Tag: online dating

Dating

Know Thyself…Maybe.

Go Jules Go

Disclaimer: This blog post is memoir. It reflects the author’s present recollections of experiences over time. Names and characteristics have been omitted or changed, some events have been compressed, and some dialogue has been recreated.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“So why didn’t you move things over to text message?” Sam asked about an hour into our first date.

We’d connected on Bumble a couple of weeks earlier and finally gotten the chance to meet for a drink. We sat in oversized chairs in front of an even more oversized fireplace, my left leg growing hot from its proximity to the raging flames. I kept catching myself thinking, ‘Is my skin really that pale?’ as I stared at my bent knee, my foot resting on the giant concrete hearth. I could see my snowy white flesh, nearly translucent, through one of the deliberate tears in my overalls.

I call them my emotional support overalls and wear them whenever I have to talk to single men.

Sam was 54 (to my 40) and, from his photos, a very young 54, skiing, surfing, and smiling in every picture. The Sam who walked through the bar doors was definitely 54, though dressed youthfully and sporting a playful grin. Throughout the first hour, he kept tapping my arm or leg whenever I said something funny and I decided I did not like that, thankyouverymuch.

“Well, I usually don’t give out my number until I’ve met someone in person,” I explained, wondering how on earth this man hadn’t caught on to that Online Dating Standard Operating Procedure.

His question had come out of the blue. I wouldn’t have even remembered that he’d sent his number except that I had just reread our entire (brief) Bumble chat history before meeting up as a refresher. He hadn’t expressed any concern about it at the time and I figured he understood that that was outside of my comfort zone.

“Really?” he pressed. “I always do and I’ve never had anyone say that.”

I furrowed my brows. “My friends and I almost always wait to give out our numbers. Once you meet and see if there’s a connection.”

“Why?”

I almost laughed in disbelief. “Wellllll….have you ever heard that [Margaret Atwood] quote about how men’s greatest fear of women is being laughed at, and women’s greatest fear of men is being murdered?”

“Have you ever had anything scary happen?” he asked skeptically, angling his body farther away from me. “I haven’t.”

“I’ve definitely had some creepy things happen,” I nodded. “Statistically speaking, women are far more likely to be abused and killed by men they know, as in, in a romantic context.” Seriously, dude? Have you seen any Netflix documentary, like, ever?

“I know for a fact none of my friends are murderers.”

I resisted the urge to scoff. Well there you have it, judge and jury. None of the men in this guy’s life are known murderers. They must not exist and I’m just overreacting.

“The men who kill their partners or exes are beloved friends, coworkers, neighbors… Love and unrequited love situations can result in even a ‘nice guy’ doing very bad things.” I didn’t bother telling him about my personal proof. Or about how the leading cause of death in pregnant women in the U.S. was HOMICIDE. He wasn’t listening.

“Well, I don’t think it’s a big deal. Besides, I have better things to do with my time than blow up someone’s phone who’s not interested,” he replied, bristling just slightly.

I nodded, noting that our entire dynamic had shifted. He’d mentioned being liberal and earning a Masters degree from a very prestigious east coast university. Apparently they didn’t cover Obvious Facts and Topics to Debate, Um, How About Never, Let Alone on a First Date with an Internet Stranger.

“Well, I should probably go check on my dog,” I said in a chipper voice a few minutes later, trying not to sound too obvious that I was just trying to get the hell out of there. I was proud of myself for not doing my usual, ‘Let me get the next round’ bit in an effort to be polite and salvage the evening. I had bumped into a few friends at the bar and decided I’d walk out with Sam and double back to hang out with them, beyond caring if he realized that that was my intent.

“Nice to meet you and talk soon,” Sam said briskly, giving me a quick hug outside before taking off towards the back parking lot. The tone in his voice let me know I probably didn’t have to worry that he’d be in touch.

What the actual f$@%, I thought as I walked back into the bar to join my friends. How did that man hit 54 and not learn about Dating Safety 101?

“Ya gotta try younger guys,” I had started to regularly joke with my single girlfriends. “They are so fun and woke and sensitive.”

