Christmas and nostalgia often go hand in hand. Sometimes that old, familiar longing settles a little too heavily in my chest, causing my heart to ache and my eyes to sting. Memories seem to have their own pulse — one that keeps beating in my ears, again and again.
I planned to make a list of what I miss about Christmas. I rummaged through old photos and found several gems — ghosts of Christmas past. But instead of making a list (and checking it twice), I chose something different.
Here are a few moments, captured on film and held in my heart. ❤️
When Dad had 70s hair. Before elf on the shelf, there were four on the floor.Before matching pajamas. Before filters. Before we knew what a ‘vibe’ was. Christmas, 1970s edition.1976: Mom in the middle. All of us close.Grampy and Grammy, circa 1985. Christmas with the people who made it feel safe, warm, and steady.A quiet moment between my grandma and my baby sister.Matching dresses, tiny hands, and Christmas magic — 1994.Christmas 1997 — me in the middle, holding the whole world in my lap.Two sisters, one giant bear, and a season full of magic.The beginning of us. Before we knew how much life we’d share—or how deeply I’d love this man.Saying “I do,” surrounded by our family and the certainty that this was home.After the ceremony—just us, winter air, and a promise.Same lights, new little faces.
Our last Christmas with Steve. We celebrated later than planned. I’m grateful we did.
Nostalgia braided with sadness isn’t weakness. It’s love with nowhere to land right now.
Some nights, the date-iverse is too much to handle.
Scratch that.
MOST nights of seeking a genuine connection via dating apps in 2025 are uninspired.
I have reached the point where I don’t visit the Kmart clearance rack of poor punctuation and shirtless shenanigans unless I receive a notification. (Hmm, wonder if I can assign an ominous tone to it 🤔) But, I digress.
In four days, my subscription to Chapter 2 (a site specifically for widows and widowers) will expire. I shan’t be renewing. Not that I have anything against the site; I’m just, well, tired.
Four days until the finish line.
Still plenty of time for interested suitors to come a-callin’.
So when a message popped up, I took a gander at his profile.
When you’re the emotional support airplane for a woman who keeps getting matched with men 1,600 miles away.
My reply was polite.
“Thank you, but 1,600 miles isn’t conducive to building a relationship.”
His response, also cordial, carried the aroma of snowflakes, cocoa, and Hallmark. ❄️☕️💕
“If two hearts connect, no distance is too far.”
Sir. I am 55 years old. Driving down the street to Kroger is too far. 🚗🤷🏼♀️
As humorous as “Men without Maps” can be, the truth is —
It makes me sad. I find myself sitting here contemplating if a long distance friendship could be possible. But then I ask, what if he’s another scammer with a decent grasp of grammar?
That right there — that exact emotional seesaw — is the honest human cost of dating in 2025.
It’s not just frustration. It’s not just annoyance. It’s not even the exhaustion of dodging Keith Sweat disciples, and men whose job title is “Boss at Self-Employed.”
It’s the sadness beneath the snark. That little ache of:
“What if he’s real?” versus “What if he’s not?”
Ladies, if you’re rowing in this boat too, listen up:
You’re not soft for thinking it. You’re not foolish. You’re not naïve. You’re human. You’ve lost real love. You’ve lived real life. You know what connection feels like — and how rare it is.
So when someone shows up sounding… normal, kind, respectful, gentle, and not shirtless in front of the bathroom mirror … your heart can’t help but tilt its head a little.
Because part of you wants to believe a good man might still exist — even if he’s 1,600 miles away, even if he’s just a pleasant blip in the algorithmic chaos.
But then?
The reality of dating in 2025 barges in wearing a name tag, shouting:
“SCAMMER! FLUNKED GEOGRAPHY & CARTOGRAPHY! TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE!”
And you’re left in limbo between hope and heartbreak, without ever having met the man.
It’s the quiet sadness of:
“I don’t want to be played. ”
“I don’t want to be disappointed.”
“I don’t want to waste emotional energy.”
“I don’t want to be fooled.”
“But… what if he was just nice?”
