To say 2023 was one for the books would be like saying Uncle Jesse is mildly cute.
Uncle Jesse.
The year started with an epic heart break and multiple health scares (to the tune of $7,000 and counting, no less), a trip to the E.R. with my bestie, and sending out 304 job applications, which resulted in six interviews, three job offers, and two recinded job offers (based on last minute organizational changes).
It also involved going out with 36 different men.
And thus, I give you, my 2023 Dating Year in Review (if the embedded video doesn’t play, you can watch it here):
Disclaimer: This blog post is memoir. It reflects the author’s present recollections of experiences over time. Some names and characteristics have been omitted or changed, some events have been compressed, and some dialogue has been recreated.
“Are you ‘Straight As Double Ds’?”
The three of us looked up from our table to see a tall, smiling, 30-something-ish man standing over us.
“We are!” Erin, Michelle and I exclaimed, delighted that this cute, normal-seeming guy recognized us by our trivia team name.
Team Straight As Double Ds in action: My usefulness finally kicks in on a “Sandwiches” round.
“I was at trivia last night on [the winning team]!” he laughed, explaining how he recognized us.
“Booooo!” we teased.
“No fair – you have a ringer on your team!” I added.
We bantered back and forth for a minute and Erin kicked me hard under the table. Not an hour earlier, the three of us had been describing our Dream Men. Despite being close friends in our early 40s who’d all been through the dating gauntlet in our small, central Oregon town (including dating the same guy), we’d never had that conversation before.
“Well apparently I like tall, bald guys,” I had joked, referring to the last guy I’d fallen for. “I just want him to be kind and funny.”
Our newest fan club member uncannily fit the bill on all fronts. He introduced himself as Fred and we liked his unassuming nature so much that we found ourselves saying,
“Come sit with us!”
It was Wednesday karaoke night at a downtown dive bar, and while we’d normally be in bed by that hour on a weeknight, it had been an emotionally charged evening and we had decided we needed a little more time together.
“Why did you kick me under the table?” I asked Erin the first chance I got.
“Because that’s your boyfriend!” she squealed.
My gut immediately told me she might be right, but I also resisted.
“Did you see his phone!? It looks like a burner phone! There’s no way.”
Fred went on to boldly sing two rap songs, further wooing us with his unabashed performances.
Although no one can top the Legendary Erin.
“I’m from Jersey,” I explained to Fred near the end of the night, at which point he pulled out his [ancient burner] phone to show me his favorite Jersey Shore meme.
“Oh my god, you have to send me that!” I exclaimed by way of getting his number.
I insisted on also trading last names.
“We met in person so we should be on the up and up,” I said. “But don’t Google me.”
We both proceeded to immediately Google stalk each other and, seeing that he had no criminal record (because that’s a thing that happens way too often), I invited him to another, more mellow karaoke night with my entire family (who were about to visit from New Jersey) a few days later.
Fred arrived to Karaoke Night Reloaded on the early side and seemed nervous. He charmed everyone with his sincerity, sweetness, and eye-wateringly off-key rendition of “Buddy Holly” by Weezer. By the time we ended the night at a 90s Dance Party, we slow danced and confirmed a mutual spark.
Attempting to look “tough” during a 90s dance party at the yuppiest spot in town.
I tried to temper my excitement. After four years of dating in central Oregon, I’d finally deleted the apps (Bumble and Hinge) two months earlier – for good.
“Do you want to see Sylvan Esso with some friends and me on Sunday? Tickets are down to $18!” I texted Fred the following week.
He replied with a screenshot showing his ticket purchase confirmation. I like his style.
“Do you want to meet before the concert for a one-on-one drink?” I asked.
“Is this a date?” he clarified and I confirmed.
When date night arrived, I was nervous. Really nervous. Despite having spent two nights together during which he met most of my friends and family, now a feeling of expectation permeated the air.
“It’s really hot out and I’m going to assume you don’t mind that I’ve opted for less clothing,” I teased.
#shamelessselfienumber1467
With two minutes to spare, I pulled into the agreed upon parking lot and saw Fred tearing ass down the sidewalk towards the bar where we were meeting, clearly terrified that he’d be late. I laughed out loud and, as soon as I parked, texted him.
“Don’t run! I just parked!”
“Okay I won’t,” he answered, not catching on that I’d seen him running.
He offered to buy our drinks and when I said I liked bubbly, he looked confused.
“What does that mean?”
“Like champagne, sparkling wine.”
“They have that here?”
“Yeah, only one kind.”
“So I just ask for ‘bubbly’?”
I tried not to giggle and nodded. We awkwardly picked a spot to sit down and I hoped that a couple of drinks would soothe our collective nerves.
“So… I live with my parents,” he blurted almost as soon as we sat down.
“Yeah, I know,” I replied.
“You did do your homework,” he said. “And you still showed up. That’s good news for me. I’m really only now getting to a point where I feel comfortable going out and spending any money.”
He went on to briefly explain his situation and it was as I’d suspected. Crappy jobs, no jobs, and bam. Living with the parents. For years. Up until that point, I never would have considered dating a middle-aged man who lived with his parents due solely to financial troubles, but he seemed so genuinely kind that I felt like I had to give it a chance.
“Financial situations can change,” I explained to friends, “but character doesn’t.”
My friends and family, knowing how much I struggled to find a partner who was pure-hearted, stable, and emotionally available, supported my decision to see where this might go.
Grocery receipt or list of dating disasters? You decide.
Fred and I were feeling a lot looser by the time we walked over to the concert, and when the sun began to set, we wrapped ourselves up in each other, swaying to the mellow, dance-y beats.
When the lead singer’s 50-foot tall image appeared on screen in a tight jumpsuit, Fred said in my ear,
“That’s not a very flattering outfit.”
I drew my head back and pulled away, looking at him with furrowed eyebrows.
“What?” he replied, his expression dropping.
“I think she looks amazing.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it! I was just saying it’s not the most flattering outfit! What, I’m not allowed to say that?”
We parted ways for a couple of minutes while I tried to figure out if I was overreacting.
“Sorry,” I said, touching his shoulder. “I just don’t like people commenting on other people’s bodies. Especially men commenting on women.”
“I thought I blew it,” he said, looking relieved.
“Man, I should have shaved my knees!” I joked a little while later, realizing my knees and thighs were visible in my mesh dress.
“I am NOT into hairy legs,” Fred immediately retorted. “I like fully waxed.”
Again I drew my head back as my stomach sank. I had flashbacks of the Navy pilot and the guy who asked for his key back – the two boyfriends I had in 2014 right after my divorce, back-to-back, who both had more than a few red flags. One of the first signs was commenting on other women’s bodies, positively or negatively. At the time, I didn’t have the vocabulary to articulate what my gut was telling me, but nine years later, alarm bells rang loudly: NEXT HE’LL TELL YOU HE HAS MOMMY ISSUES. RUNNNNN.
“What? I’m not allowed to have a preference?!” Fred argued.
Later, in the parking lot by our cars, I had the opportunity to explain where I was coming from.
“When you judge other people’s appearances, I take it personally and assume you’ll say the same unkind things about me. I also don’t think it’s anyone’s business or place. My body is the least interesting thing about me.”
Having lost and gained so much weight since childhood, struggling with binge eating (which I had told him about over drinks earlier), I had grown to have zero tolerance for body shaming or judgment of any kind.
And if that doesn’t work for you, you can fuck right off.
He apologized and said he understood. I felt comforted, believing he was just inexperienced but willing to learn and grow. Cue: an intense, long make-out session until a security guard came over.
