Sometimes I could feel his eyes on me. As cheesy as it sounds, it’s true. He would look at me like he was memorizing more than my face or features. It was like he was carving our life and each memory into his soul.
Steve loved me better than I’d ever known.
From the start of our story until his last breath, he made sure I knew.
I was seen
I was beautiful
I was worthy of love
When his breath grew raspy and labored, he still said, “You’re so beautiful” and “I love you.”
He always looked at me like this.
Something happens with trauma. The nervous system takes cherished words and emotions and marries them to bitterness and pain.
Glances feel unsafe
Smiles create doubt
Possibilities become frightening
The brain attaches the wrong sort of “what ifs” to innocent interactions. Instead of, “Huh. I remember this,” causing butterflies, it twists into, “I can’t go through it again.”
I could give in to fear. To doubt. Let it freeze my heart in a time when love meant more sacrifice than I could have imagined.
Or I can close my eyes, exhale, and allow good things to warm me.
Things like
Grace.
Patience.
Hope.
Then when I feel eyes on me. Someone smiling. Someone seeing me.
Our heroine is ready for work on time. A rare and glorious achievement.
All that remains is the simple task of walking the dogs. Simple.
Dogs leashed. Door opened. Rain. Not a polite drizzle. Not a gentle mist. No. The sky chose violence.
Now begins the delicate ballet of holding two leashes while attempting to open the coat closet and retrieve an umbrella from the top shelf, because apparently I believe in living dangerously before coffee.
At this moment the household divides.
Maggie (15-pound Chunkhuahua): Sees rain. Immediately aborts mission. Sprints back toward the living room — leash still firmly attached to my hand.
Phoebe (Her Highness of Welsh Corgihood): Bladder urgency has reached critical levels. She charges for the yard like a tiny four-legged torpedo.
Meanwhile I am stretching on tiptoe, grabbing the umbrella with my fingertips like a contestant in America’s Next Top Disaster.
Physics intervenes. The umbrella is acquired. My balance is not. I am pulled toward Maggie.
The front door slams. Phoebe is outside. Maggie is inside. I am standing in the doorway of my life choices.
So naturally I scoop up the 15-pound Chunkhuahua, juggle both dog and umbrella, reopen the door, and yell across the complex:
“PHOEBE!”
Phoebe pauses. Turns. Looks back at me.
The look says three things: 💠I heard you. 💠I acknowledge that you are yelling. 💠Biological processes outrank your panic.
She resumes her mission.
I chase after her, literally putting my best foot forward (on the flapping leash), finally open the umbrella, and the morning’s hydration event begins.
Some mornings build character. This one built a drinking habit. ☕️🌧️🐶
Dogs make water. Sky makes water. Mission accomplished.
We return inside where both dogs immediately present themselves for treat compensation for their bravery during the storm.
Treats are dispensed.
Maggie returns to Blanket Mountain, burrowing so completely that only the occasional nose or butt emerges from the fleece bunker.
Phoebe, concerned about the thunder, receives a hemp treat and then supervises the house like the dignified elder she is.
Before leaving for work, I straighten the pillows on my side of the bed and lay my sweatshirt in the spot.
Phoebe hops up. Circles. Settles in. And gives me the softest little look of gratitude. 🐶❤️
Which is how a morning that began with chaos, rain, leashes, and umbrella combat ends with something quieter:
A corgi on a pillow. My sweatshirt under her chin. And the comforting knowledge that when I come home tonight… Two dogs will be on the couch waiting for walks, dinner, and my presence.
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. 😔🔥
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.” 🦜
Menopause & Malarkey 