It’s the emotional equivalent of standing at the window watching birds — one might be beautiful, but at any moment it could squawk, steal your fries, and fly away.
Still… there’s something tender in you wanting to believe in friendship. That’s not weakness. That’s wisdom wearing softness. That’s a heart with miles on it — but still open enough to feel.
Brought to you by Menopause & Malarkey — where the flags are many and the patience is limited.
Ladies… I present to you a man who is:
“Boss at Self-Employed” (Translation: The boss, the employee, the HR department, and also currently on an unpaid lunch break… indefinitely.)
80 miles away but behaving like we’re all just out here ready to road-trip for romance like it’s 1995.
And — be still my heart — his entire music section is Keith Sweat. Not a sprinkle. Not a vibe. Not a nostalgic “one song on a playlist.” No, ma’am. Keith. Sweat. Or. Bust. This man is out here preparing to beg somebody through a cassette deck.
But wait… the photos.
Ohhh, the photos.
We have:
• The Glamour Cowboy: A wide-brimmed hat, aviators, and a shirt so bright it’s gotta wear shades. He’s giving “Line dancing at noon, sermon at three, vibes by Keith Sweat at five.”
• The Close-Up That Didn’t Need to Be a Close-Up: Half a forehead. Part of a visor. A sprinkle of existential dread. Thank you for this offering.
• The Truck Cab Philosophical Hour: “Cool drama free cool as a fan” (Sir… you wrote “cool” twice. And for that reason alone, I have questions.)
And yet — YET — the best part?
He proudly lists Beauty as an interest.
BEAUTY. Dude, you are Keith-Sweat-ing in a Ford F-150 with an Instagram filter from 2013.
—
Verdict:
🚩🚩🚩MULTIPACK RED FLAGS. We’re talking Costco-level quantities.
Would I swipe right? No.
Would I make a meme out of him? Already did.
Some men come with careers, ambition, and financial stability. Others come with Keith Sweat, a cowboy hat, and a mysterious lack of tax documents. Choose wisely. 😔🔥
Grief is weird. I’ve said this at least a hundred times since losing Steve nearly three years ago. It doesn’t wait for an invitation. It doesn’t arrive when expected. There is no dress code or checklist. There are zero boundaries — it shows up when it wants, where it wants, and how it wants. There are special occasions such as birthdays, holidays, and anniversaries when I anticipate and fully expect sadness, only to find the tears stay away. There are random workdays when, for no particular rhyme or reason, I sit at my desk and pray nobody stops to talk because the floodgates are wide open.
And then there are days like today. Numb.
As a child, my family lived in the “suburbs” of a town with a whopping population of about 6,000 people. In other words, we lived on the outskirts of the middle of nowhere. So when a new kid moved in down the road, it took about five minutes for us to become friends. Her name was Dawn, and she was friendly and bubbly, and we hit it off immediately. I believe I was in fourth grade and she was in fifth when we met, and weekends became adventures on our bikes or walking the back roads, sleepovers with Mad Libs and makeup, or afternoons listening to her parents’ albums from the 70s or our cassette tapes featuring Madonna or Cyndi Lauper.
As we got older, summers were spent sunbathing with baby oil on our skin and Sun-In on our hair. Topics turned to boys, clothes, boys, hair, boys. She started high school a year before I did, so I had the inside scoop when it was my turn to enter those daunting halls lined with lockers and smelling like floor wax and teenage dreams. Our conversations grew deeper, secrets became sacred, and tears were accepted without judgement. We called each other “Sis,” because that’s what we were.
Me and Dawn circa 1986
Somewhere along the way, we grew up. Moments became memories. Life got harder. Dawn and I still talked, laughed, cried, shared secrets and dreamed dreams. When she got married, I was her maid of honor. When I was pregnant, she spent the night when my husband was working. We had each other’s backs — not because we always agreed, but because we always loved.
Like many childhood friendships, time and distance somehow slipped in; phone calls were fewer, miles were farther, and life got in the way. But when we reconnected, time wasn’t a factor. Our friendship witnessed love and loss, children growing and husbands leaving, aging parents and adult choices.
