Last night I had a bizarre but amusing dream that included my parents. When I woke up, I laughed and thought, “I need to tell Mom about it.” A twinge of sadness pricked my heart.
Mom’s been gone since 2018.
Anyone who’s lost someone meaningful understands. It can happen a day, a month, or years after their passing. Sometimes it’s little everyday things like a weird dream. Sometimes it’s when a big event is on the horizon. One thing’s for certain: it’s a reminder of their absence. And that hurts.
When Mom died, my husband Steve was there to comfort me. When Steve died in 2023, I wanted Mom there to comfort me. Heck, I wanted Steve there to comfort me! And then when Dad died two years ago, I felt somewhat alone in my grief. Not that I didn’t have siblings or daughters or even grandkids to share the pain. It’s hard to explain. Maybe you have to go through losing both parents to understand. Like a club you never wanted to join, yet here you are.
Perhaps the reason all of these emotions are bubbling up is that tomorrow is Father’s Day. I miss my dad. We were never emotionally close until Mom had a stroke in 2016. After that, we talked all the time. Texted almost daily. It was nice. I remember the day we talked on the phone the entire length of my hour-long commute home. This was with the man who used to answer the phone and say, “Hello, let me get your mom” when I called. 📞❤️
Mom used to tease me because I can’t get straight to the point. I take the scenic route because for me, the story is in the details. The journey, not just the destination. Guess that’s what I’m doing today. I also don’t think Mom would mind one bit.
Because these little pangs of missing someone are part of the journey forward, but they’re also a road to the past.
To the hour-long phone calls.
To puns and jokes and stories funny enough to laugh over for years.
To dancing in the kitchen while your husband sings, “Dancing Cheek to Cheek” in your ear.
To the last time you saw your loved one and maybe didn’t realize it was the last time — so you laughed, hugged, and spoke promises of coming home again soon.
And sometimes, to the moments you knew exactly what was happening. To holding his hand as he exhaled one last time.
If you’re missing someone, it’s okay.
Okay to cry
Okay to hurt
Okay to get mad
Just remember that it’s also:
Okay to smile
Okay to laugh
Okay to live
Sometimes all of those things happen in one day. Because grief is weird like that. Missing people is like that. Whether you’re hurting today or laughing at a memory (or both), the journey is worth it — even if it’s two steps forward and one step back. 👣❤️
One minute you’re contemplating whether you’ll ever love again.
The next minute you’re carrying a folded note in your pocket while planning an elephant joke for a man who has no clue the elephant exists.
We’ve journeyed the ridiculous ride of online dating for several months. As most of my posts have revealed, it’s not like it used to be.
Watching dating apps over the past 28ish years has been interesting.
1998: I didn’t want to tell people because it was pretty new and people were skeptical.
2011: I turned back to the apps during a time when they were at their peak. Enter Steve. 🥹
2025: I discovered that you can’t trust profiles, people are scammers, men like fish and sunglasses, and I got messages asking about the strength of my thighs. 🤨🙄😑
Imagine being a 56-year-old woman with decades of life experience, raising children, surviving grief, building a career, writing a novel, navigating menopause, and some guy opens with: “So… how strong are your thighs?”
Sir. The adults are speaking. 🤫
It’s hard to meet new people outside of work when you just want to go home and relax. When part of you is scared to let anyone past the wall of grief and fear anyway.
So meeting a guy who lives upstairs with his River Dancing elephant seems unusual nowadays. Finding out you live the same schedule and are both single? Unicorn status. 🐘🦄
Last year, I was miserable at my old place. Paper-thin walls. I could smell and hear everything. Dinner tonight? Tacos. Bath time for baby? Heard everything from the water running to the child crying.
I felt … stuck.
Knowing I wanted out.
Then I did something pretty bold:
I broke a lease early. Not because of a relationship. Not because of a man. Not because of some grand plan. Because I wanted a better life.
Then: The math worked. The move worked. The apartment felt like home. The dogs settled in. I started feeling more like myself.
And somewhere in the middle of all that… Thud.
The Elephant arrived. 🐘😁
Sometimes a dancing elephant turns out to be a nice guy living upstairs.
After everything that’s happened over the past few months, if my upstairs neighbor moved out tomorrow, my move would still have been right for me.
The math would still have happened. I’d still love my apartment. I’d still be closer to my daughter and grandkids. I’d still have created my writing space. I’d still have the life I’m building.
That’s important.
Because it means a guy isn’t the foundation.
He’s a possibility that appeared after the foundation was already being built.
