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.
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.” 🦜
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 