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).
…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.
It began the way all great horror movies begin: in the dark, just before dawn, when the world is quiet, your guard is down, and nothing good ever comes from checking your phone.
4:51 a.m.
My phone glowed on the nightstand — soft, eerie, and absolutely up to no good. You know the scene: the quick cut, the ominous music shift, and the audience whispering,
“Don’t… pick… it… up.”
But I did. Because I am the Surviving Heroine in this psychological thriller, and also because I regularly make bad decisions before caffeine.
I cracked open one eye. Then the other. I reached.
And with the naïve innocence of the victim in the first 10 minutes of a slasher film… I unlocked the screen.
This is why do not disturb was invented.
There he was.
Andre. From Illinois. Awake at 3:51 a.m. HIS time. Which already raises the eyebrow of suspicion.
His opener?
“Good morning 😃 You’re pretty!”
I should’ve closed my eyes and gone back to sleep. I should’ve thrown the whole phone out the window.
But no. Curiosity won — as it always does — and the typing bubbles began.
Fast. Aggressive. Like a chatbot on steroids.
🩰 Scene 1: Ballet, Cheerleading… or Cult Initiation?
The questions came rapid-fire:
“Did I wake you?”
“You work out?”
“What competitive sports were you in?”
“Ever did ballet?”
“Cheerleading?”
Dude. It is before 5 a.m. I haven’t even remembered my own name yet.
This was no small talk. This was an athletic inquisition.
Hold me closer, Tiny Dancer …
This image is EXACTLY how it felt: Andre, hunched over a keyboard in a dim lair, illuminated only by the unholy glow of his laptop and a deep desire to measure my quads.
🍗 Scene 2: “Nice curves!” — and the Descent Into Madness (Muah, ha, ha)
As I scrolled his profile — trying to confirm whether he was:
human,
Martian, or
texting from an abandoned Gold’s Gym
— my phone buzzed again.
“Nice curves!”
In our movie, that was the whisper before the jump scare.
And then came the final blow…
🔥 Scene 3: The Line That Summoned The Cyber Police
Just as my thumb hovered over BLOCK, he fired off the message that cemented his place in Red Flag Friday history:
“Your thighs pretty strong?”
Wait … WHAT.
It’s before sunrise. The house? Dark. The dogs? Asleep. My patience? Gone.
You can’t ask about thighs at this hour. Or any hour. Ever. It violates at least three federal laws and one sacred truth:
✨ No thighs before sunrise. ✨
No. No, no, no.
Period.
Even the ThighMaster — abandoned since 1993 — knows this is a violation.
❌ Scene 4: The Final Girl Moment
It happened in slow motion. The music swelled. I hit BLOCK so hard my phone considered filing a complaint.
Can I block someone more than once???
Andre vanished. Banished. Slithered back to whatever early-morning Thigh Dimension he crawled out of.
🎬 FINAL SCENE — PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT
And now, friends, a crucial PSA:
If a man asks about your thighs before sunrise… That is not romance. That is not flirtation. That is not curiosity.
That is:
🚨 A Thigh-Based Emergency 🚨
Report immediately. Block swiftly. And repeat after me:
No thighs before sunrise.
The Bold Before The BLOCK
Tune in next week for another installment of:
Red Flag Friday — where the flags are bright, the men are bold, and the dating apps never disappoint in disappointing me. 🚩🚩🚩
Most men I know are great with geography and have an innate instinct for getting un-lost. They can sniff the direction of a highway exit like bloodhounds. They can find a shortcut through three cornfields and two gravel roads without a single wrong turn. My late husband, Steve, proudly reigned as “King of the Backroads.”
But online dating geography reminds me of how my dad used to pack the trunk for long trips. “It’ll fit in there if youstack the luggage like this.”
These guys genuinely believe: “If I angle this map in my mind just right… geography will bend to my will.”
No, it will not. Geography is not Tetris. Distance isn’t shortened simply because you say so.
Just … stop.
Directions Aren’t Suggestions
I received a message this week from a gentleman we’ll call King George.
King George seemed perfectly pleasant at first. Location? King George, Virginia. Message? Polite. Warm. Normal enough to lower my swipe-defense shield. Asked what I like most about living in Georgia.
So I responded with equal kindness: “You seem nice, but the distance is too far.”
A perfectly reasonable, grown-woman boundary, right?
Apparently not.
This man — this adult human with a functioning smartphone and Google Maps baked into it — replies with:
“Well, King George is closer to Pennsylvania.”
Sir.
SIR. 🤦♀️
What part of “I live in GEORGIA” was unclear? What math, what map, what alternate reality was consulted for this mental malarkey?
This is not “new math.” This is New Geography, where states migrate, distances don’t exist, and all roads magically lead to your inbox.
Let’s illustrate the logic here:
Heather: “You’re too far.”
King George: “BUT IF YOU SQUINT AND TILT THE MAP—”
Geography: throws hands up and shouts, “I got nothin’.”
Listen, I admire optimism. Truly. But unless I wake up tomorrow as the mayor of Pennsylvania, this argument needs to take a seat.
“New Math was wild. New Geography is feral.”