By and large, any time I’d tried dating older men, especially a decade or more older, it went very poorly. Also, why didn’t this dude just drop it? I thought back to my other date that week, Neil, a 43-year-old father. It had been a second date and the moment he’d walked in to play trivia with me, wide-eyed and easily distracted, I’d known we weren’t a match. When I texted to politely tell him I wasn’t interested in a third date (after he had suggested a plan), he replied,

“I agree we aren’t an obvious match but I felt there was enough there to explore more. […] I’d love one more chance to see if there’s anything there.”

Turning someone down once is awkward enough; now I had to do it twice? And how could two people have had such a different experience of the same night?

The older I get, the more I realize how subjective our individual experiences are. AND IT’S FORKING TERRIFYING. Here’s a palate-cleansing photo to help ease the terror.

Sam’s ignorance about domestic violence and Neil’s persistence were hardly the most unsettling dating experiences this year (…and it’s only March).

“Damn, you still look marvelous.”

When Paul reached out on Hinge two months ago, I rolled my eyes and replied,

“hahaha hey Paul. Say hello to my friend Rachel the next time you two hang out. I’m looking for something serious, but thanks for the compliment!”

Paul and I had gone out a couple of times in late 2021, making out and making plans to see each other a third time. He flaked more than once and I finally wrote him off, my feelings hurt. Fast forward six months later and he matched with my friend, Rachel.

“Go for it,” I said when she showed me his profile. She didn’t realize I knew him and was simply asking if she should go on a date with a younger guy. I told her about our brief history and added, “He’s a nice guy, you’ll be safe. And if you’re looking for something casual, he fits the bill.”

They wound up hanging out a number of times and I realized it was, in fact, kinda awkward. Moving from New Jersey to central Oregon was eye-opening in many ways, especially in terms of small town dating. It was all starting to feel…incestuous. So when Paul again reached out via text a month later, I wasn’t entirely surprised.

“I’m curious to explore things with you,” he texted. “I know previously the timing/availability for me didn’t line up and I’d very much understand if that door is closed for you. If it isn’t fully closed, I’d love to meet up sometime soon to reconnect.”

I wasn’t planning to reply, but when my friends saw the text, they unanimously urged,

“You should give it another try! That’s a great message! You liked him before, right?”

“That was a long time ago,” I said. Sure, he was a nice enough guy, but I’d been through a lot over the past year and a half and had learned much more about who and what worked for me. A sober, quirky, 29-year-old rock climber probably wasn’t going to cut it. “But okay, fine.”

“That depends,” I wrote to Paul. “How many vegan dinners are you prepared to buy me?”

Yes, I can be bought.

We texted quite a bit after that and Paul assured me he was earnest in now wanting something more serious in his life. When we met for dinner a week and a half later, he did indeed pay, but also interrupted me countless times while we talked about our careers for three hours. I wasn’t sure if it was a date or a networking session, but nevertheless, the time did pass quickly.

“The energy between us feels much different this time around,” Paul said. “Much more calm.”

“Huh,” I replied, nodding, trying to remember the specific vibe of our earlier dates. “I guess I was in a much different head space then. Yeah. You’re right.”

“So can I see you again? Can we make a plan right now? How about Friday?” he asked once we were outside saying goodnight.

I was always impressed when men boldly showed their interest through making rock solid plans. I found myself agreeing.

“Sure, yeah, I think I’m free on Friday.”

For our second date, we met at a Thai restaurant and Paul was late. As soon as he sat down, my body had a visceral reaction. Oh hell no. He had a huge, flaky piece of skin on his lower lip and with the natural light flooding through the floor to ceiling windows, I could see his teeth were yellow and plaque-covered.

Dental hygiene. It’s my top thing. Besides wine and not getting murdered.

For the next hour and a half, I let Paul dominate the conversation and finish all of my food, occasionally dropping suggestive comments.

“That skirt is really short. I love it.”

I tried not to grimace and changed the subject.

“So do you think you can get past the fact that I’ve hung out with Rachel?” he asked towards the end of dinner. I stared him dead in the eye.

