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.
At this point, I have accepted that if I remain on dating apps long enough, I may eventually qualify for a freshwater fishing license. I have now seen more bass, crappie, trout, and bluegill than the average employee at Bass Pro Shops.
I joined another dating app hoping to meet a nice emotionally available man somewhere within a reasonable driving distance of Georgia.
Instead, I am wading through an aquatic documentary narrated by middle-aged men in reflective sunglasses.
And before anyone gets defensive: I grew up around country boys. I know men fish. I’m not anti-fishing. I’m not even anti-photo-with-a-fish.
I am, however, confused by the ratio.
There’s something fishy about this selfie.
Sir.
If your fish occupies 83% of the selfie while your own face peeks out from behind it like a confused witness, I no longer know who I’m supposed to be dating.
You? Or Trevor the Trout?
Because currently Trevor has more personality.
One man’s fish was so close to the camera that I instinctively leaned backward while looking at my phone. Another held his catch with the reverence of a newborn baby while staring into the lens like he’d just won custody.
And the sunglasses.
Always the sunglasses. 😎
Apparently, there’s a national shortage of profile pictures featuring:
eye contact 👀
emotional warmth 🤗
or shirts. 👕
Meanwhile, I’m over here trying to determine:
Does he communicate well?
Does he have emotional intelligence?
Can he discuss feelings without requiring medical intervention?
Would he survive a conversation longer than “Fish bite good today”?
Is he a good catch or is he just full of crappie?
Instead, I’m getting: “countryboy565513483” holding a walleye like it personally pays his mortgage.
And look, I understand hobbies are important. Truly. If you enjoy fishing, great. Go forth with worms and dreams.
But perhaps — just perhaps — your dating profile should include at least one photo where the woman can identify you without needing assistance from the Department of Fish & Wildlife. You’re not luring in anyone. We’re not falling for your line.
At this point, I’m beginning to suspect dating apps are a form of catch and release for divorced men with pontoon boats all named Jenny.
source: screenrant.com
I swear they travel in schools.
You block one Fish Man and three more appear holding bass at slightly different angles.
One profile after another:
fish 🐟
fish 🐟
fish 🐟
suspicious pilot 🥷🏻👨🏻✈️
fish 🐟
shirtless man named DaveAllNight69 😳
fish again 🐟
Let’s be reel for a moment. If I wanted pictures of Aqua Man, I’d sign up for jasonmomoa.com. 🧜🏻♂️😏
And yet, somewhere buried beneath the seaweed and mirrored Oakleys, there probably is a genuinely kind man who just likes to fish on weekends and has no idea the rest of his gender has turned “holding aquatic life” into a mating ritual. A guy who will spare the rod and spoil the woman.
To that man: I see you.
Please step forward without the trout.
Until then, I’ll just keep swimming.
Carpe diem.
Sincerely, A woman developing Fish Ick one bass selfie at a time. 🐟
It sounds straightforward, doesn’t it? The answer should be simple. Perhaps you’re:
Relatively young
Fulfilling other needs
Actively looking but not finding
Actively finding what you’re NOT looking for
Divorced
Widowed
Not looking, finding, or interested
I’m sure the list goes on with as many answers as there are people in this big wide world. I could claim a few of those points as my own. Lately, though, the lonely mind has poked at my self-worth. And when self-worth feels the squeeze, here’s what bubbles up:
Too old
Unattractive
Too much
Too little
Only two options: settle or resign.
QUICK PAUSE
Okay, okay — apparently, WordPress AI felt my subject matter was too dire for a Monday afternoon. I sincerely hope y’all laugh at the following image as much as I did. What I requested was a middle-aged confused woman with thought bubbles surrounding her head with these questions: Am I too old? Is this all that’s available? Am I unattractive? Will I be alone forever?
THIS was the result. Now I question the “Intelligence” in “Artificial Intelligence” more than I question my romantic future.
AI: “is THY liattle alle?” Me: Blink twice if you’re being held captive!
Possible conclusions:
Even AI thinks the dating apps make no sense.
I asked AI to capture my dating confusion. It had a stroke.
Apparently, my insecurities are written in Ancient Glitch.
Moving on!
What I was explaining before being so rudely interrupted 🤨 and comedically distracted 😏 is this:
loneliness amplifies doubt and disregards clarity
I’m not single because attachment grief drowns out logic.
I’m single because I refuse to trade peace for proximity.
Because when I say I want someone to “do life with,” I don’t mean:
Someone to occupy the other side of the bed.