And cancer.
Steve’s cancer.
Then her cancer.
Steve’s passing.
And now, hers.
Grief is weird. Because even when you see it coming, it doesn’t always land like you think it should. It’s not always loud. It doesn’t always scream. There aren’t always tears. Sometimes, it looks like staring at old pictures and feeling nothing.
A Rare Moment of Applause in the Dating-App Wilderness
Every now and then, in the endless scroll of shirtless gym bros, filtered-to-oblivion selfies, and men who lead with their Halloween alter ego like it’s a personality trait…
A hero appears.
Today, that man is Rob, 55.
He did something almost no one on Facebook Dating remembers how to do anymore: He crafted a profile with structure. With restraint. With logic.
Let’s break down the magic:
✅ Photo #1: A normal, friendly, fully clothed human man
Good lighting. Relaxed expression. No sunglasses indoors. No nostril selfie. A rare and delightful start.
✅ Real-life pics first, costume pic last
This is the hallmark of a gentleman who understands:
> “My Captain Jack Sparrow moment is a bonus, not a warning.”
The pirate photo wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t his opener. It was the dessert at the end of the menu — optional, sweet, and mess-free.
✅ A bio that doesn’t read like an obituary
Simple, straightforward, not dripping with desperation or “I’m just a simple man looking for a simple girl.” Just enough personality to show he’s real. Not enough to make you run.
⭐ The M&M Verdict
I swiped right. Not because I’m picking out a dress. Not because expectations are sky-high. But because sometimes you have to acknowledge when someone actually did the homework.
Rob, sir, wherever you are… Menopause & Malarkey salutes you. 🫡 Not for perfection. Not even for chemistry. But for remembering the golden rule of online dating:
> “Lead with the man. Save the pirate for last.” 🦜
You and I have been in a relationship for a while now. I give you my clicks, my scrolls, my late-night searches for boots and bookcases. In return, you’re supposed to get to know me.
But lately? You’ve been getting a little too familiar… and somehow still wildly wrong.
Exhibit A: BBW Cupid
You slid into my feed whispering: “Looking for a man who will accept you just the way you are?”
Bless your heart, someone out there will love you!
Sir. Ma’am. Binary-system of baloney.
Why are you talking to me like I just admitted my darkest insecurity into your algorithmic confessional?
You’re not uplifting me. You’re patting me on the head.
“Oh sweetheart, don’t worry, someone will love you.”
Women don’t need pity served in a stock-photo romance wrapper. We need honesty. We need respect. We need you to stop acting like we’re projects, not people.
Exhibit B: WooPlus Gym-Bro Energy
Then came the lumbering wall of muscle proclaiming: “Dear plus size girls… You are appreciated by gym bros.”
All this could be yours, sweetie.
Appreciated. APPRECIATED???
Algorithm, be serious.
This man looks like he drinks creatine like communion wine and benches jet skis recreationally. He has never once in his life typed the phrase “plus size.”
But you want me to believe he’s waiting to sweep me off my curvy feet?
No. Stop it. Be so for real.
Exhibit C: The Copy-Paste Casanova
This morning — the SAME day I wrote about false advertising — you delivered a message from a man 900 miles away who:
speaks in Victorian run-on sentences
wants to “use me as a model of beauty”
and sounds like ChatGPT’s Renaissance-fair cousin
No. Caption. Needed.
Even Chapter 2 went: “We will investigate this and he sounds beyond creepy.”
When the dating site itself is concerned? That’s when you KNOW.
Here’s the part I need you to hear, Algorithm:
These ads… they don’t hurt because I’m lonely. They don’t land because I’m insecure. They don’t sting because I think I’m unlovable.
They hurt because they treat plus-size women like we need special permission to hope.
Like we need reassurance. Like we should be grateful. Like love is something available — but only if we accept a pity narrative wrapped in fake empowerment.
You take the most vulnerable demographic — women who have survived loss, divorce, trauma, disappointment — and you sell them a fantasy rooted in condescension, not connection.