“You can have ten more minutes before I have to kick you out,” the security guard said, realizing we weren’t stealing anything besides smooches.
When Fred and I had our second date two nights later, the body grooming topic came up again.
“I’m sure there are preferences you have, too!” Fred insisted. “Like I’m sure you’d prefer I had hair and didn’t live with my parents.”
I said nothing because, unlike Fred, I knew when to keep my mouth shut.
“If you want to get anywhere with me,” I explained, “your job is to build me up and make me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world, no matter what.”
By then he’d already made a number of sexually forward comments and I couldn’t help but wonder if he got all of his “preferences” from porn. Right before the end of the night, the topic of children somehow came up.
“Wait, do you want kids?” I asked, taken aback. “Because I’m 41 and I have an IUD.”
“I mean I know we’re basically the same age, but I’m still open to it. I could always date someone younger.”
Though he hadn’t said it pointedly, I couldn’t help but bristle.
Me contemplating how to acquire the confidence of a white, middle-aged man.
“I just don’t want us to waste each other’s time,” I answered.
He assured me it wasn’t a dealbreaker.
A few days later, Fred picked me up for a third date, putting in the effort to hold open doors, buy me a small present, and pay for my ticket to a beer tasting event. I still wasn’t sure how I felt; the “nice guy” I thought I’d met definitely had some chinks in his armor. …But were they really gamestoppers?
After all, we did have fun together.
“I can get angry sometimes, and I don’t want you to see that part of me,” he had texted the night before. “I can get mean, and my parents and I get into yelling matches sometimes.”
The text had come out of the blue and while it had made me incredibly uneasy, I decided not to jump to conclusions.
“Do you mean angry like ‘even medication doesn’t help’ or angry like, ‘I’m frustrated with life and the world is on fire’ [like the rest of us]?”
“I’m not on medication. I’m just afraid for the moment when you realize I’m not perfect.”
Oh lord, Fred. We are way past that.
“Well, if I haven’t scared you off yet, I really think we should give this a shot,” Fred ended the conversation.
The exchange played through my head as we entered the beer tasting event. Between that and knowing I was about to meet his parents, I was on edge. When we handed over our tickets, I learned that we still needed tasting tokens – the cheap tickets Fred had purchased only got us into the event.
Fail.
“How much are they? For how many? And what does that get you?” Fred asked a series of questions to the token seller while I slowly died inside.
“I’ve got it,” I intervened and bought us enough tokens to cover a solid handful of tastings each.
We started the night out by bumping into a couple of guys from his trivia team who made several tasting recommendations.
“Oh hey, let’s try this beer!” Fred exclaimed a little while later, walking over to one of the booths.
“I’d never heard of this one,” I said. Before I could add, ‘Until your friends mentioned it tonight,’ he cut me off.
“[My friends] literally just told us about it.”
I pursed my lips. “I know, I mean I had never heard of it before then.”
Fred got drunk quickly and started trying to tip the vendors with tokens.
“Keep it, man,” one seller explained, eyeing him dubiously. “We can’t cash them in for money at the end of the night so you’re just wasting a token.”
Yeah, Fred. The tokens I bought.
“No, no, you take it,” Fred insisted over and over, clearly too buzzed to understand the concept that wooden tokens did not equal tip currency in Beer Tasting World.
Perhaps I should have been charmed by the attempt to tip in tokens, but I was too turned off by his refusal to listen to a simple explanation – a pattern that would only progress as the night wore on.
So many fails, so little time.
“Oh hey, there are some of my gaming buddies! Can we go say hi?!” Fred said, making a beeline towards two men before I had the chance to answer.
A little while later, his parents walked over. They were put together, aside from being tipsy, but didn’t seem especially keen on chatting, which struck me as odd. Were they not curious about the winsome blonde their son had wrangled? Fred immediately ignored us in favor of continuing his conversation with a friend, so I was left on my own to show them what a catch I was.
Did I mention I have a 401k and multiple house plants?!
“[Fred’s dad and I] met at a roller rink!” his mom told me.
“Oh my god, no way! Tell me everything!”
For the next half hour, I played the role of Charming Girlfriend while Fred talked only to his friend.
I tried not to peek at my watch. It was official; I was not having fun. As the event neared closing time, I decided we needed to eat. Knowing how broke Fred was, I offered,
“Hey, I’m starving, how about I make us a pizza at my place?”
I had spent half the day –after an insanely busy and stressful month of job interviews, social commitments, visitors, freelance work, a broken toe, a broken phone, and a flat tire– cleaning and grooming in preparation for this date. I was hellbent on salvaging the night.
After pizza and a walk down memory lane reminiscing about our first concerts, a heavy make-out session ensued, my back pressed against the refrigerator. Maybe this can work… I pulled back and looked at him.
“So,” I began. “Are you prepared if things do get intimate between us?” I didn’t have any intention of sleeping with him that night, but I wanted to know where we stood.
“Don’t you have an IUD?”
“Yeah…but that doesn’t protect against STDs…”
“Well I don’t have condoms,” Fred replied. “But I’m good to go.”
I raised my eyebrows and he continued.
“I mean I haven’t had symptoms of anything in the past two months which is what the guidelines say.”
“Um, I don’t think that’s how it works,” I replied.
“Well if you want to go against what the research says…” Fred said before going on in great detail about his dating and sexual history.
“My last ‘real’ relationship was for a few months in 2018,” he rambled. “with a woman a few years older with kids. Like you, she pursued me.” I tried not to make a face as he continued. “We were gonna move in together and I was cool with taking on the kids, but then she said she felt like she was holding me back from my gaming dreams. I thought that was so nice of her. I wanted to stay together, but she was so awesome to not want to hold me back.”
Oh holy fuck, Fred, really? That woman was trying to get rid of your ass without drama!
“I know. I know. This is really how men interpret us.”
He went on about one other “really nice” woman who was “there for him during the pandemic” until I held up a hand.
“I don’t need or want to know any of this. I just need to know that you’ve been tested.”
“I could ask you the same question!” he said accusingly. “Have you had sex with anyone since your last doctor’s visit?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Okay, so you’re good. I’ll go out and buy condoms right now!”
How could I explain that he was missing the point? On top of being willing to put both of us at risk, he was clearly demonstrating a lack of safety, care, and maturity.
The conversation turned into a full-blown argument until I said calmly,
“You’re raising your voice. It’s late. I have neighbors. You said you had anger issues and I’m just trying to suss some things out here.”
“Now you’re spinning my words! How could you think I’d be so open with you and then put you in any kind of danger?!” he cried, seeming to still think he could convince me to have unprotected sex. I’d never wanted anything less in my life. “I don’t like being analyzed!”
“What I was hoping you would have said when I asked if you were prepared,” I took a deep breath, “was, ‘Of course. I’m happy to do whatever you need to feel comfortable, Jules.'”
“Oh, well, I’m sorry I didn’t say EXACTLY the perfect thing!” Fred spit back.
I started cleaning up the kitchen, talking more to myself than him.
“Look around, Fred. I’m a grown-up with a grown-up life. This is a normal conversation to be having when you’re starting a new relationship. How do I keep getting myself into these insane situations?”
Fred sat at the bar overlooking the kitchen sink where I was washing dishes and replied, “Now you’re just being condescending!”
“You’re right. That’s what I do when I’m pushed to my limit.”
“Fine, I mean I guess if I have to go through all of that…”
“All of what?” I asked.
“Getting tested.”
“Oh, so I’m expected to go through all of the pain and money and time of getting fully waxed on a regular basis, but you can’t go get tested ONCE?!”