That’s healthier than my younger relationships ever had a chance to be.
Still, it feels uncanny.
From my perspective, it looks something like this:
“I moved five months early.”
“Then I got a raise.”
“Then I ended up in an apartment where my upstairs neighbor happened to be a nice single guy.”
“Then we discovered we keep the same schedule.”
“Then we started talking.”
“Then I gave him my number.”
And my brain is over here squinting suspiciously. 🤔
Because I’ve lived enough life to know that coincidence can feel almost scripted.
I can’t help but think the shoe is waiting to drop.
Because I’ve had shoes drop before.
I’ve had marriages fail. I’ve lost a husband to cancer. I’ve experienced disappointment. I’ve learned that good things don’t come with guarantees.
So when several good things happen in succession, a part of me instinctively asks: “Okay, what’s the catch?”
That’s not cynicism. That’s experience.
Sometimes there isn’t a catch. Sometimes life isn’t setting me up. Sometimes life is simply unfolding.
And the funny thing is, if I had to pick the most remarkable part of this entire story, it wouldn’t actually be the nice guy who lives upstairs.
It would be the version of ME who emerged after the move.
The woman buying clothes because she likes them. The woman finishing a novel. The woman making peace with her postmenopausal body. The woman who can say, “I want more.” The woman who handed over her number. The woman who likes who she’s becoming.
That transformation started before The Neighbor Evolution™.
He just happened to show up while it was happening.
Which is why I find the timing so interesting.
Because the punchline may not be: “Surprise! Here’s a man!” 🎉
The punchline may be: “Surprise! You finally became ready to participate in your own life again.” 💜
And honestly? That’s the better story.
Though I will admit, from a sitcom perspective, the fact that all of this began with a mysterious stomping neighbor directly overhead remains objectively hilarious.
Imagine explaining it to someone. “How did you meet?” “Well, first I thought he was an elephant.”
Truth is, as we age, our lives become smaller geographically and richer relationally. Work. Home. Family. A few close friends. The grocery store. The dog walk. That’s it.
My last organic romantic relationship began in 1987.
Nine. Teen. Eighty. Seven.
Apparently, 56 is the new 17. 😆
39 years later: Same butterflies. Different woman. Different reasons. Different outcome. Same courage.
But at this stage in life, we’re not in classrooms anymore.
We’re not at parties every weekend.
We’re not constantly being introduced to new people.
So meeting someone organically starts to feel almost mythical.
Then add widowhood. Add grief. Add caution. Add healthy standards. Add the fact that you’re genuinely content with your life. Now the odds feel even smaller.
Hence the unicorn 🦄 statement.
Because let’s look at it objectively.
A man lives upstairs.
He’s close enough in age that I can imagine having a conversation.
I already know he’s single. He already knows I’m single. I have naturally recurring opportunities to interact. I enjoy talking to him. He enjoys talking to me. We have common topics.
Neither of us had to create a profile, swipe, match, or exchange awkward opening lines.
That combination is unusual. Not magical. Not destiny. Just unusual.
I think that’s part of why I eventually handed him my number.
Not because he checked every box.
Not because I’d built a fantasy.
Because life handed me an authentic opportunity that didn’t require performing for an app.
It happened in the real world.
The same real world where Phoebe believes everyone is her friend and Maggie sniffs everything outdoors.
The same real world where sprinkler inspections become conversation topics.
The same real world where Atlanta traffic exists and weather jokes are exchanged in parking lots.
And honestly? That feels a lot more like how people used to meet.
Not because it’s 1987 again.
But because it’s human.
Two people repeatedly crossing paths until eventually one of them says: “Hey, here’s my number.”
Simple. Terrifying. Human.
And whether this turns into a friendship, a few texts, coffee someday, or simply a story I’ll laugh about later, what makes me happiest is that I didn’t let the apps convince me that all the possibilities were gone.
Because somewhere between the fish photos and the thigh inquiries, a woman in Georgia accidentally met a nice man with kind eyes, a good smile, and the footfall pattern of a migrating herd.
Some relationships begin with a spark. Others begin with synchronized bathroom schedules.
My upstairs neighbor and I have managed a level of routine and intimacy lacking in some marriages.
Wake up: 5:00am
Leave for work: 6:00am
Arrive home from work: 4:00pm
Showering: Heard by (often simultaneous) running of water
Bathroom habits: Not much mystery
Anyone who has ever experienced apartment living knows what I mean. It’s simply part of the deal. Landlord repairs your broken fixtures. You know the lifestyle habits of Unit 250.
