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.
Grief is weird. I’ve said this at least a hundred times since losing Steve nearly three years ago. It doesn’t wait for an invitation. It doesn’t arrive when expected. There is no dress code or checklist. There are zero boundaries — it shows up when it wants, where it wants, and how it wants. There are special occasions such as birthdays, holidays, and anniversaries when I anticipate and fully expect sadness, only to find the tears stay away. There are random workdays when, for no particular rhyme or reason, I sit at my desk and pray nobody stops to talk because the floodgates are wide open.
And then there are days like today. Numb.
As a child, my family lived in the “suburbs” of a town with a whopping population of about 6,000 people. In other words, we lived on the outskirts of the middle of nowhere. So when a new kid moved in down the road, it took about five minutes for us to become friends. Her name was Dawn, and she was friendly and bubbly, and we hit it off immediately. I believe I was in fourth grade and she was in fifth when we met, and weekends became adventures on our bikes or walking the back roads, sleepovers with Mad Libs and makeup, or afternoons listening to her parents’ albums from the 70s or our cassette tapes featuring Madonna or Cyndi Lauper.
As we got older, summers were spent sunbathing with baby oil on our skin and Sun-In on our hair. Topics turned to boys, clothes, boys, hair, boys. She started high school a year before I did, so I had the inside scoop when it was my turn to enter those daunting halls lined with lockers and smelling like floor wax and teenage dreams. Our conversations grew deeper, secrets became sacred, and tears were accepted without judgement. We called each other “Sis,” because that’s what we were.
Me and Dawn circa 1986
Somewhere along the way, we grew up. Moments became memories. Life got harder. Dawn and I still talked, laughed, cried, shared secrets and dreamed dreams. When she got married, I was her maid of honor. When I was pregnant, she spent the night when my husband was working. We had each other’s backs — not because we always agreed, but because we always loved.
Like many childhood friendships, time and distance somehow slipped in; phone calls were fewer, miles were farther, and life got in the way. But when we reconnected, time wasn’t a factor. Our friendship witnessed love and loss, children growing and husbands leaving, aging parents and adult choices.
And cancer.
Steve’s cancer.
Then her cancer.
Steve’s passing.
And now, hers.
Grief is weird. Because even when you see it coming, it doesn’t always land like you think it should. It’s not always loud. It doesn’t always scream. There aren’t always tears. Sometimes, it looks like staring at old pictures and feeling nothing.
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.” 🦜
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.
Most men I know are great with geography and have an innate instinct for getting un-lost. They can sniff the direction of a highway exit like bloodhounds. They can find a shortcut through three cornfields and two gravel roads without a single wrong turn. My late husband, Steve, proudly reigned as “King of the Backroads.”
But online dating geography reminds me of how my dad used to pack the trunk for long trips. “It’ll fit in there if youstack the luggage like this.”
These guys genuinely believe: “If I angle this map in my mind just right… geography will bend to my will.”
No, it will not. Geography is not Tetris. Distance isn’t shortened simply because you say so.
Just … stop.
Directions Aren’t Suggestions
I received a message this week from a gentleman we’ll call King George.
King George seemed perfectly pleasant at first. Location? King George, Virginia. Message? Polite. Warm. Normal enough to lower my swipe-defense shield. Asked what I like most about living in Georgia.
So I responded with equal kindness: “You seem nice, but the distance is too far.”
A perfectly reasonable, grown-woman boundary, right?
Apparently not.
This man — this adult human with a functioning smartphone and Google Maps baked into it — replies with:
“Well, King George is closer to Pennsylvania.”
Sir.
SIR. 🤦♀️
What part of “I live in GEORGIA” was unclear? What math, what map, what alternate reality was consulted for this mental malarkey?
This is not “new math.” This is New Geography, where states migrate, distances don’t exist, and all roads magically lead to your inbox.
Let’s illustrate the logic here:
Heather: “You’re too far.”
King George: “BUT IF YOU SQUINT AND TILT THE MAP—”
Geography: throws hands up and shouts, “I got nothin’.”
Listen, I admire optimism. Truly. But unless I wake up tomorrow as the mayor of Pennsylvania, this argument needs to take a seat.
“New Math was wild. New Geography is feral.”
