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. š
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. š³ 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 …
If youāve been wondering where Iāve 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 donāt have to be perfect to be meaningful. š”āØ
But thereās another reason for the quiet. I stopped looking at the apps. Not dramatically. Not with my own personal declaration of independence. I justā¦ didnāt 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 manās 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 didnāt involve a dating profile promising āhot funā 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: ā ļøThink āchemistryā is something you spray on ā ļøBelieve three-word profiles count as a personality ā ļøAre one midnight message away from a public safety announcement ā ļøLook like they accidentally photo-bombed a picture of their bathroom sinks
Meanwhile, the ads have escalated. š 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 datingā¦ or performance art? š¤
So consider this post a reset. No pressure. No promises. No pretending Iāve been āactively lookingā when Iāve actually been actively choosing peace, furniture placement, and sleep.
Menopause & Malarkey isnāt going anywhere. Red Flag Friday will return. Mischief Monday is stretching and hydrating.
Iām still here. Still observant. Still amused. Just a little more unpacked ā literally and figuratively.
Brought to you by Menopause & Malarkey ā where the flags are many and the patience is limited.
Ladiesā¦ I present to you a man who is:
āBoss at Self-Employedā (Translation: The boss, the employee, the HR department, and also currently on an unpaid lunch breakā¦ indefinitely.)
80 miles away but behaving like weāre all just out here ready to road-trip for romance like itās 1995.
And ā be still my heart ā his entire music section is Keith Sweat. Not a sprinkle. Not a vibe. Not a nostalgic āone song on a playlist.ā No, maāam. Keith. Sweat. Or. Bust. This man is out here preparing to beg somebody through a cassette deck.
But waitā¦ the photos.
Ohhh, the photos.
We have:
ā¢ The Glamour Cowboy: A wide-brimmed hat, aviators, and a shirt so bright it’s gotta wear shades. Heās giving āLine dancing at noon, sermon at three, vibes by Keith Sweat at five.ā
ā¢ 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.
ā¢ The Truck Cab Philosophical Hour: “Cool drama free cool as a fan” (Sirā¦ you wrote ācoolā twice. And for that reason alone, I have questions.)
And yet ā YET ā 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.
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. šš„
Every once in a while, a dating profile comes along that makes you question everything you thought you knew about grammar, humanity, and personal hygiene.
Bless his disease-free heart
Enter Attackmewityrlov. Age 55. Gallery selfie: aisle three of what appears to be a Walmart. Username: a vowel-deprived cry for help.
The manās profile opens with a flourish of exclamation points andā¦ well, mostly exclamation points:
āI am a loyal clean man, never had a STD!!! I only need one Woman that’s clean and STD and drugs free!! Must be loyal!!ā
Sir, blink twice if your keyboard is being held hostage.
If the first thing you tell me is that youāve ānever had an STD,ā Iām not impressed ā Iām concerned that you think thatās the opening pitch. Itās like showing up to a job interview and proudly announcing, āIāve never been arrested.ā
When someone leads with āclean,ā itās not confidence ā itās a red flag disguised as a Clorox wipe.
Whereās your sense of humor? Your hobbies? Your story? āMust be loyal!!ā tells me nothing about your character, but everything about your trust issues.
A dating bio should be a snapshot of you ā not a commandment list for whoever swipes next.
š” A Modest Proposal
Men, if youāre reading this: Start with why youāre here, not what youāre afraid of. Tell me about your favorite meal, your dog, or the last time you laughed until you cried. (Preferably not during an STD screening.)
We donāt need perfection. We need a glimpse of real.
š¬ Final Thoughts
Attackmewityrlov, wherever you are, I genuinely hope you find your loyal, clean, drug-free woman. But maybe also a friend who can proofread.
Until then, the rest of us will be over here ā swiping past chaos, sipping coffee, and wondering how many exclamation points it takes to summon a relationship.
Menopause & Malarkey 