But let’s revisit “bathroom habits” for kicks and giggles.
We’ll call this The Sound Barrier Illusion.
Our Queen of Grayson was perched upon her throne contemplating the science of acoustic transmission from ground-floor apartments to second-floor units. Okay, yeah, I was wondering how much my upstairs neighbor can hear. Specifically, from the bathroom.
People, I 👏🏻promise👏🏻 you👏🏻the following is exactly what went down next.
Me: I sure hope he can’t hear when I fart on the toilet. Me: No, I’m sure he can’t because I’ve never heard him.
5 minutes later: sound of overhead footsteps.
Then, as if summoned by my weird meanderings:
BRRPPPTTT
😳😳😳
I froze. Not because my upstairs neighbor has a digestive system. Not because toilets are basically butt trumpets. 🚽🎺
I froze because if I can hear him then … 🤔😳
When you realize apartment acoustics work both ways.
However, my last place was less like apartment living and more like a community theater production where everyone accidentally shares the same stage.
I wasn’t hearing noise.
I was hearing:
hydration levels
meal plans
family arguments
infant sleep regressions
bathroom acoustics
culinary experimentation
At that point, I didn’t need to introduce myself.
I already knew too much.
😳
Neighbor:
“Hi, I’m Susan.”
Me:
“Yes. Tuesday is Taco Night. Your son is teething. And you really should call a plumber.”
🤣
My new apartment is downright luxurious by comparison.
The fact that I only hear:
footsteps
plumbing
occasional furniture movement
is anticipated, acceptable apartment noise.
Which is probably why the Great Fart Incident of 2026 was so startling.
I’ve gotten used to a reasonable amount of privacy.
Then suddenly:
BRRPPPTTT
The apartment building:
“Just a reminder that you’re still sharing walls with humans.”
😆
Honestly, I think that’s part of why I love Grayson so much.
It’s not perfect.
No apartment is.
But it gives me enough separation to feel like I have my own life.
I’m not smelling Barry and Joan’s meatloaf.
I’m not involuntarily learning the soundtrack of a toddler’s sleep schedule.
I have my coffee. My writing nook. My dogs. My routines. My patio. My peace.
And every now and then:
footsteps overhead
or
“Hey.”
from the upstairs neighbor.
Which is a much more pleasant soundtrack than:
MYSTERY MEAT ODORS
FLUUUUSSSHHHHH
BABY CRYING
But just in case, where can a person buy ceiling soundproofing?
Until I don’t. And anyone who cherishes those furry little freeloaders will get it.
(In my best Sophia Petrillo voice) Picture it … Grayson, 2026.
It’s a dreary Monday morning. My mood is happy and hopeful in spite of the cloudy sky. Even the familiar alarm clock that sounds a lot like my Corgi whining to go out doesn’t offend me. We walk.
But then … oh, then it happens.
Phoebe (my Corgi) heads toward a spot covered in pine straw and, most likely, the scent of other dogs. I expect her to squat. Possibly hunch.
No.
She digs a little and decides breakfast is served in the form of what I suspect to be poop.
HEAVY SIGH.
I hold on to that glimmer of hope that it’s something else. A randomly abandoned French fry. Maybe a crunchy bud off a harmless tree.
With a tug on her harness, I disrupt her snack.
She lifts her head, pine straw hanging from her mouth.
Being the responsible dog mom that I am, I attempt to yank the straw from her jaws. Successfully. Only it’s not just straw that dislodges. Because of course it isn’t.
My hand is smeared with feces. No idea what type. I didn’t have Bear Grylls along to identify the scat. What I do know:
It is mushy
It smells bad
It clings to my fingers like glitter to … well, anything
Meanwhile, Phoebe’s side-eyeing me like I’m the server that took her plate with half a ribeye on it. 😒
Ma’am.
The poo-poo platter was NOT on the menu.
I’m scraping an unidentified fecal sample from my fingers with the dog waste bag. Trying not to gag. Considering my life choices. Nearly dragging Phoebe and my Chihuahua Maggie to anywhere but the buffet of boo-boo.
Oh, Maggie? Sporting a look somewhere between disgust and full-on smug. I swear her eyes say, “Mother, please note that I’m the civilized one here.” 😏
Duly noted.
Apparently, my canine crew consists of an angelic Chi and a 15-year-old Corgi faster than the speed of light when it comes to sidewalk snacks.
And in spite of her dietary delicacies, I never stop walking her. Or treating her. Or looking into those big brown eyes while stroking her big white ears.