I knew that would set him off anew, but I was done. He ranted and raved until I said what I should have said an hour earlier, or perhaps a week earlier,
“You need to leave.”
While he put on his coat and shoes, I went into the bedroom to snuggle Uncle Jesse (Doodle Wonder Dog) and calm my nerves. I was proud of myself for not exploding or hitting below the belt.
I came back out into the living room when I heard the front door open. Fred was staring at me with puppy dog eyes.
“I’m sorry, I hope we can still work this out. Thank you for the drinks and everything tonight.”
“Okay,” was all I could muster, eagerly locking the door and turning off the porch light as soon as he left.
I laid in bed wondering if there was any chance I had overreacted. No. This was genuinely fucked. Glad I know now, I texted to friends.
The next day, I visited Michelle at a local market where she had a booth selling her (stunning) jewelry. Another friend, Margaret, bumped into us and I told them both the latest drama.
The reviews are in and it’s two a billion thumbs down, Fred.
“Wait, Fred who?” Margaret stopped me mid-sentence, putting a hand on my forearm.
My stomach dropped.
“Fred Cooper.”
“Does he have asthma? And does delivery for that pizza place?”
“Yes!”
“Jules, I know him! He came up to me like two weeks ago at a fair and chatted me up! He asked for my number! But then I lost my phone so I chalked it up to a missed connection!”
“Oh my god!” I slapped my forehead. “He acts like he’s so innocent and doesn’t date!”
“He seemed really nice!”
“Yeah, he does seem really nice.”
“God. I can’t believe that happened to you last night. I’m so sorry. That’s messed up!”
The entire day passed without a word from Fred. The following morning at precisely 11:11am, he texted,
“Jules I’m sorry about the other night. I’m not sure why I responded the way I did. I hope we can talk this through because you do mean a lot to me.”
I had one tiny moment of self-doubt before coming to my senses. I archived our message thread and said a prayer of thanks for having my head on straight and my heart intact through this one.
They’re everywhere, Fred. You don’t even need a wooden token.
I clicked on the Hinge dating app message. It was always nice to see some text on the screen instead of a lazy ‘like’ with no accompanying message.
In case you’re wondering what zero effort looks like.
Greg’s profile photo was slightly menacing -dark beard, unsmiling, his face filling the entire frame- but I was intrigued by his comment on my voice prompt. (Hinge allows us hopeless romantics gluttons for punishment to add video and voice memos to our profiles.) I quickly scrolled his profile and saw that he ticked all of my major boxes: non-smoker, vaxxed, liberal, didn’t appear to live in a van. He had also included a voice prompt and when I clicked on it, I heard him say, “You can tell a lot by a person’s voice. In fact, 90% of your connection to someone is through their voice.”
“So does this mean I’m already 90% golden and I can coast from here?” I replied.
Witty banter immediately ensued.
“Oh wait, you like to meet up,” Greg wrote after a couple of back-and-forth messages.
Translation: Let’s just get this over with.
I decided to shuffle a few plans that evening so I could reply, “Yes! The snag is that I’m only free tonight or after next Monday.”
“I could meet tonight at 7:30,” he immediately responded, offering up a couple of locations.
We solidified the plan and exchanged a few more funny messages throughout the day. When I walked into the bar just after 7:30, I felt flushed from the bitter cold central Oregon air, my hands shoved deeply into my trusty brown puffy jacket.
That coat is even older than this blog! Photo: Jan 2014, Freeport, Maine.
I immediately spotted Greg at a large table and he greeted me with a prolonged handshake and big smile. He looked like a stand-up guy with his act together and I inwardly unclenched. He was a bundle of nerves, but in a charming way – the kind of person who has a million things to say when they’re excited.
A welcome relief when half of my first dates look like this.
Before we got too far into our frenetic conversation, Greg popped up.
“I ordered at the bar, but let me make sure someone is coming over to the table.”
Point one for Greg, I noted. My most recent first date had been sitting with a drink when I’d arrived and didn’t offer to get me anything, which always gives me pause.
“So you’re a writer?” Greg asked after confirming we had a waitress.
Greg offered up lots of questions and though I never quite got to finish any train of thought before he bounced to something else, I was flattered by his interest.
“I’m a lightweight,” he said when ordering his second hot toddy. “I usually only have two drinks.”
“I’m German and Irish. And I don’t have kids [like you]. Don’t try to keep up with me,” I teased.
I could tell he was feeling a little loose about an hour into the date and I wondered if things would get sloppy.
“Do you have any celebrity stories?” he asked and we both launched into our best tales.
“I usually don’t tell the story like this,” he said while I was on the edge of my seat. “You must bring out the writer in me!” He had built his story so that I was left guessing the celebrity the entire time. I loved it.
Throughout the night he dropped dozens of compliments and I wondered if there could be any romantic spark. I knew I liked him a lot and could definitely see us having fun as friends.
Two hours into the date, I got up to use the bathroom and when I came back, I noticed how buzzed Greg was and knew I was ready to go home.
“It’s so freezing in here,” I said and we both pulled on our jackets.
“We could go have another drink back at my place,” Greg offered with a grin.
My heart sank and emotion took the wheel.
“Noooo, Greg,” I moaned.
“It’s totally innocent! We live in the same neighborhood!” he said, still smiling, trying to warm me back up. “Damn. I can see you’ve put up a wall now.”
“This keeps happening!” I explained, only partially teasing. “Every first date, guys keep asking me to come home with them. It’s not cool.”
He continued back pedaling and I continued spiraling, not having the energy to recover gracefully and smooth things over. I just wanted to go home. I was exhausted from the endless dating rollercoaster: the adrenaline rush of meeting a perfect stranger, the ensuing trickles of hope, nightmares, occasional magic and inevitable let down.
I’m so glad I put on Spanx for this.
“I was married for 20 years; I understand women,” Greg said in a last ditch effort to win me over. “Like I know you took your purse to the bathroom because you have your period.”
I blinked. After a long beat, I blurted,
“I’m really uncomfortable and I’m gonna go.”
“…Okay,” I heard Greg reply, flabbergasted, as he watched me bolt into the frigid night.
As soon as the cold air hit my cheeks, I felt a flood of relief. …Immediately followed by shame and regret. Did I just completely overreact? Am I going to be “the crazy blonde” he tells his friends about? Should I apologize? This was a small town and we were practically neighbors, after all.
I suddenly realized I had ten minutes to make it to the grocery store before they closed, securing the much-needed lemon I’d forgotten earlier that day.
By the time I got home and opened Hinge to apologize, Greg had unmatched me. When you’re unmatched, you lose all access to your chat history and their profile. The ultimate slap in the face in the online dating world. He had sent his number in the Hinge chat right before we met, but I didn’t save it.
Well f*%&.
So, “Greg.” If you’re out there, I’m sorry I didn’t handle that more elegantly. My bad. But maybe stick to two hot toddies next time.
My opening line to Kevin on Hinge paid tribute to his profile prompt: “Dating me is like…finding that $5 bill in your jacket from last season.”
I wasn’t sure if I should message him. At 31, he was nine years my junior and his profile featured a series of photos that each looked like a slightly different person. Long hair, short hair. Beard, no beard. Muscular, pudgy. But there was one photo I found irresistible: He was hitchhiking, thumb out, wide smile, holding a sign that read, “Late 4 Summah Skool.” I’d later learn that the photo wasn’t staged and he had in fact had great success hitchhiking all over the country – as long as he held a funny sign.