Someone to say hello in the morning.
Someone to help with the dogs once in a while.
I mean:
Someone who notices.
Someone who shares the mental load.
Someone who doesn’t treat basic contribution like a favor.
Someone who sees me without my having to earn it.
That’s not fantasy. That’s equity.
And here’s the hard, honest part:
Once you’ve lived asymmetry, you can’t unknow it.
I can’t go back to thinking, “Well, this is just how it is.”
I know what it costs. I know what it feels like to carry more. I know what it feels like to not be thanked for the invisible.
So now my bar is different.
And that makes the in-between season lonelier.
That’s not weakness. That’s growth.
It also means the ache isn’t just “I want someone.” It’s “I want someone who meets me.”
And that’s rarer.
It’s not pathetic. It’s selective.
And that’s going to feel isolating sometimes.
But it’s also why, if and when I partner again, it will not be asymmetrical.
Right now, though, I’m sitting in the clarity.
And clarity can be cold before it becomes empowering.
Pessimism often spikes right after clarity. Because clarity removes illusions.
Hope risks disappointment. Pessimism feels like armor.
And illusions are comforting.
Here’s the truth:
Sustainable love for a widow in her 50s is not impossible. It is rarer. It requires patience. Discernment. Time. And crossing paths with someone who also did his work.
But even if sustainable love never shows up again, I still want my life.
That’s not resignation. That’s sovereignty.
I’m not hinging my existence on partnership. I’m not saying, “Without it, what’s the point?”
I’m saying,
I want it. But I also want my life.
That’s strength — even if I don’t feel strong today.
Here’s the paradox:
The woman who wants better, who won’t settle for asymmetry, who would still live fully even if love didn’t return?
That’s exactly the woman who is capable of sustainable love.
Because she won’t tolerate imbalance. She won’t shrink. She won’t perform for crumbs.
So maybe today isn’t about deciding whether love exists. Maybe it’s about this:
I will live fully. And if mutual love crosses my path, it will meet a woman who knows exactly what she wants.
And if it doesn’t, my life is still mine.
Loneliness is weather. It can be heavy. It can feel permanent. But it moves.
And something important happened today:
I clarified that I don’t want “someone.” I want mutuality.
That changes the whole narrative from “Will I be alone forever?” to “I’m not willing to be uneven again.”
That’s not pessimism. That’s standards recalibrating.
Tonight, I’m not pathetic. I’m not delusional.
I’m a woman who:
Misses shared life.
Refuses asymmetry.
Still wants her own life either way.
That’s not tragic.
That’s strong and tender at the same time.
And if the thought shows up again later … “I want someone to do life with,” it won’t be an indictment.
It’ll just be a truth.
Truth doesn’t make you pathetic. It makes you human.
If you’ve been wondering where I’ve 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 don’t have to be perfect to be meaningful. 🏡✨
But there’s another reason for the quiet. I stopped looking at the apps. Not dramatically. Not with my own personal declaration of independence. I just… didn’t 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 man’s 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 didn’t involve a dating profile promising “hot fun” 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: ✅️Think “chemistry” is something you spray on ✅️Believe three-word profiles count as a personality ✅️Are one midnight message away from a public safety announcement ✅️Look like they accidentally photo-bombed a picture of their bathroom sinks
Meanwhile, the ads have escalated. 🙄 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 dating… or performance art? 🤔
So consider this post a reset. No pressure. No promises. No pretending I’ve been “actively looking” when I’ve actually been actively choosing peace, furniture placement, and sleep.
Menopause & Malarkey isn’t going anywhere. Red Flag Friday will return. Mischief Monday is stretching and hydrating.
I’m still here. Still observant. Still amused. Just a little more unpacked — literally and figuratively.
According to Match.com, January 4th is supposed to be their busiest day of the year.
New Year, old expectations?
I took the bait and decided to peruse. And peruse. And … sigh. You get the picture.
After receiving a “like” from a spot-on candidate for Red Flag Friday, I cranked up the computer, fully prepared to whip up the latest witty exposé. Then suddenly, I was tired.
Tired of scrolling. Tired of swiping. Tired of what feels like a big joke. Just … tired.
There are times (like tonight) when I swear there are zero acceptable matches anywhere on the internet. Posts and profiles that deserve nothing more than an eye roll somehow pick and pull at my self-esteem. Guys who wear tank tops in bathroom selfies and definitely failed Grammar & Punctuation 101 send me messages and “likes.” But it’s not about those who are attracted to me.