You dress it up in Hallmark cinematography: Thin pretty girl = mean. Curvy bakery owner = warms the lumberjack’s heart. Roll credits.
But real life isn’t a Christmas movie. And curvy women are not consolation prizes.
So listen closely, Algorithm:
I am a plus-size woman. I know who I am. I know what I offer.
I don’t need your curated pity campaigns. I don’t need validation from an ad. And I certainly don’t need fake “appreciation” from a gym bro.
If a man wants me, he will want me — my mind, my humor, my history, my heart — not because an app “targets” me, but because I’m worth targeting on my own merits.
And so are millions of other women who deserve real love, real honesty, and real dignity.
You don’t get to define our worth. You don’t get to diagnose our loneliness. You don’t get to prey on our scars.
So knock it off. Do better.
Signed, A woman who is Too wise for ghosting, Too tired for games, And way, WAY too caffeinated for your nonsense today.
— Menopause & Malarkey 🔥💙
What about you? Have you gotten an ad that made you say, “EXCUSE ME, ALGORITHM??” Drop it in the comments — this is a safe space, and your stories deserve to be heard (and laughed about).
A reflection on late-blooming strength, rediscovered creativity, and the surprising places healing takes us.
There are moments in life when you look backward, then forward, then at the ground beneath your feet — and you realize you’re standing somewhere you never imagined, stronger than you expected.
This week, I caught myself feeling something I haven’t felt in a long time: proud. grounded. steady. And maybe most importantly… ready.
Ready for what? Not men. Not dating apps. Not romance with a side of mystery shovels. Ready for me.
Ready to keep writing.
Not the timid scribbles I used to produce in my 20s, but the bold, layered, soulful work that only comes with time — and life — and loss — and joy — and more experience than anyone ever asks for.
My creativity didn’t return quietly. She came back at 55 with sass, steel, and an entire toolbox of stories she refused to keep inside my chest any longer. She came with decades of women’s wisdom, mother-worry, step-parent diplomacy, blended family chaos, heartbreak, healing, gray hair earned the honest way, and a bachelor’s degree I fought my way toward at 47.
She came back mature, fierce, vulnerable, funny, gritty, and brilliant in ways my 25-year-old self couldn’t even dream of.
Ready to honor the life I’ve lived.
Two marriages that ended on purpose. One that ended out of my control. Daughters who grew into women. Grandkids who became pure magic in human form. Parents who left too soon. A husband whose death changed the shape of my soul. Jobs, losses, reinventions, dogs with big personalities and tiny bladders, and holding space for my kids when their own hearts broke.
Every bit of it taught me something. Every bit of it honed me. Every bit of it brought me here.
Ready to embrace the quiet triumphs.
The kind that don’t make noise. The kind that happen in soft moments. The kind that whisper, not shout:
“You made it. And you’re okay.”
Sometimes that looks like writing a chapter that feels like truth. Sometimes it looks like house-sitting with three snoring dogs. Sometimes it looks like remembering you once slept in a room with someone you loved who’s no longer here — and choosing grace for your own heart when it feels unsettled.
And sometimes it looks like taking a bucket-list cruise to Alaska and unknowingly changing the entire trajectory of your life.
Ready for whatever comes next.
Not because I’m fearless. Not because I’m finished grieving. Not because life suddenly makes perfect sense.
But because I’m still standing — and I’m standing taller than before.
Here’s to the late bloomers. The reinvented. The resilient. The women who rise again and again, softer and stronger each time.
And here’s to the muse who came back with a vengeance. I’ve missed her. But she came home. And she brought stories with her.
…then presenting me with a lineup that looks like a casting couch for:
The Latest James Bond Sequel
The Brawny Paper Towel Guy
The “Intimately Beckham” Cologne Ads
Let’s analyze this Bait & Switch.
Age 50–58 👨🏻🦱
Looks like he makes $300K a year building custom log cabins with nothing but a hatchet and a heart of gold. REALITY CHECK: My matches are men who wear Viking masks and brag about being STD-free.