Even though I’d long sworn off marathon messaging on dating apps (“Let’s skip all the messaging and meet up to see if there’s a genuine connection,” my profile currently reads), we quickly fell headfirst into the kind of dazzling banter I liked to imagine Aaron Sorkin spotting. (“Holy shirtballs, Jules, I’ve been waiting decades to find a writer like you!”)
“My entire being is concentrated on not making typos because I’m a writer and we have a reputation to uphold,” I wrote that night after several glasses of wine.
“My entire being is concentrated on not making typos in fear that a writer will *eviscerate* me,” Kevin replied. “Yes, allow me to flex my associates degree in spelling.”
“If someone ever gave me a degree for spelling, I would propose.”
The teasing went on for hours and I lost track of the amount of times I laughed out loud. He reminded me of my ex-husband’s most attractive qualities. Witty. Masculine. Confident.
“I just want someone who sparkles – like my friends do!” I’d been telling girlfriends over the past few months. After several years of dating off and on in central Oregon, it seemed like I was asking for the moon. “The kind of guy who’s really comfortable in his own skin and treats you like you’re the hottest thing he’s ever seen and knows he’s THE MAN because he gets to be with you.”
Messaging Kevin on Hinge, I began to wonder if he just might fit the bill.
The $5 $20 bill.
Two days later, we made plans to meet at a dive bar at 4pm, a couple of hours before my friend’s holiday party. Kevin showed up early and secured a booth, his funny messages continuing right up until the moment I walked through the door. My heart pounded. I wondered if, instead of carrying the conversation like I often did on first dates, I might actually have trouble keeping up with this guy.
I spotted him immediately, wearing a worn-out, turquoise shirt and baseball cap. He was slightly taller than me and just as masculine as I had imagined, right down to the beard and rock solid hug.
I sat down and when he smiled, his eyes glowed and my stomach somersaulted. Everything in my body told me that this was going to be a good date. Really good. He stared at me silently for a long moment until I finally said,
“What is it…?”
He grinned and then, in his deep and gravelly voice, said slowly, “You’re a fucking smoke show, Jules.”
I laughed and he reached into his pocket. “I’ve got somethin’ for ya.”
He pulled out a small slip of paper and as soon as I saw it I said, “Well, I guess I have to get down on one knee now.”
“So should we just get all of our red flags out now?” he asked.
“Tit for tat? Let’s do it,” I answered, palms flat on the table, accepting the challenge readily.
“I have no money,” he began and I giggled.
He went on to explain that he was newly single, had a crappy-paying but steady job, and would be traveling for work for six months, starting in April.
“Well if we hit it off, you’ll just have to get a new job,” I said, unfazed. His red flags were no match for our instant chemistry and what I quickly learned was an identical life philosophy.
“I always make decisions based on what will make the best story,” he told me.
You don’t say, Kevin.
“Do you want to come to this holiday party?” I found myself blurting as the clock neared 6pm. “It would make a good story.”
“Do you want me to?”
“It’s going to be a grown-up-y cocktail kind of party,” I cautioned.
“Do you want me to come?” he repeated.
“Do you want to go?” I asked.
“Yes or no, Jules.”
The way he leveled me made my heart flutter. Of course there was only one answer.
“Yes.”
We spent nearly the entire party canoodling on the living room couch and ignoring everyone else. Resting a hand between my crossed legs, he confessed that he was dealing with not only a bad break-up, but a tragic family death, his eyes welling with tears.
“We don’t have to talk about this now,” I said gently, my hand on his knee.
“It’s okay,” he said. Later, he would say that he didn’t really talk to anyone -besides his new therapist- about this.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked at the end of the night, long after the party had ended and after another drink back at the dive bar.
Just like the last question he’d asked, the answer was crystal clear.
When I got home around midnight, we texted for hours.
“You’re going to have to give me a minute to believe all of this is real,” I confessed via text. “You just started dating again, but I’ve been at this for years.”
“Tell me how I can help.”
“Just keep touching my butt and complimenting me.”
We hung out again the next night with one of his friends at yet another dive bar.
“I missed you. I’ve been telling my friends about you,” he whispered after I sat down next to him.
When his friend left for the night, he gave us a little smile and thumbs up, clearly approving our undeniable connection.
“I’m all in,” Kevin blurted once it was just the two of us. “But that’s a conversation for another day.”
We were both too exhausted to hang out again the next night, Sunday, and doubt started to creep in when his messages abruptly slowed. Had he changed his mind? Was this real? Were we really a match? Was it moving too quickly? Was I being love bombed?
“Brad and I spent every day together when we first met,” my friend, Amanda, reassured me. “We moved in a few months later and now we’ve been together 17 years!” She was on Team Kevin, or rather, Team Jules Needs a Goddamn Break, and had met Kevin at the holiday party.
Despite the sudden halt in messaging and a couple of short, lackluster phone calls, Kevin came over on Monday night and I greeted him with a kiss, trying to overcome my insecurity. Later, when he asked if I wanted him to sleep over, I said,
“I think we’d need to talk about what that means.”
“I’m the lowest I’ve ever been,” he confided, our limbs intertwined on the couch and my dog nervously panting, wondering who this strange man was. “I do ultimately want a partner, and I think I’m ready for that. I don’t know. One minute I feel one way, the next minute another way. I’m kind of all over the place. I really like you and want to keep hanging out. I can’t promise I won’t go on other dates; I’ve just put myself back out there, but I think you’re great. You’re a catch, Jules. …Does that help?”
Part of me felt relieved by his monologue. It was more tempered and realistic. After all, I was still planning other dates myself – we’d only known each other for four days.
We made out until the wee hours, the chemistry overwhelming. When he left at 2am, though, I was suddenly crying. I knew something was off. The next morning, I Googled “dating a grieving man” and read for two hours. It seemed to explain the hot-and-cold behavior, but I still felt unnerved. His actions were the same kind you see when a guy, well, just isn’t that into you.
“It’s so confusing. I really like him and I haven’t felt chemistry like this in so long,” I sighed, twirling the straw in my vodka tonic, chatting over drinks with a friend.
“Just go with your gut,” she replied. I wanted to feel comforted, but I genuinely wasn’t sure what my gut was telling me.
After distancing himself even more for two days, Kevin asked me to call him that Thursday night, which I did. He didn’t pick up. The next day around noon, my phone rang.
“What’s shakin’ bacon?” he asked in his gruff voice, despite me teasing him that that was a pretty bad nickname for a vegan.
“What’s cookin’ good-lookin’?” I replied, feeling fairly confident that he was going to lockdown some weekend plans and that I was better equipped to navigate his grieving behavior.
“Nothin’ much, just watering plants.”
“Making plans?” I questioned, mishearing him. “That makes my project manager heart flutter.”
“Watering plants,” he repeated.
“Ah.”
“What are you up to today?”
“Just getting some work done, then exercising. That’s about it for today,” I answered, my pride not allowing me to initiate any plans. “How about you?”
“Nothin’ much. I got volun-told to bring fish for sushi-making tonight, so I gotta get that together.”
My stomach sank. On our first date, he’d tried to woo me with the promise of a dinner date at his place, making avocado and tofu sushi. “I almost never eat meat,” he had said – music to my ears. Now he was talking about bringing sushi somewhere else? Somewhere I wasn’t invited? Somewhere with another woman…?
“My red flag is my massive jealous streak,” I had told Kevin on our first date. Even though I called it my red flag, I knew a sensitive, loving partner would do everything in his power to make me feel secure. I was beginning to realize what my gut was telling me. Run.
“And you have your work holiday party on Saturday,” I added, trying to play it cool. Would he invite me to that?
“Yeah, I really don’t want to go, but I got talked into it. They want us to dress up, but they don’t pay me enough for that.”