It’s about those who aren’t.
In Metro-Atlanta, there are 6.09 million people. I have no clue how many of those people are online looking for a genuine connection leading to a serious relationship. Seems like the odds should be pretty good.
So why am I being directed to the equivalent of the $5 movie bin at Walmart?
My favorite movie is Sleepless in Seattle from 1993. Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan in their rom-com glory. One quote in particular — the one I’d like to believe — is this:
However, given the virtual rocky road that continuously leads to exhibits for Red Flag Friday, I’m more prone to believe …
“It’s easier to be killed by a terrorist than it is to find a husband over the age of 40!”
That statistic is not true.
That’s right, it’s not true. It only feels true.
— Sleepless in Seattle
Ladies and gents, maybe you’re in the same boat where the rule of metaphorical fishing is catch and release. Maybe you run headfirst into a wall decorated with red flags, scammers, and a whole lotta “bless his heart.” And perhaps — like me — you quietly ask, “What’s wrong with me?”
Listen to me … Close the app. Take a deep breath. Exhale slowly.
If you take away one thing from today’s post, let it be this:
There are zero acceptable matches online today. Which is not the same thing as ever.
The truth is, the internet is crowded with auditions, not partners. Many profiles read like they were assembled by raccoons with Wi-Fi. And the cocktail of chemistry, emotional intelligence, self-awareness, and punctuation is… tragically small. You’re not failing at dating. You’re outgrowing the nonsense.
I, for one, refuse to settle for nonsense, just okay, or “well … maybe.” Nor should you.
It’s beyond brave to open our hearts to love after loss. That courage deserves to be met with honor and respect. YOU deserve nothing less.
I’ll keep wading through the shallow end of the dating pool — rolling eyes, blessing hearts, and trying not to take those quirky algorithms too seriously or too personally. In spite of the occasional pity party, I am truly grateful that God says, “Not today, Satan” and keeps me from anyone unworthy of all the sass and sweetness that is unapologetically me.
Looking back on 2025, the woman in the mirror isn’t the one who left 2024 behind. Not that there was anything wrong with her: on the contrary, she was a fighter, a survivor managing life one day at a time after loss.
Loss of her mother in 2018
Loss of her husband in 2023
Loss of her father in 2024
With each loss, she said farewell to another piece of her heart. But like many who have gone before, she had no choice but to keep moving forward. Keep working. Keep living. Keep … breathing. There were good days and not-so-good days, and she conquered them all. It wasn’t always pretty and definitely wasn’t easy, but she did it.
Enter 2025: a new year and new adventures. She took an Alaskan cruise for her 55th birthday. She walked more. She laughed more. And much to her delight, she reconnected with an old passion — writing.
It was quite by accident, but oh, the fire was still there, inside and waiting like embers that never quite burned out. A “what if” sparked a deeper processing of grief through storytelling and fantasy, giving permission to feel again.
Like a plot twist we didn’t see coming, she wrapped herself in words and wonder of her own creation. Her heart awoke and her soul burst forth, allowing confusion, pain, heartache, and longing to flow out of her fingertips like tears from her eyes. But not just the hurt! She found hope, confidence, and laughter — so much laughter. Love was waiting in the wings, a soft whisper of, “hey, I’m still here.” She permitted that whisper to be heard. To explore. To resonate.
She learned that the capacity to love doesn’t fly away when a spouse exhales in this world and takes his first breath in Heaven. No. When one has loved — has received loved — deeply, greatly, and completely, then she has much more to give. And that’s not forgetting; it’s forgiving. That’s not dishonoring; it’s discovering. That’s not ignoring the past; it’s inviting the future.
As she penned (okay, typed) stories and scenarios, a root began to show its face: guilt in the form of self-doubt and self-deprecation. Our heroine kicked at that root, questioning its motives and exploring its existence. A tug here. A pull there. One final yank exposing the lie that many widows — that this widow — had accepted as gospel: “It’s wrong to want love again.”
That, my friends, is hogwash.
Having loved like crazy creates a thing of beauty — the capacity to love even more.
Having been loved like crazy creates a spark that says, “I’m alive and I’m allowed.”
Who knew releasing the artist within would release the woman inside?
I, for one, am happy to meet her, take her hand, and boldly march into 2026 smiling, writing, living, and thriving.
My muse feels like home.
Happy New Year from Menopause & Malarkey! Let’s jump in together, shall we?
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.
…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 