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).
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. 🚩🚩🚩
Menopause & Malarkey 