We chatted about his notoriously raucous holiday work party for a minute and then he said,
“So…I need to talk to you about something.”
A pit formed in my stomach and I braced myself, trying to go numb.
“I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” he continued. “And I really don’t think I’m ready for a relationship. I’m leaving [for work] in April and it would just be a waste of time. I know that’s what you’re looking for, and I’ve been trying to figure things out, and I wanted to be upfront.”
“Okay. …Thanks for being upfront,” I said flatly. A waste of time?
“I’d still like to hang out, though. I really like you. But of course that’s up to you.”
I let that hang in the air for a moment before saying quietly, “I think that would be confusing.”
“Okay,” he seemed almost surprised, and maybe disappointed, by my answer. “I hope I didn’t ruin your day.”
Fire flared in my chest. How. Dare. You. I swallowed thickly, willing myself not to cry. I thanked the heavens for instilling me with enough self-worth and stubbornness to recognize this situation for the utter bullshirt that it was – even if my heart was cracking in a few dozen places.
“No,” I said firmly, my mind racing to plot out the rest of the day. 1. Cry. 2. Finish work. 3. Make plans with sparkly friends. You do not have the power to ruin my day, you motherforker.
“I’ll leave the ball in your court. If you decide to text me at any point, it won’t be weird. I would like to hang out. But like I said, I’ll leave the ball in your court.”
“I guess we made a plan after all,” I deadpanned. “…Bye.”
I archived our text message thread, wiped away a few tears, and grabbed my laptop. Better things were waiting for me.
Justin Timberlake? Did you hear that?
~*~*~*~*~*~
P.S. – I know, I know! I never gave you an update on Mr. Brought Roses to Our First Date. We had a few more very nice dates, he accidentally gave me COVID despite having never touched me, and we’re now friends. I think. I obviously have no idea what I’m doing.
I twisted the last strand of hair around my curling iron, staring into the bathroom mirror. Every time I did my hair, I felt like a teenage boy trying to unclasp a bra.
Okay.Not bad.
“Bing!” my phone sounded. I walked the short distance through my bedroom into the living room to check it.
“Hey! I’m so sorry. My roommate is in the hospital.”
Dennis, my 20-something Hinge (first) date for that evening, had just thrown me a curveball.
“Oh no! Are they okay?”
“Yeah, everything is fine. But I’m afraid I won’t make it tonight. I hope you’ll let me make it up to you.”
I chewed the inside of my lip. On the one hand, I wanted to sound supportive. On the other hand… I snapped a selfie and sent it.
“I’m so glad they’re okay! But you’re buying the beers next time because I did my hair and everything.”
“Aw man, you look so pretty. And absolutely.”
A few days later, we made plans to meet at a local food truck lot for happy hour. Once again, I stood in the bathroom curling my hair – one of my least favorite activities, but one that turned my fine, straight hair into something a bit more alluring.
Or so I continue to tell myself.
As I got ready to leave, my phone chirped. I looked at the screen and saw a text from Dennis.
“Hey, just got home. Don’t think I’m gonna make it tonight.”
My mouth sagged and tears pricked my eyes.
“Why?” I wrote back after a moment’s hesitation.
“Just not feeling it.”
My stomach fell along with a tear. My mind raced with a thousand things I wanted to say and continued to do so for the next 24 hours. Instead, I decided to say nothing.
“I’m really sorry about last night,” Dennis texted the following morning. I never wrote back.
“Of all my worst dating stories,” I recently told Henry, central Oregon’s last remaining gentleman, “the absolute worst was this guy, about a year ago, who basically stood me up – TWICE. The second time because he ‘just wasn’t feeling it.'”
“You’re kidding,” Henry replied in shock.
“I think it was social anxiety, but still. It REALLY hurt my feelings.”
This week, I received a new Hinge like. It was Dennis. A year after he’d stood me up. I finally seized the opportunity to say what I hadn’t said before.
Maybe I was wrong to lecture him, but I wanted to shake him out of his own self-centeredness. How many times had I rallied to meet a friend or first date so I wouldn’t hurt their feelings? Seeing Dennis on Hinge reminded me of a similar dating story earlier this year with “Craig Who Cancels,” one of the strangest dates I’ve ever had (and you know that’s saying something)…
“I’m actually a stand-up comedian,” Craig explained as we messaged back and forth via Bumble.
“No way!” I replied, gearing up to geek out on our favorite stand-up comics. After a few more messages, I invited him to meet me for Friday happy hour. “I’m going with some girlfriends, but it sounds like you can hold you own.”
“I love working a crowd,” Craig fired back, agreeing to meet me at the brewery at 4pm on Friday.
Around 2pm on Friday, I received a bizarre message:
My girlfriends and I attempted to decipher the confounding note.
“Maybe he has Covid and doesn’t want to say.”
“Maybe he panicked.”
“Maybe he started seeing someone else.”
Disappointed, I wrote Craig off and turned my focus to other activities and matches. A week later, and despite having my phone number, I received a new message from Craig on Bumble saying he had two extra tickets to a comedy show. It wasn’t clear whether he was offering both tickets to me or fishing for a date.
While waiting to see if my friend was available to join us, I switched our conversation back over to text messaging. Which is when things got even more interesting:
When I got to the comedy club, Craig greeted me with a hug. He was more nervous than any date I’d ever met, his voice trembling.
“Whew, I’m really blowing it,” he said, stumbling over the bartender’s name while trying to place our drink order.
Turns out the nerves were date-specific and he was a regular performer at the comedy club. He began introducing me to everyone in the small venue and I sunk inside my cold shoulder sweater.
Because I knew three of them.
Because I’d gone on first dates with them.
Apparently I have a type.
“Congratulations on a [recent promotion I saw on a Facebook group we have in common],” I said to Marty, an older guy I’d gone on a walking date with several months earlier (who then ghosted me after I turned down his second-date-booty-call proposition).
“Oh thanks,” he grinned, his overconfidence nearly balancing out Craig’s nervousness. “We went on a date in…December, right?”
My eyes darted over to Craig, whose expression I couldn’t read. “That sounds about right.”
Marty looked at Craig and raised his eyebrows.
“As I recall, I didn’t make it to a second date.”
I raised my eyebrows in return.
“That is correct.”
Unfazed, Marty chatted with Craig for another moment before flitting off to someone else; he was the MC for the night and clearly enjoying his role. For a small local comedy club, the show was surprisingly tolerable. Funny, even.
“I’ll call you,” Craig promised after walking me to my car at the end of the night.
“Has anyone ever brought me a gift or flowers on a first date?” I wondered, driving slowly through quaint downtown Bend, Oregon, careful to dodge the pedestrians who often crossed the street willy-nilly. “Do people even do that anymore?”
Making a mental note to survey my girlfriends, my mind drifted to the previous night’s date…
***
“Hi Paul!” I greeted with a wide grin.
Paul was ten minutes late, a bootleg version of his Hinge profile photos, and unsmiling.
“Hey,” he replied, not making eye contact.
We sat at a picnic table in one of my favorite food truck lots and, sensing imminent disaster, I blurted, “Should we get a drink?”
“Okay,” he agreed, his face unreadable.
“Have you been here before?” I questioned while Paul stared at the beer menu.
“Yeah,” he deadpanned. “Like a year ago.”
“I’m gonna grab something from the cooler,” I said, walking away to procure a can a.k.a. half bottle of sparkling wine, which apparently I was going to need to shotgun in order to survive the next hour.
When we sat back down, I immediately took charge of the First Date Starter Kit questions: work, hobbies, family. With each query, I got a one line reply with zero return questioning.