I can’t imagine life without Phoebe.
Poop bags and all.
A nose for buried treasure and ears for ignoring Mom.
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. 🐟
They tell you about grief. They tell you about missing them. About the quiet house. About the first holidays, the anniversaries, the birthdays. They tell you about tears.
What they don’t tell you is that your body remembers. Not just their voice. Not just their laugh. Your body remembers what it felt like to be held.
And one day, maybe years later, you’ll be fine. You’ll be functioning. Working. Laughing. Living your life. And then something small will happen.
A moment of warmth. A memory. A conversation that feels easy. And suddenly… Your chest aches. Your arms feel empty. And you realize, with a clarity that almost knocks the wind out of you:
You don’t just miss him. You miss being loved like that. — There’s a term for it, I’ve learned. Attachment grief. Touch starvation.
Clinical, tidy words for something that feels anything but. Because there’s nothing clinical about waking up and wishing that someone would wrap his arms around you and say, “I’ve got you.”
There’s nothing tidy about your body remembering a place it used to rest… and not having anywhere for that feeling to go. — And here’s the part no one says out loud: You can have a full life and still feel this ache.
You can have: family who loves you friends who show up a life you’re grateful for …and still miss the specific, irreplaceable intimacy of being chosen, held, known in that way. Those things don’t compete. They coexist. — Some days, it hits harder than others.
Some days it looks like tears. Some days it looks like standing in your kitchen eating comfort food you haven’t made in years. And some days… it looks like laughing, feeling warm for a moment — and then realizing that warmth has nowhere to land. — If you’ve felt this, I want you to hear me: There is nothing wrong with you.
You are not broken. You are not “stuck.” You are not failing to move on. Your body is remembering something real. And real love doesn’t just disappear because time has passed. — I don’t have a neat ending for this. No five steps to heal. No “and then it got better.” Some days it’s softer. Some days it’s louder. But I’m learning this:
Sometimes you need a soft otter blanket … and a potato.
Feeling this ache doesn’t mean I’m losing. It means I loved in a way that left a mark. And maybe… just maybe… that same part of me that feels this deeply is also the part that could feel it again.
Even when hoping for that feels dangerous. — Until then… Some days, we cry. Some days, we cope with cookie dough ice cream. And some days, we write about it so someone else out there knows they’re not the only one.
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.
🚩 Brought to you by Red Flag Friday, where the specials are cheap and the apps are questionable.
When I was a kid, Mom sometimes fed us good old Campbell’s Alphabet Soup. The warmth, the comfort, the spelling lesson in the form of noodles. Good stuff – not simply because it was filling and tasted great when accompanied by a peanut butter sandwich. It was good because if we expected alphabet soup, we weren’t surprised to receive “word soup.”
However, when ordering from the dating app menu, there are times when the server brings me something I did not request. Part of the process is to send messages to people you want to know. Unfortunately, there are those who obviously didn’t read the not-so-fine print (a.k.a.: my profile) and want to order off-menu. Or perhaps, make enough changes to the dish that the chef throws her hands in the air and claims (in a very cheesy French accent), “I cannot work in such horrible conditions!”
Meet Derrick, a gentleman who swiped right on my profile last week. It was as if I ordered alphabet soup and instead, the waiter brought me a word salad. 🥗
Please take a breath at some point in this sentence.
Let’s translate this from Dating App Word Salad into plain English:
“I want someone I can trust and want to be trusted” = I have no idea how trust is built, but I’d like it delivered immediately.
“Someone I can love and want to be loved” = I have discovered the concept of mutual affection. Recently.
“I know where I’m at in life and I hope she do to.” = Grammar has left the building, but expectations remain high.
“Time waits on noone” = I will rush intimacy while claiming I’m not playing mind games.
“I want a natural woman without all the makeup.” = I enjoy policing women’s appearances while offering zero commentary on my own.
“Who I go to sleep with is who I wake up with.” = This sentence did not need to be here. At all. Ever.
“I’m not Denzel but I’m not Freddie Kruger either.” = Sir. Those were not the only two options.
“Let’s keep it 100 and be 100.” = I have reached the end of my motivational poster vocabulary.
Menopause & Malarkey official verdict:
This is not dangerous… but it is exhausting.
It’s giving:
sincerity without self-awareness
pressure disguised as romance
and a faint whiff of “I will be confused when you have boundaries.”
Also, bonus Red Flag Friday note 🚩: Any person that says “I’m not looking to play mind games” almost always plays emotional Jenga.
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.
Menopause & Malarkey 