“I don’t know. Honestly, I’m a little butt hurt that you stuck your tongue down my throat and then ghosted, and went on to hang out with my friend regularly.”

Paul looked embarrassed and tried to deflect. “Yeah, but who sent the last text message [between us back in 2021]?”

“I don’t know! Wait. Okay, so it was you, but you totally blew me off! You kept saying you were busy or sick.”

Paul chuckled sheepishly. “Yeah, okay, that was a weird time for me. I was kind of going through a ho phase.”

He continued to pepper in flirty comments and I knew in my gut it wasn’t just a phase. When the bill arrived, I grabbed it and insisted on paying, my way of closing the door completely to…whatever this was.

“What should we do next?” Paul asked. I had already been rehearsing my reply in my head.

“I’m going to go hang out with my friends,” I said bluntly. He knew they were also downtown at a nearby bar and I couldn’t wait to get to them.

“No problem,” he replied, to his credit, gracefully. “I’m exhausted so I’ll probably just head home.”

“I’d love to do this again soon,” he said when he hugged me goodbye.

“Yeah… Have a good night!” I replied, taking off in the opposite direction.

“WHAT WAS I THINKING,” I blurted as soon as I was surrounded by my beloved gal pals. We were all squished in a cozy corner at an upscale bar and I felt like myself again.

Gal Pals: the only remedy to online dating.

I’d chalked Paul Round #2 up to an ego boost, but later that weekend, I realized it was much deeper than that. I had wanted to believe that I wouldn’t have just made out with, and gotten slightly hung up on, a guy with whom I didn’t have a genuine connection. Meeting Paul in 2023 was an attempt to prove that we clicked and I was pursuing something real, not casual. Anything else -though it can work well for others- would have been in conflict with the vision I held of myself.

But Paul wasn’t a match. Far from it. Nor was Neil. Or Sam. Older, younger, my age, it didn’t really matter; they just weren’t right for me. And that was okay. Maybe soon I wouldn’t agree to second dates, let myself be interrupted, offer my meal, or debate open-and-shut topics with wildly incompatible men.

Maybe in knowing myself just a little bit more with each bad date and heartbreak, I was getting closer to finding the person worth my time and energy.

…Maybe.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Blogging, Dating

New Love

Go Jules Go

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.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Can I cancel? I really want to cancel.

I stared at the clock. It was 4:30pm, a.k.a. Online Dating Witching Hour, when single, 40-year-old women’s nervous systems kick into high gear and Fight-or-Flight battles with Reason.

I was feeling especially cagey about that night’s online date because, just the night before, I’d gone on what initially seemed like a great first date with someone who might make a wonderful friend, only to have him proposition me and then backpedal by explaining that he “understood women” and knew I had taken my purse to the bathroom “because I had had [my] period.”

Spotted him again on Hinge last week. He now lies about his first name AND his age. Get in line, ladies!

Doooon’t cancel. You know how bad that feels when it happens to you. Plus, this is a midwest guy. He’s not going to talk about periods.

David and I had matched on Bumble about a week and a half earlier and he immediately explained that he was en route to Bend to spend Christmas with his dad, splitting his time between Bend and the midwest.

“I moved to [the midwest] about 7 years ago,” David wrote in his first message to me. “With my no [sic] ex-wife. When we separated I have been spending more time out in Bend with my Dad. Love both places.”

“I read that a few times,” I wrote back, “asking myself, ‘Oh lord, what is a no ex wife? Is this another ethically non monogamous dude?’ and then realized you probably meant ‘now ex wife’? …Correct? (You can never be too careful on these apps.)”

“haha yes, I did. I saw that after it was too late. But I hear ya, I’ve noticed a lot of that on here – I’m definitely not that.”

I suggested we meet at one of my favorite casual restaurants downtown for a drink when he got to Bend, and when our date night arrived, I decided NOT to cancel and dress up in a black top and skirt.

David walked in ten minutes late looking a little flustered, having gone to the wrong spot in the sprawling restaurant. He was tall and dressed like a midwest-meets-Bend hipster: plaid shirt, vest, wool beanie.