Twenty minutes in, I decided to see what would happen if I stopped talking. Paul stared at the ceiling.
“So do you live with roommates, or…?” I casually began again. I’d learned that that was the most tactful way to ask about a first date’s living situation. Especially one in his 20s. (Hey. I’m open-minded.)
“I moved back in with my parents to save money,” he replied and I kept my expression neutral.
Oh, Paul. That’s wonderful.
“Smart,” I answered. “Houses are so expensive here.” I paused. “I saw on your profile you like Harry Potter. I LOVE Harry Potter. I saw Harry Potter and the Cursed Child on Broadway last December and it was the best show I’ve ever seen!”
“I’ll have to check it out,” he replied in monotone.
‘Check it out’? In central Oregon? Does he not understand where Broadway is?
After ten more minutes, I surrendered and pulled out the Ace I’d tucked in my back pocket: A subject I had no interest in, but suspected would light him up.
“So tell me more about motocross! Is it moto-cross, without an ‘r’ in the middle?”
“Yeah, mo-to-cross,” he replied. I couldn’t tell if any enthusiasm was building.
“That trips up my brain! Tell me everything; I know nothing about it.”
“Well,” he began, shifting in his seat and staring over my left shoulder. “It’s on a closed course, and…well. Um. Yeah. I don’t know. I guess it’s hard to explain.”
“Allllll right everybody!” a booming voice announced from the back of the room. “Trivia is just about to begin so make sure you submit your team name!”
“Yikes,” I grimaced at the volume, but then immediately sensed a golden opportunity. “Gosh, I think it’s going to be too loud to talk now. I’m sorry I had no idea they had trivia here! You finished your beer so we should probably call it, huh?”
Paul moved his head in a way that was neither a nod nor a shake. I stood up, chugging my wine. I didn’t even care that I’d have to sacrifice more than half the can by leaving 25 minutes into the date.
As we walked outside, I quickly turned the opposite direction while calling out, “Thanks for coming out tonight!” I made a beeline for my car, relieved he didn’t suggest we go anywhere else. I instantly dialed a friend’s number.
Tonight’s date, Henry, seemed to tick all of The Jules Boxes and then some: My age, liberal, vaccinated, didn’t want kids, active, smart, social, good job, lived alone, dog owner – and “98%” vegan. On the voice recording accompanying his profile (Hinge lets you add audio and video), he sounded gently masculine, thoughtful, and eloquent. In the few messages we’d exchanged, his responses had been fun and sincere. When I’d mentioned seeing local live music that week, he’d looked up the musician and then sent YouTube clips of other songs he’d thought I’d like based on my taste.
When I walked inside the wine bar, I was sure he’d already be there. Instead, he wound up being a few minutes late and a knot in my stomach began to form. Maybe I was wrong… Three minutes past our meeting time, I looked to my left and saw a well-dressed man walking towards me.
Carrying a bouquet of long-stemmed roses.
*mic drop*
“Hi Henry! Are you a hugger?” I said, walking towards him and going in for one.
“Hi Jules! I am!” he said, wrapping his arms around me. He was solid, and at 5’11”, a few inches taller than me. He didn’t even lie about his height!
“Thank you SO much!” I exclaimed, taking the roses and admiring them. I felt several sets of eyes on us as we walked back to our table. “They’re gorgeous!” I put them to my nose. “And they smell amazing!”
“There’s 11, because you said 11 was your favorite number,” Henry explained, taking his coat off and draping it over the back of his chair. I instantly noticed his shirt.
‘No one dresses like a grown-up here,’ I had lamented to friends a week earlier. ‘Like what ever happened to a nice button down shirt?’
Henry’s button down shirt was impeccably tailored, pressed, and tucked in; white, with tiny blue stripes. You could tell he worked out by the way it hugged his torso. My stomach started to flutter. Was I prepared for an actual date? With a fully adulting human male?
This was a first.
“So how’s your day going?” Henry asked.
The conversation flowed from there, though I occasionally tripped over my words.
“Oh no no, you go,” he said every time we spoke at the same time.
“I don’t understand why people would put up a misleading photo,” he said at one point, when the inevitable ‘online dating’ topic arose. “You look exactly like your photos.” He smiled, clearly giving his approval.
I definitely didn’t stress all day wondering what to wear and then put on the outfit I always do, Henry.
“I also don’t understand when people roll into a first date like they can barely bother to be there,” I replied. “I feel like you have to treat every first date like it’s special.”
“Because you never know!” we both said at the same time.
When the date ended a few hours later, Henry walked me to my car and gave a solid hug goodbye.
“I’d love to do this again sometime.”
“Me too!” I answered.
“Send me your number through the app, if that’s okay?”
“I will!”
Shortly after I’d gotten home, Henry’s first text arrived.
“Such a wonderful evening! I wish it would have gone longer!”
After a few more exchanges, he said, “I have to say this was an awesome first date. So, I’m pretty much free anytime to see you again so whatever date works for you, I’m totally available.”
Single men of the world? I hope you’re taking notes.
“We’re sorting zee last fruits of zee year today, and these, they go together at zee same time.”
“Uh-huh.”
The 6-foot-3 French Hemsworth swaggered towards us carrying two bunches of grapes, one white and one red, leisurely popping the small orbs into his mouth.
“It’s our last day of sorting today,” he repeated, casually spitting seeds off to the side.
“Uh-huh.”
The three of us stared at him, mouths agape, borderline catatonic. A flash of bright white blinded us when he smiled.
Erin, Babs (mom) and I had been finishing a winery tour in the Willamette Valley when we’d spotted two bald eagles flying overhead.
“Look!” Erin had exclaimed, catching the attention of a tall, brunette Adonis sorting grapes. He’d sauntered over.
“What do you think zey are looking for?” he had asked, his elegant neck craned skyward.
Upon hearing his French accent, Erin hadn’t wasted time in replying, “I think they spotted a tasty treat.”
“Do you agree?”
He had torn his gaze from the sky and laid a set of smoldering eyes on her.
Paint me like one of your French girls.
Babs and I had watched the scene unfold in a state of disbelief. Was this a real human? Did men like this exist outside of Hallmark holiday movies? Was he about to tell us he was inheriting the winery from his late uncle and the only thing missing was an awkward blonde to share it with?
“Here, try,” he said, offering us the two bunches of grapes cupped gently in his masculine palm.
After a six month dating hiatus following Cameron Who Cancels and Wasn’t Even Worth Blogging About, I evidently hit my head and decided to fire up Hinge. Again. Living in central Oregon -an island of sorts, surrounded on all sides by forest and desert-y nothingness- I knew I was bound to see some familiar faces. When a cute, new, outdoorsy guy sent a like, I cautiously accepted.
“Hey Jules, how’s your week going?” asked Walter.
Not exactly a panty-dropping opener, but I decided to reply. After a few brief and normal-seeming exchanges, we agreed to meet up the following week after he was done hosting his parents. He was about my age, liberal, had a good job, a dog, and a solid grasp on “you’re” versus “your.” He even picked our meet-up spot instead of punting the decision back to me. What more could a tired, 40-year-old divorcee ask for?
When our 7pm Thursday Date Night arrived, I put on a new cream-colored turtleneck sweater and light wash jeans, arriving a few minutes early.
Jules Schnedeker (b. 1982). Fruitless Effort, 2022. Google Pixel photo on blog.A self-portrait captured before the artist fell into another writer’s block.
Shortly after 7 o’clock, I caught a man waving at me from outside the restaurant. Walter came inside looking frazzled.