Old Cinematography vs. New Geography
This entire exchange reminds me of my favorite move, Sleepless in Seattle. Tom Hanks, Meg Ryan … pure 90s rom-com perfection. There’s a scene where Sam (Tom Hanks) is arguing with his son, Jonah, about meeting Annie (Meg Ryan) who lives in Baltimore. Pulling down a wall-sized map (because hey, we all have one of those in the dining room, right?), Sam points to Seattle, then to Baltimore, and emphatically explains that “there are like, 26 states between here and there!”
That scene is literally the opposite of Dating App Logic:
“Three states away? Close.”
“Seven-hour drive? Practically next door.”
“Opposite ends of Virginia? Same neighborhood.”
“East Coast? West Coast? Tomato, tomahto.”
Meanwhile I’m over here with Sam’s wall map declaring:
“Sir, unless you’ve discovered teleportation, that is NOT close.”
And I don’t care how many times I’ve cried during An Affair to Remember — I’m NOT going to the Empire State Building on Valentine’s Day to meet “Mr. Right” who turns out to be “Mr. Wrong Directions.”
💭 Picture, if you will …
King George: “Babe, I’m here!” — text from the Space Needle.
Because in Dating App Geography:
New York, Seattle… “What? They’re both big cities.”
“Empire State Building” = “the tall one, right?”
East Coast, West Coast, Potato, Potahto.
Meanwhile, I’m standing in the icy February wind, clinging to my dignity and a latte, and he’s out there taking blurry selfies three thousand miles away like:
“Traffic was crazy, but I made it!”
Sir. No. No, you did not. You crossed the wrong time zone, let alone the wrong building.
👀 I can see it now …
King George: (stillin Seattle, still blissfully unaware) “Yeah babe, I’m lookin’ right at it—big, tall, pointy thing. Sorta shiny. Totally iconic. I’ll meet you at the top.”
Heather: “…Sir. That is the Space Needle.”
King George: “Same difference.”
Heather: “Mm. Okay. Well, when you find me, we can drive north to Tennessee and sail across the Phoenix Ocean.”
M&M Moral of the Week
If your opening move includes:
📌 Ignoring geography 📌 Rewriting geography 📌 Inventing new geography
…that’s a hard swipe left, my friend.
I want a man who respects boundaries — emotional and geographical. If you think Georgia is next door to Virginia because you wish it were (and, more importantly, because “VA is close to PA”) … you might be the reason I shake my head and close the app.
Heatheresque Closing 💅🏻
Dating after 40 requires patience, humor, and apparently, remedial map skills. But here’s the thing: Every confused King George reminds me why I’m writing this blog in the first place.
Because somewhere out there is a woman reading this, nodding so hard she spills her coffee, whispering, “Oh thank GOD it’s not just me.”
And somewhere out there? Maybe — just maybe — is a man who can read a map. 🗺️🔍
It’s kinda sad that all I had to do was open Match and start scrolling.
Today’s “Ah, man, I was rooting for you!” award goes to Tony, age 50.
Initial reaction:
Photos? ✔️
Location? ✔️
Complete bio? ✔️
Compatible? ✔️
My thumb was about to swipe Tony into the digital land of possibility when I read it.
The prompt:
“For me, a good day isn’t complete without …”
The answer:
“My dog and a hot bath.”
Now, perhaps he meant to type, “spending time with my dog — I also like to relax later on with a hot bath.”
Perhaps.
But all I can picture is a sturdy, six-foot gentleman surrounded by bubbles, sipping a glass of wine, and locking eyes with his faithful pup across the tub. In complete, candlelit silence.
Don’t you dare deny it — you pictured it too.
And somewhere in that sudsy, surreal moment, my finger found its way back to safety. Swipe left, my friends. Swipe left.
Because in the dating world, there’s clean … and then there’s too clean. 🛁🐾
It all started innocently enough: I sat down to write just one more paragraph. You know, the famous last words of every writer who’s ever burned a meal, missed a meeting, or forgotten her own name.
Somewhere between “this line could be funnier” and “I should proofread that one more time,” my dinner arrived — a glorious cheesesteak and sweet-potato-fries combo, still sizzling when it landed on my doorstep.
And there it sat.
For forty. Whole. Minutes.
I only remembered when Phoebe and Maggie started their pre-walk wiggle dance, and I opened the door to what can only be described as a tragic culinary crime scene.
Cold cheese. Congealed grease. Fries that had given up all will to live.
It wasn’t dinner anymore — it was a cautionary tale.
💡 The Lesson (If We Can Call It That)
Writing can feed the soul, but it also starves the body. Somewhere out there, a DoorDash driver thinks I’m dead, and honestly, I can’t even be mad about it.
Because when the words come, you chase them. Even if that means eating sweet-potato fries that are soggy with regret.
✍️ Moral of the Story
The next time you tell yourself, “I’ll grab my food in a minute,” remember: a minute in writer-time equals forty in real-world minutes.
Still, I’ll take cold fries and a good paragraph over hot food and no ideas any day.
Menopause & Malarkey Because sometimes inspiration strikes… and dinner dies. 💋
Menopause & Malarkey just hit 500 views! That’s 500 shared laughs, sighs, and side-eyes from women who get it. Thank you for reading, sharing, and swiping along this wild ride with me. Here’s to the next 500 —and the next round of red flags, revelations, and ridiculousness.
Menopause & Malarkey 