“Are you a hugger?” I asked, rising to greet him with a smile.

“Absolutely, yes,” he said and hugged me in a way that showed he meant it.

Well, he’s definitely cute, I thought as we took our seats. He hadn’t been smiling in any of his dating profile photos and I was pleasantly surprised to see how charming he looked when he did, which was often and easily, just like me. The conversation started slowly and I struggled to get us away from mundane small talk. I bet he’s bored out of his mind and can’t wait to leave.

“So this is actually my first ever online date,” David confessed.

“THAT IS NOT FAIR,” I immediately blurted.

“I just had a good feeling about you,” he shrugged.

“You hit the jackpot,” I teased. “That really isn’t fair.”

When we finished our second drink, I was surprised that David both insisted on paying (a growing rarity in the online dating world) and then said,

“Should we get another somewhere else?”

I suggested a nearby bar and as we made the short walk, I cautioned,

“I’ll need a chivalrous arm because the entire parking lot is a sheet of ice.”

He offered his right arm and I got the sense that that one small gesture healed something inside both of us. We ordered whiskey cocktails -he again insisted on paying in an easy, swoon-worthy way- and we settled into a more intimate, relaxed conversation, diving into topics like veganism, financial security, and, of course, cheesecake.

“I’ve been wanting to try to make a vegan cheesecake now that I know all of the best vegan dairy products. I could make you one for your [upcoming] birthday if you’ll be in Bend!”

“I could be in Bend for my birthday,” he replied without hesitation. He made several similar comments that night that had me feeling confident I didn’t have to worry that he owned a house 2,500 miles away.

“So what are you looking for?” he asked at one point.

“A partner,” I replied immediately and he nodded, seeming not the slightest bit surprised.

“I’m beginning to see that you really need this,” he teased at the end of the night, seeming much more at ease, as he again offered his chivalrous arm all the way back to my car. This time, the insanely icy sidewalks almost took us both out.

In Bend, snow management = There’s snow. You’ll manage.

“So how does this work? Do we exchange numbers?” he asked once we reached my car. I nearly melted at his naïveté. He took out his phone and I gave him my number.

We texted until midnight and all I could think was: This guy is out of my league and I NEED TO LOCK. IT. DOWN. Smart, handsome, polite, artistic, sensitive, financially secure, active, a dog lover and foodie… He spent his free time doing creative and varied hobbies and had built a community and life for himself that mirrored what I had in Bend. He was even left-handed like me, and it didn’t hurt that his teeth were perfect and he smelled great, too.

“So are we calling today our first date or is it just the Crazy Vetting one?” I texted.

“Well, whatever you call it I liked it and I want more.”

“I learned from true crime shows that once you let them take you to a second location…it becomes a first date.”

“Call it what you want so long as I get to take you on another date.”

“Looking forward to gripping your manly chivalrous arm next week [when I get back from a Christmas trip].”

“I look forward to that, too. I still have a moment I am thinking about when I was just looking into your eyes and thought, ‘huh, this girl is hanging out with me? That feels really nice.’ Just a simple acknowledgement, and appreciate that, wherever it goes from here.”

The next day, on the long drive to the Oregon coast with my “Bend sister,” Erin, I immediately warned her,

“I’m not going to be able to shut up about David, so should I just get it all out now?”

She laughed and let me ramble about all things Amazing David for at least an hour.

“He remodeled his kitchen himself – and it’s my dream kitchen! He taps his own maple trees! He paints! He sails! He plays hockey! He does yoga! He said he’s working on a cookbook with mostly vegan recipes! …I should probably try to go on a date on the coast just so I don’t get too obsessive.”

It was a tactic I’d picked up from a respected friend (now married via Tinder): always keep 4-5 guys in the rotation in the beginning so you don’t get too hung up when one doesn’t text (or winds up claiming he has an alien blood type). This adopted strategy kept me from texting David a ton over the following few days, although we did exchange several messages each day.

I mean obviously he needed to see this photo.