“Jules? Hi. I think I left my oven on.”
His eyes held a wild, frantic look.
“Oh no! Okay. Well, you should definitely go check.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course! You don’t want to be worrying about that the whole night! I can go meet you nearby…wherever you live,” I offered, realizing I was about to reveal that I’d already stalked him online and knew his last name and a few other key details.
“Oh, but this place looks so nice,” he lamented, gazing around the restaurant.
“Why don’t I get us a table outside by the fire and you just come back after you check,” I suggested.
Walter looked relieved. “Okay, I live about 10 minutes away. Thank you so much.”
“No problem!”
I sat down outside, eager to get a glass of wine. As the minutes ticked by, I started to wonder if I’d just been ditched. Nah. He wouldn’t have bothered to come inside if he was gonna bail. A half an hour later, Walter finally returned. The moment his rear end hit the chair, he popped back up.
“Need anything?” he asked, gesturing towards my half full glass of crappy Prosecco.
“I’m good, thanks,” I said, my brows furrowed. We had a waiter…
He returned a minute later with a glass full of amber liquid. I’d later find out it was a double shot of whiskey, presumably to make it easier to interrogate me calm his nerves.
“So why did you get divorced?” he asked without missing a beat.
“Well,” I began, my Spidey sense tingling. I knew I was talking to a jilted man. “As sad as it is to say, we fell out of love.”
A horrified look crossed his face. “What do you mean?”
“We were 21 when we started dating,” I explained. “People change…?” It felt uncomfortable dissecting a relationship that had ended nearly a decade earlier with a perfect stranger.
No one invited you inside my past, Walter.
“Whose decision was it?” he pressed. Every time I thought the topic was spent, he found another probing question. “Did you go to therapy? How did you know he was unhappy?”
Before long, my insides screamed, I don’t want to be here! Walter later revealed that he’d had an engagement called off earlier this year, confirming my suspicions.
“I feel like I’m off my game,” I admitted about an hour into the date as I continued to falter from his inquisition.
Rather than offer reassurance, he replied, “Why?”
“The conversation got a little…intense.”
“I like to go deep,” he said and I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “You’re doing better than the one other date I’ve had here. She cried for most of it.”
Why am I not surprised?
“Yeah,” he went on. “I asked about her dating history, and she said she keeps getting used by men who wind up being married and just use her for sex because she’s ‘so good in bed.’ The only other woman I met since I moved here [earlier this year] was from Salem [three hours west]. She came to visit for the weekend and I had to work for part of it. Instead of exploring, she just sat in my living room the entire time. I was attracted to her, but that was such a turn-off.”
I nodded, my inner voice growing louder. I don’t want to be here!
I want to be here!
“A sense of humor is the most important thing,” he repeated several times throughout the night while not actually saying anything funny. “And how you reacted to the oven situation was a good test; you were really nice about it.”
Notoriously bad at exiting, the date lasted two and a half hours – which probably meant I passed another test. When we asked for the bill, the waiter automatically brought two separate checks. At least someone read the room tonight. I slowly took mine while Walter made zero attempt to intercept.
“Well,” I said, standing up. “Thanks for having your shit together.” It was the nicest thing I could conjure.
“Thanks for not crying,” he replied, inspiring my first chuckle of the night.
The next day Walter messaged me through Hinge, saying he’d had a good time. “It was nice meeting you,” I replied noncommittally. He then asked “what I was up to” that weekend without making it clear whether or not he was asking me out. I never responded.
When friends asked how it went, I told them the truth.
“The only thing turned on that night was his oven.”
You have?! That’s wonderful! And? That is NOT A JOURNEY.
You do not need to “curate” (dry heave) the “seasons” (gag) of your life by calling everything a “journey” (help).
The only three times using the word “journey” is acceptable:
1. You have traversed a great distance – literally.
2. You made it into American Idol’s Top 24 and are explaining to Ryan Seacrest that your late/ailing grandmother is the reason you auditioned in the first place.
3. You’re at any Jersey wedding, ever, and someone asks, “Who sings this?”
Notice how neither example includes crystals, yoga, or rich white people.
And to my journey-uttering readers: know that there is still hope. Allow me to illustrate through a few recent stories from my life. May this empower (wretch) you to consider (vomit) three alternate suggestions to your favorite word.
#1 – My Dating Journey A Ceaseless Dumpster Fire on the Slow March to Certain Death
DISCLAIMER: Name(s) changed.
“So do you want to meet for a drink…?”
“I don’t think so.”
I stared at my phone in shock. Michael and I had been texting incessantly for the past week after meeting on Hinge, the only dating app with which I seemed to have any luck. (I didn’t say it was good luck.)
“Or coffee…?” I offered. Maybe he doesn’t drink.
It was rare that I’d text someone this much, but he’d been traveling for work over New Years, so we’d had no option to meet in person. Until now. Michael was back in Oregon and I’d assumed he was as eager to go on a real date as I was.
“Nah,” he replied.
“I’m so confused, lol,” I finally replied after several minutes, almost near tears.
“What’s confusing?” he asked.
“I figured you’d want to meet when you got back…”
“Wellll I don’t drink, and coffee dates are so awkward and I always wind up getting ghosted.”
This guy gets ghosted? Nearly 6’4″, 30ish, muscular, with thick hair and kind eyes, Michael’s absbutt face could’ve sold out theaters. He looks like a g.d. Avengers character!
“I have a facial tick,” he explained and I almost audibly sighed in relief. “Sometimes I blink a lot and so coffee dates aren’t good for me. I’m feeling really blinky today.”
“Well I’d just be trying to get to know you better, so I can promise you that that wouldn’t bother me at all,” I replied, my mind racing for alternate options that didn’t involve my apartment.
Michael was a van lifer, so suggesting we meet at his place wasn’t exactly a good choice, either. After going back and forth a little more, I finally caved.
“Okay, why don’t you just come here,” I said. Originally a Jersey girl, my two and a half years in adorable, innocent central Oregon had lowered my defenses. Or maybe it was just those abs that smile.
When Michael arrived and I heard his voice, soft and sweet, I knew I had nothing to fear (at least in the you-want-to-see-my-head-unattached-to-my-body kind of way). I created a distraction that I hoped would put him at ease: dog tricks! I’d filled Uncle Jesse’s puzzle with treats in preparation.
Did I mention he’s pursuing a degree in applied physics in the fall?
“You’ve gotta see this,” I told Michael as he took off his jacket and sneakers. I stared at the giant shoes now sitting by the front door; they somehow managed to dwarf my size 11 sneakers. Though I loved solitude, the sight made me feel warm. Safe.
After Uncle Jesse showed off his puzzle, I got Michael a drink and tried to avoid direct eye contact; I could see he was blinking and didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. He was right. If this had been a coffee date it would have been incredibly awkward.
We eventually sat on the couch and he downed glass after glass of water. I’d been on enough first dates recently to appreciate that there might actually be a universe in which I wasn’t the most nervous person in the room.
After about an hour, Michael made a move, and I wasn’t surprised that he suddenly found his stride. Apparently he was just fine on first dates when they didn’t involve talking.
In a matter of weeks, we were “exclusive” and I texted friends, “I think I have my first boyfriend in four years.”
Fast forward a few more weeks…
“We’re just in different places in life.”
I was the one who sent the text. Michael and I had agreed that we communicated better and more openly via text messaging, so it seemed like the right way to end things. I explained that his lateness, lack of balanced conversation (turns out he liked to talk…a lot), and failure to contribute to anything financially had been part of “a pattern of inconsideration” that I couldn’t ignore.