Age 59–67 👱🏻♂️
Sir looks like he whispers in French, sings like Josh Turner, and restores vintage motorcycles on weekends. REALITY CHECK: The actual 59–67 demographic on Facebook Dating posts selfies featuring bathroom sinks, upshots of nostrils, and pillows as backdrops.
Age 68–73 🧓🏻
This man looks like early-retirement perfection: resides in his mountainside cabin beside a lake, tours wineries around the world, and doles affection on his seven grandchildren, who lovingly call him “Pop-Pop.” REALITY CHECK: Tell me why the REAL 68–73s message me “Your smile is my new favorite view” at before 5am, coffee, or a simple, “Hello.”
Age 73–85 👴🏻
He looks like he reads novels on his sunlit balcony, knows how to dance the tango, and makes 80 look like the new 50. REALITY CHECK: The only 70-somethings I get wear shirts that are sleeveless, have smiles that are toothless, and use photos that are from 1985. (And they definitely don’t look like Sam Elliott or Sean Connery.)
🌟 CONCLUSION
These men are AI-generated delusions meant to lure us into yet another dating site. They do not exist. They have never existed. They are the enigmas known as:
Ladies… gather ‘round. Because today’s roast is brought to you by:
Hope. Disappointment. And a man who went from “ooh la-la” to “oh no, no” in two seconds flat.
Let me set the scene: Facebook Dating serves me up a cutie pie. (Who, by the way, was categorized as a “perfect match.”) Not “eh, he’ll do.” Not “maybe if the light is forgiving.”
No. This one was legit cute:
Good smile
Local
Normal hobbies
Age-appropriate
No up-the-nose or on-the-bed selfies
Looked like his mother raised him with soap and manners
I thought, “Well butter my biscuit and call me hopeful…”
For a few glorious minutes, I believed.
Then— THEN—
Sir Flirt-a-Lot answered the prompt:
“What’s your favorite time of day?” with:
✨😏 “SEXY TIME” 😏✨
Right above the “My shades are cool, and my abs are hot” topless beach pic.
SIR. There I was, enjoying your adorable grin, your puppy photo, your backyard sunshine… And suddenly you hit me with a whiplash-inducing combo of:
“Look how sweet and normal I am!” followed immediately by “HERE ARE MY PECS AND MY INTENTIONS.”
So close and yet so far … off the mark.
Let me be extremely clear:
SEXY TIME …is not a time of day. It is an ick. A category. A hazard. A sign from the heavens that says: “Abort mission, Heather. This man has no internal editor.”
You know what it felt like?
Like I ordered a Chick-fil-A sandwich and halfway through found a live scorpion wearing sunglasses. 🕶️
Everything was perfect. I was rooting for him. ROOTING. And then— like a child in the church Christmas program repeating the cuss word Mommy muttered earlier— he proudly typed:
SEXY. TIME.
With the emoji. 😏 THE EMOJI.
I went from: 😌 “Oh wow, what a cutie.” to 🫠 “Sir, why?” to 💀 “We cannot date. Ever.”
in 0.4 seconds.
Like… why do they DO this?
Why is it that right when I’m thinking, “Ohhh, he seems normal,” a man will suddenly fling out the word SEXY TIME like he chose “Inappropriate Pick-up Lines for 100, Alex” on Jeopardy.
It’s always when you least expect it.
He’s giving: • Golden Retriever energy • Family-man vibes • Would help you carry in the groceries • Might even remember your birthday
In reality, he’s: • Answering normal prompts with unnecessary levels of testosterone • Displaying more sweat and sunscreen than any photo should capture • Abandoning all filters and foresight • Utilizing “the ole bait ‘n switch” to perfection
Instant downgrade to:
🏅 Honorable Mention:
The Almost That Absolutely Isn’t.
Because here’s the truth:
A man can look like sweet tea and sunshine… but if “sexy time” is his favorite time of day? Sir, you may exit (in true Beyoncé fashion) — to the left, to the left.
Menopause & Malarkey 