“Do you mind if we play things by ear on Monday? I might be wiped when we get back,” I texted. I was eager to see him, but wanted to bring my A game. He assured me he’d make himself available whenever I was free.

On Monday, I decided I couldn’t wait another moment to see him and we arranged to meet at a nearby, mellow restaurant with lots of vegan options. This time he was only a minute or two late, and when he walked in, my face exploded into a wide grin.

“Hi,” he said, smiling from ear to ear. His eyes sparkled and I could feel his expression reflected in my own. He looks SO happy to see me. We hugged and everything felt warm. Good. Right. Conversation flowed and we shared a giant salad with tempeh and vegan wasabi mayo – a combination we both couldn’t get enough of.

“Did you know they don’t use real wasabi in the U.S. because it’s too expensive?” David asked. “It’s actually just horseradish.”

“Are you serious?” I replied. “What is real wasabi then?”

“It’s a plant in the radish family that only grows in Japan.”

Marry me.

“Holy crap it’s already almost nine,” I said later, the past three hours having flown by. “Excuse me, I’m going to use the restroom before they close.”

When I came back, we chatted some more and I wondered why no one was bringing the check. The waitstaff was already putting chairs up.

“I guess we should get the bill?” I finally said.

“Oh, I paid when you were in the bathroom,” David explained.

Marry me.

As we walked outside, I was struck by how small I felt next to him – not a common feeling at 5’8″. We stood in front of my car silently for a moment, his eyes glowing. He leaned forward and placed the most gentle kiss on my lips. It suddenly occurred to me that that was likely his first kiss since his divorce.

It was snowing so we didn’t linger as long as we both wanted to. The next night I met a friend for drinks and when I checked my phone, I saw a message from David.

“Hi, I’m finishing up dinner with my dad – care to hang out with me for a short bit?”

I was exhausted and about to head home, but couldn’t bear the thought of this wonderful man thinking I wasn’t excited to see him. Besides, he was only in town for a few more days. I told him to come over to the bar. David chatted easily with my friend, foreshadowing the next two weeks where he’d seamlessly immerse himself in my world.

And it’s a pretty great world.

We shared another chaste kiss in the snowy parking lot and David joked,

“Hopefully the weather improves so we can make out.”

The next night we played trivia with a few friends, one of my favorite hobbies. The brewery was crowded and there weren’t enough bar stools, so he stood behind me the whole night, reaching his hands through my overalls and around my waist. Instead of feeling self-conscious that a handsome man was touching my stomach, I leaned into his chest.

Overall, it was a great night. (And we won trivia.)

“Do you want to come inside?” I asked him when we got back to my apartment.

“Do you want me to?” he replied.

“Yes,” I said without hesitation.

We chatted for a while on the couch before kissing.

“I really can’t figure out what you want,” he said, pulling away.

“What do you mean?” I giggled in reply.

“I’m like, does she want me to kiss her, not want me to kiss her? I can’t figure you out. But I keep coming back for more.”

I giggled again.

“You have a wall up,” he said, intensely holding my gaze. “Why?”

Tears sprung to my eyes.

“I’ve really been through the wringer.”

He placed a palm over my heart and rubbed my chest soothingly. No one had ever done that and I was moved beyond words. We talked for a long time until he said,

“Do you feel that? Your wall is starting to come down.”

As we made out, he often paused to stare at me intensely and I tried not to shy away from this person who was so disconcertingly vulnerable. We talked and kissed for hours before he went home, and the next morning, he texted,

“I’m at a coffee shop with vegan breakfast options. Can I bring you something?”

Normally a text like that would have me internally screaming, “Ack! No! It’s the morning and I’m gross!” Instead, I found myself replying,

“I would love that, actually.”

We spent the better part of every day together after that, each day me asking,

“So, when do you have to get back [to your midwest home]?” He had originally intended to leave shortly after Christmas.

“I don’t know yet,” he would reply, eventually confessing, “I can’t seem to leave you, even though I’m making things more difficult for myself [with work and the house by delaying my return].”