“I’m truly sorry things didn’t work out,” I ended my lengthy note, my heart in my throat. “And I wish you all the best things that life has to offer.”
And…
…I never heard from him again.
#2 – My Freelancing Journey Toxic People are Everywhere and I’m Very Tired
Dear Toxic Boss,
It is with sadness unadulterated glee that I submit my resignation after just one week of working for you. In our short time together, I experienced a level of unprofessionalism usually reserved for public office.
You may recall that during my interview, you:
compared the freelance hiring process to dating
told me how much you paid your other freelancer (double what you were willing to pay me)
explained how you knew I was motivated to do a good job because you had the power to leave a bad review on a public platform
said the word “p***y” when quoting Donald Trump
compared giving feedback to employees to “redirecting a child” who’s gone astray
You hired me to help promote a completed product for which you hadn’t “any idea of” the intended buyer. I enjoyed billing you for the hours spent revising the same five paragraphs. When I suggested that it may not be wise to include those 650+ words in 5-point font on a half-page print advertisement, you made it clear that you knew best – despite having had no previous success in selling similar products.
Shoot. Now you’re not gonna finish reading this post because you’re too busy racing to buy this product.
During our initial days together, you asked that we not engage in lengthy email exchanges since you were paying me “by the minute,” then proceeded to send no fewer than five emails per day at a length that would make James Joyce swoon. I appreciated the opportunity to hone my reading comprehension whilst deciphering your unformatted, stream of consciousness, mansplain-y missives.
I wish you nothing but the best in spending your undeserved investment fortune on your passion product that absolutely no one would ever purchase without your monetary incentives.
Warmly Hotly,
Go Jules Go
#3 – My Running Journey Why Privileged White People Should Be Institutionalized: Part #437
I’m currently mentoring a wonderful local running group and we have our big 5k race this weekend. The best part has been that I’m required to email the group once a week. This means that they have had no choice but to admire my cleverness and Uncle Jesse’s head tilts as I’ve assaulted their inboxes with these photos over the past eight weeks.
Last week, I also imparted my pearls of wisdom about “race day mentality.”
“HAVE FUN,” I wrote in boldfaced caps. “When you see people on race morning who look like they’re about to go into 17 hours of brain surgery and they’re THE ONLY ONES WHO CAN SAVE LITTLE JOHNNY, enjoy knowing that you have the appropriate mindset. A celebratory one! You’re outside! You’re moving! Encouraging others and making new friends! You’ve already succeeded and this delightful romp in gorgeous Bend, Oregon is just icing on the cake. Mmm. Icing.”
When it comes to formal athletic pursuits, I’ve definitely taken myself WAY too seriously in the past and then had to remember: I’m not curing cancer here! I’m part of a bunch of middle-aged, privileged, white people who pay to get up at 5am, crap our brains out in disgusting port-a-potties, sweat for hours on end, and then get an ugly shirt we’re never going to wear.
Is that brown or gray? Or both?
Tell me we don’t all deserve to be institutionalized.
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What are your trigger words (and is “trigger” one of them)?
“Ugh,” I groaned. Another spam message. This particular alert had been popping up in my inbox for days and I decided to finally open a new tab to log into LinkedIn and deal with it.
It’s, like, SO EXHAUSTING to open a WHOLE NEW TAB.
What I didn’t expect to see was this:
Hi Jules, someone is using your photos on an OkCupid profile [profile link]. Was recently messaging this person claiming to be Hannah in LDN and googled the photos and they’re actually yours, and you don’t live remotely near. Just warning you so you can report it.”
“What kind of holy high hell specific spammy sh*t is this?!” I wondered. Afraid to click on the link, I instead clicked on the sender, David’s, profile. His intro, connections, and credentials seemed far too specific and normal to be fake. I bit the bullet and clicked on the OkCupid profile link he had provided.
“Log in to view singles in your area!” the website shouted when I tried to view Hannah’s profile.
I mean I guess it made sense. You’d want to use ‘real’ looking images if you were gonna go full catfish. I scrolled through the profile. I’d just watched Love Hard on Netflix and felt catapulted into its plot, wherein a 30-something guy, Josh (who, oddly, looked a lot like David from LinkedIn) creates a fake dating profile to lure in a cute, unsuspecting journalist, Natalie, whose job was to write about her love life fails.
In the movie, Josh tells Natalie that everything else besides the photos was really him: the voice she talked to on the phone every night, the favorite foods and movies, the sense of humor. Hannah’s profile was a full throttle Josh. The details depicted a real, living, breathing person – who was absolutely nothing like me. I was half tempted to let her* keep using my photos.
*I’ve chosen to use she/her pronouns since that’s what “Hannah” used.
You really committed to the OkCupid questionnaire, Hannah.
I get it, girl. I wanted to write. It’s a sh*t show out there.
On the other hand, I empathized with David and anyone else getting duped. I’d personally seen everything from wildly inaccurate photos to fake phone numbers.
“Oh, wow, this is a first!” I replied to David. “Thanks so much for the heads up – am reporting now!”
After reporting the account, it was swiftly removed by the OkCupid overlords. I wondered how the whole process worked.
Maybe Hannah was a scam artist trying to score money or a pathological liar. Or maybe she was a stone cold fox and just didn’t want her image out there. Her profile mentioned that she was into “persuasion, hypnosis, and mind control.” Maybe this was all part of some grand experiment that we’d someday see on Netflix’s latest special, Love Hard and Catfish Harder.
Wow, Hannah and I are an 81% match! PLOT TWIST.
And how could the OkCupid team be sure I was the woman behind the photos? Did Hannah put up a fight? While my ego was stroked by the incident (“Ooh! Someone chose MY photos!”), I also couldn’t help but be curious about how deep David had gotten with her before uncovering the truth. How must it feel to fall for someone and then discover the ‘real’ person behind the photos? It’s disappointing enough to meet someone [after any online exchange] and not click in person, let alone after weeks or months of messaging.
In the end, the whole thing left me a little sad. Whatever the specifics, surely at least one person got hurt. Because of this blog and my business, I have no choice but to be utterly upfront. Simply search “Jules” + any number of other basic terms and there I am in all of my dorky glory.
Oop! You found me!
After Hannah’s profile disappeared and within days of joining OkCupid, I discovered a potential match. Our message exchange was uncharacteristically delightful, and we wound up arranging to meet. After setting the time and location, my match sent one more note.
So, just a heads up, I was looking at your profile again and noticed that you are 5’8″. I’m 5’6″. For me personally, that is absolutely not a problem. For some people it is, some people it isn’t. Online dating can be a harsh world. But I didn’t want that to be a surprise in person tomorrow. If that changes anything, just let me know.”
I quickly responded that it wasn’t an issue for me if it wasn’t an issue for him, and jokes ensued. I couldn’t help but wonder, though… was that a Catfish Lite? He hadn’t listed his height, so technically hadn’t lied.
“When you go to the doctor’s or wherever and have to fill out forms,” I recently asked a few divorced female friends. “Do you check the box that says ‘single’ or ‘divorced’?”
“Oh, ‘single’!” they unanimously replied.
“I always check ‘divorced’!” I said, surprised I stood alone in this survey.
Did it matter? Weren’t they both accurate? I thought about how many first/second/third/fourth/fifth dates I’d been on where the guy suddenly revealed his ‘in progress’ divorce, kids, or the woman living in his spare bedroom (that one happened twice!).
Where’s the line between omission and deception?
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What do you think? When it comes to the early stages of dating, do these details even really matter?When is it okay to withhold information and when is it not?
Go Jules Go 