Old Cinematography vs. New Geography
This entire exchange reminds me of my favorite move, Sleepless in Seattle. Tom Hanks, Meg Ryan … pure 90s rom-com perfection. There’s a scene where Sam (Tom Hanks) is arguing with his son, Jonah, about meeting Annie (Meg Ryan) who lives in Baltimore. Pulling down a wall-sized map (because hey, we all have one of those in the dining room, right?), Sam points to Seattle, then to Baltimore, and emphatically explains that “there are like, 26 states between here and there!”
That scene is literally the opposite of Dating App Logic:
“Three states away? Close.”
“Seven-hour drive? Practically next door.”
“Opposite ends of Virginia? Same neighborhood.”
“East Coast? West Coast? Tomato, tomahto.”
Meanwhile I’m over here with Sam’s wall map declaring:
“Sir, unless you’ve discovered teleportation, that is NOT close.”
And I don’t care how many times I’ve cried during An Affair to Remember — I’m NOT going to the Empire State Building on Valentine’s Day to meet “Mr. Right” who turns out to be “Mr. Wrong Directions.”
💭 Picture, if you will …
King George: “Babe, I’m here!” — text from the Space Needle.
Because in Dating App Geography:
New York, Seattle… “What? They’re both big cities.”
“Empire State Building” = “the tall one, right?”
East Coast, West Coast, Potato, Potahto.
Meanwhile, I’m standing in the icy February wind, clinging to my dignity and a latte, and he’s out there taking blurry selfies three thousand miles away like:
“Traffic was crazy, but I made it!”
Sir. No. No, you did not. You crossed the wrong time zone, let alone the wrong building.
👀 I can see it now …
King George: (stillin Seattle, still blissfully unaware) “Yeah babe, I’m lookin’ right at it—big, tall, pointy thing. Sorta shiny. Totally iconic. I’ll meet you at the top.”
Heather: “…Sir. That is the Space Needle.”
King George: “Same difference.”
Heather: “Mm. Okay. Well, when you find me, we can drive north to Tennessee and sail across the Phoenix Ocean.”
M&M Moral of the Week
If your opening move includes:
📌 Ignoring geography 📌 Rewriting geography 📌 Inventing new geography
…that’s a hard swipe left, my friend.
I want a man who respects boundaries — emotional and geographical. If you think Georgia is next door to Virginia because you wish it were (and, more importantly, because “VA is close to PA”) … you might be the reason I shake my head and close the app.
Heatheresque Closing 💅🏻
Dating after 40 requires patience, humor, and apparently, remedial map skills. But here’s the thing: Every confused King George reminds me why I’m writing this blog in the first place.
Because somewhere out there is a woman reading this, nodding so hard she spills her coffee, whispering, “Oh thank GOD it’s not just me.”
And somewhere out there? Maybe — just maybe — is a man who can read a map. 🗺️🔍
It all started innocently enough: I sat down to write just one more paragraph. You know, the famous last words of every writer who’s ever burned a meal, missed a meeting, or forgotten her own name.
Somewhere between “this line could be funnier” and “I should proofread that one more time,” my dinner arrived — a glorious cheesesteak and sweet-potato-fries combo, still sizzling when it landed on my doorstep.
And there it sat.
For forty. Whole. Minutes.
I only remembered when Phoebe and Maggie started their pre-walk wiggle dance, and I opened the door to what can only be described as a tragic culinary crime scene.
Cold cheese. Congealed grease. Fries that had given up all will to live.
It wasn’t dinner anymore — it was a cautionary tale.
💡 The Lesson (If We Can Call It That)
Writing can feed the soul, but it also starves the body. Somewhere out there, a DoorDash driver thinks I’m dead, and honestly, I can’t even be mad about it.
Because when the words come, you chase them. Even if that means eating sweet-potato fries that are soggy with regret.
✍️ Moral of the Story
The next time you tell yourself, “I’ll grab my food in a minute,” remember: a minute in writer-time equals forty in real-world minutes.
Still, I’ll take cold fries and a good paragraph over hot food and no ideas any day.
Menopause & Malarkey Because sometimes inspiration strikes… and dinner dies. 💋
Menopause & Malarkey 