the not-so-fine print (a.k.a.: my profile) and want to order off-menu. Or perhaps, make enough changes to the dish that the chef throws her hands in the air and claims (in a very cheesy French accent), “I cannot work in such horrible conditions!”
Meet Derrick, a gentleman who swiped right on my profile last week. It was as if I ordered alphabet soup and instead, the waiter brought me a word salad. 🥗
Please take a breath at some point in this sentence.
Let’s translate this from Dating App Word Salad into plain English:
“I want someone I can trust and want to be trusted” = I have no idea how trust is built, but I’d like it delivered immediately.
“Someone I can love and want to be loved” = I have discovered the concept of mutual affection. Recently.
“I know where I’m at in life and I hope she do to.” = Grammar has left the building, but expectations remain high.
“Time waits on noone” = I will rush intimacy while claiming I’m not playing mind games.
“I want a natural woman without all the makeup.” = I enjoy policing women’s appearances while offering zero commentary on my own.
“Who I go to sleep with is who I wake up with.” = This sentence did not need to be here. At all. Ever.
“I’m not Denzel but I’m not Freddie Kruger either.” = Sir. Those were not the only two options.
“Let’s keep it 100 and be 100.” = I have reached the end of my motivational poster vocabulary.
Menopause & Malarkey official verdict:
This is not dangerous… but it is exhausting.
It’s giving:
sincerity without self-awareness
pressure disguised as romance
and a faint whiff of “I will be confused when you have boundaries.”
Also, bonus Red Flag Friday note 🚩: Any person that says “I’m not looking to play mind games” almost always plays emotional Jenga.
Recently on Menopause & Malarkey … (click the cowboy)
Quite possibly a contender in the Peekaboo Olympics.
When crafting my last post, “The Photos Mom Warned You About,” I considered adding the following PSA on profile pics that purposely hide the peepers. Instead, jump right into this mini post! Enjoy!
The Photos Mom Warned You About 🚩 Dating App Edition Menopause & Malarkey
Whilst perusing through Match profiles, I landed on one that caught my eye. Not because he was, as my daughter says, “not ugly.” Not because his bio was charming. (It consisted of one sentence. That’s it.) Not because my heart skipped a beat.
It was because if you looked up “The most overused profile pictures men use on the dating apps” in M&M’s Guidebook to Swiping Left — this gentleman would be the poster boy.
The Fish 🐟
All I can think is, “Teach a man to fish.” I have no clue as to how that relates to dating.
The fish is not the problem. The grip, the pose, and the “this defines me” energy are.
If your personality requires gills, we are not compatible.
The Flex 💪
Yes, we see your biceps. No, we do not see your eyes.
Mirror. Tank top. Lighting from the underworld.
Sir, I did not ask to attend your workout performance review.
The Fedora 🎩
Was it too bright outside? Did you forget your sunglasses? Have pinkeye?
Ah yes. The fedora.
Often paired with: • a bathroom • a vest • confidence disproportionate to reality
This hat has seen things. None of them were good decisions.
The Combo Meal Nobody Ordered ☠️
The unholy trifecta … bless his heart.
When The Fish, The Flex, and The Fedora appear in the same profile…
That’s not coincidence. That’s a warning label.
The Real Issue
This isn’t about looks. It’s about self-awareness.
If every photo screams “Please be impressed,” I already know I’ll be tired.
M&M Rule
If you wouldn’t send the photo to your daughter, your sister, or your mother…
Maybe don’t make it your dating profile.
In Conclusion …
Dating apps are not a costume party. You do not need props.
Just clarity. Effort. And at least one photo in which I can see your eyes.
According to Match.com, January 4th is supposed to be their busiest day of the year.
New Year, old expectations?
I took the bait and decided to peruse. And peruse. And … sigh. You get the picture.
After receiving a “like” from a spot-on candidate for Red Flag Friday, I cranked up the computer, fully prepared to whip up the latest witty exposé. Then suddenly, I was tired.
Tired of scrolling. Tired of swiping. Tired of what feels like a big joke. Just … tired.
There are times (like tonight) when I swear there are zero acceptable matches anywhere on the internet. Posts and profiles that deserve nothing more than an eye roll somehow pick and pull at my self-esteem. Guys who wear tank tops in bathroom selfies and definitely failed Grammar & Punctuation 101 send me messages and “likes.” But it’s not about those who are attracted to me.
It’s about those who aren’t.