We jokingly (but not) talked about him buying property in Bend after I learned that he didn’t actually split his time between Bend and the midwest. I also learned that he was still dealing with messy divorce paperwork, so “no ex wife” was an apt descriptor after all. But it was too late; I was already in too deep.

“I’m falling for you,” I said on New Year’s Eve, my voice wobbling.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I’m not ready for a full-blown relationship right now,” he said, tears in his eyes. “But I guess I already have hurt you.”

“I told you on our first date I was looking for a partner!”

“I know,” he replied. “I guess I’ve been selfish. I just haven’t been able to stay away from you. I wasn’t expecting this.”

“I’m solid in what I want; I’ve been at this dating game for ten years [since my own divorce]. I want this to be real, not just some summer camp fling. I’m scared this is just an escape for you, but this is my real life. I let you into my whole world.”

I introduced you to my Bend family!

“How can you say this isn’t real?” he said, tears landing on his cheeks.

On his last night in Bend, I cried for hours.

“I don’t plan on seeing other people,” he said, “But probably for different reasons than you. I need to focus on healing.”

We agreed we’d continue to talk and video chat and not see other people without telling the other first.

When he left, his text messages slowed and his phone calls were non-existent. A sinking feeling took over, punctured by random moments of hope when he’d text things like,

“Want to meet me in Mexico for my birthday? I’ll buy your ticket.”

“Well there’s only one answer to that question!”

Even though we made a couple of plans to see each other, he never followed through and I eventually confronted him via text. He immediately called.

“I’m completely humiliated,” I cried into the phone. “I bought bathing suits for Mexico! My friends keep asking about you! I’ve been solid and honest with you about how I’ve felt and what I want. You put all of this effort into ‘breaking down my wall’ and then look how you’ve treated me!”

“I know. I know. You’re right. About everything. I’m so sorry, Jules,” he said with his usual unguarded sincerity. “I got back home and everything just hit me and I chose to just not do anything, which was the shitty thing to do. But I wouldn’t be on the phone with you right now if I didn’t care about you. I didn’t expect to go on my first date in 13 years and connect with someone like this.”

Two hours later, we were back to flirting.

“I got my hair done today and I didn’t even send you a selfie,” I teased.

“Send it now.”

I did and he made a suggestive comment, prompting me to laugh.

“I like picturing you doing that little giggle of yours,” he said in response to a laugh I only seemed to do around him.

We joked some more and got even flirtier.

“Well, at least we know we always have that part,” David said. I, for one, knew I’d never been so attracted to someone -physically, spiritually, emotionally- in my life.

After that phone call, I was sure we’d stay in regular contact, but once again his texts disappeared. Completely defeated, I finally texted him that I would “let him off the hook” and start seeing other people. We agreed to have another video chat.

“Based on how things have been,” I began, “I’m just going to carry on with my life and not expect anything from you. No texts, nothing.”

“What are you trying to say?” he replied, seeming offended.

“I want to be in touch and stay connected, and we could use this time to get to know each other better, but that doesn’t seem to be what’s actually happening.”

“I selfishly want to stay friends so that maybe in the future I’ll still have a shot with you,” he confided. “But I know you don’t trust me anymore so that probably won’t work.”

Throughout the long chat, he said sweet things about all of the time we’d spent together.

“The day we went to the nacho place was one of my favorite times. That was a perfect day. I remember sitting there at the bar waiting for you and feeling so proud that I got to be with you and like I was the luckiest guy in the room.”

I reminisced with him, wondering if, one day, we might get back to that perfect place. I wished we could be there now. Instead, he knew I had to end our chat to go on another date. I couldn’t wait around for months, or even years, hoping he’d one day be ready for what we seemed to so clearly have.

“Well… I’d better get going…,” I said after we’d talked for two hours.

His face crumpled and he began to cry.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That just really hit me. I wasn’t expecting that [to hit me so hard]. I’m sorry.”

We said goodbye and the only text I got from him came days later, asking if I’d gotten the sweatshirt he’d mailed to me weeks earlier (one of his that I loved and he’d wanted to surprise me with). I said it hadn’t arrived and heard nothing from him after that.