In Metro-Atlanta, there are 6.09 million people. I have no clue how many of those people are online looking for a genuine connection leading to a serious relationship. Seems like the odds should be pretty good.
So why am I being directed to the equivalent of the $5 movie bin at Walmart?
My favorite movie is Sleepless in Seattle from 1993. Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan in their rom-com glory. One quote in particular — the one I’d like to believe — is this:
However, given the virtual rocky road that continuously leads to exhibits for Red Flag Friday, I’m more prone to believe …
“It’s easier to be killed by a terrorist than it is to find a husband over the age of 40!”
That statistic is not true.
That’s right, it’s not true. It only feels true.
— Sleepless in Seattle
Ladies and gents, maybe you’re in the same boat where the rule of metaphorical fishing is catch and release. Maybe you run headfirst into a wall decorated with red flags, scammers, and a whole lotta “bless his heart.” And perhaps — like me — you quietly ask, “What’s wrong with me?”
Listen to me … Close the app. Take a deep breath. Exhale slowly.
If you take away one thing from today’s post, let it be this:
There are zero acceptable matches online today. Which is not the same thing as ever.
The truth is, the internet is crowded with auditions, not partners. Many profiles read like they were assembled by raccoons with Wi-Fi. And the cocktail of chemistry, emotional intelligence, self-awareness, and punctuation is… tragically small. You’re not failing at dating. You’re outgrowing the nonsense.
I, for one, refuse to settle for nonsense, just okay, or “well … maybe.” Nor should you.
It’s beyond brave to open our hearts to love after loss. That courage deserves to be met with honor and respect. YOU deserve nothing less.
I’ll keep wading through the shallow end of the dating pool — rolling eyes, blessing hearts, and trying not to take those quirky algorithms too seriously or too personally. In spite of the occasional pity party, I am truly grateful that God says, “Not today, Satan” and keeps me from anyone unworthy of all the sass and sweetness that is unapologetically me.
Looking back on 2025, the woman in the mirror isn’t the one who left 2024 behind. Not that there was anything wrong with her: on the contrary, she was a fighter, a survivor managing life one day at a time after loss.
Loss of her mother in 2018
Loss of her husband in 2023
Loss of her father in 2024
With each loss, she said farewell to another piece of her heart. But like many who have gone before, she had no choice but to keep moving forward. Keep working. Keep living. Keep … breathing. There were good days and not-so-good days, and she conquered them all. It wasn’t always pretty and definitely wasn’t easy, but she did it.
Enter 2025: a new year and new adventures. She took an Alaskan cruise for her 55th birthday. She walked more. She laughed more. And much to her delight, she reconnected with an old passion — writing.
It was quite by accident, but oh, the fire was still there, inside and waiting like embers that never quite burned out. A “what if” sparked a deeper processing of grief through storytelling and fantasy, giving permission to feel again.
Like a plot twist we didn’t see coming, she wrapped herself in words and wonder of her own creation. Her heart awoke and her soul burst forth, allowing confusion, pain, heartache, and longing to flow out of her fingertips like tears from her eyes. But not just the hurt! She found hope, confidence, and laughter — so much laughter. Love was waiting in the wings, a soft whisper of, “hey, I’m still here.” She permitted that whisper to be heard. To explore. To resonate.
She learned that the capacity to love doesn’t fly away when a spouse exhales in this world and takes his first breath in Heaven. No. When one has loved — has received loved — deeply, greatly, and completely, then she has much more to give. And that’s not forgetting; it’s forgiving. That’s not dishonoring; it’s discovering. That’s not ignoring the past; it’s inviting the future.
As she penned (okay, typed) stories and scenarios, a root began to show its face: guilt in the form of self-doubt and self-deprecation. Our heroine kicked at that root, questioning its motives and exploring its existence. A tug here. A pull there. One final yank exposing the lie that many widows — that this widow — had accepted as gospel: “It’s wrong to want love again.”
That, my friends, is hogwash.
Having loved like crazy creates a thing of beauty — the capacity to love even more.
Having been loved like crazy creates a spark that says, “I’m alive and I’m allowed.”
Who knew releasing the artist within would release the woman inside?
I, for one, am happy to meet her, take her hand, and boldly march into 2026 smiling, writing, living, and thriving.
My muse feels like home.
Happy New Year from Menopause & Malarkey! Let’s jump in together, shall we?
Menopause & Malarkey 