“Just think of all he’s going through,” a close friend said when we did a deep dive into the situation. It had been well over a month since our last exchange. “He’s dealing with all of the ex settlement shit. He’d have to tell his family and friends he started dating the first woman he met – online. He has a therapist telling him not to get into another relationship right now. He knows you’re dating. And you didn’t text him on his birthday. He probably thinks you’re mad, that your friends hate him, that YOU don’t want to hear from HIM. Maybe he thinks you got the sweatshirt and never said anything. I think you should reach out and tell him you’re not mad, just sad, and hope he’s healing.”

I took a deep breath. I’d already given her my rock solid counterargument of, ‘Or he’s over it, never felt what I felt, and I’ll look even more pathetic.’

Two days later, I bit the bullet and took her advice.

“Welp, the sweatshirt never came,” I texted, “but I promise I wouldn’t have burned it [like we joked about]. 😆 I was sad to not text on Valentine’s Day and your birthday, but I wasn’t sure what the right thing to do was. I feel like it’s important to say I’m not mad, just sad, and I hope you’re healing. ❤️”

I hit send and tried to come to peace with the idea that he might never reply. A little over five hours later, he did.

“Hi, thanks for texting it’s good to hear from you and I appreciate you saying that ❤️. I’m sorry I never resent [the sweatshirt], it just felt weird to me given our talk. It was a tough birthday this year but I think I’m doing ok. I hope you (and uncle Jesse) are doing well out there.”

I burst into tears which turned into sobs. His response felt so…distant.

…So I guess I’ll be buying my own sweatshirt.

I waited an hour and a half before deciding I needed to say more. What did I have to lose?

“I’d left the door open based on our last video chat,” I wrote, “especially in terms of keeping in touch (which is where I thought we’d landed), but have been interpreting the [six weeks of] radio silence to mean you’d prefer to not be in each other’s lives… Either way, the earlier sentiment stands and I’ll be thinking about you. ❤️”

He replied two days later with a typo-riddled message.

“Hi Jules, I know we did. I’m sorry I am not in a place to do that and I’m sorry that you are sad 😞. I appreciate that you are understanding of me and what I have going on.

“For what it’s worth I also want to say this because you should know it: I think you are an amazing person. You are super funny, I haven’t laughed as much in a long time. you are kind and thoughtful, I still feel so thankful that you put together all that food for my road trip. I appreciate you let [sic] me hang out with you [sic] friends who are all so welcoming, thoughtless [sic] and awesome people in general. I throughly [sic] enjoyed just talking with you and all our great conversations. I think you have great morales [sic] and love how you stick to them while also being understand [sic] and compassionate to others. You are also very pretty and I appreciate how you take care of yourself and Uncle Jesse ❤️”

I read his message twice, surprised when only a single tear fell. After another moment, I clicked ‘Archive,’ and after a few moments more, started to feel my heart lighten.

~*~*~*~*~

It’s tempting to give up, but with each heartbreak (this one arguably the worst since my divorce in 2014), I’ve started to better understand how our capacity to love expands indefinitely. Just as when we welcome a new child or pet into our lives, we don’t trade old love so we can afford to love this new being.

I know now that I don’t need to “get over” this love. I just need to make room for new love.

There’s always room for more love.
Blogging, Dating, PSAs

Dating: A Mental Load (of You Know What)

Go Jules Go

“So should we meet to grab a drink sometime this week?”

I’d lost track of the number of times I’d typed that phrase into the Hinge or Bumble chat box. Usually after a day or two of chatting, but sometimes after a multi-week, back-and-forth investment.

I wasn’t sure if it was my age (40), some sort of collective post-COVID social anxiety, or pure laziness, but suddenly the mental load of dating seemed to fall squarely on my weary, stress induced rash-covered shoulders.

“What is this?!” I cried to girlfriends during trivia last week, shoving my phone under their noses.

What are you up to this week? -Rich

How’s your week been? -Tom

How was trivia? -Ben

“All of them! All of them are doing this! And with these dudes, we’ve ALREADY BEEN OUT. And now they won’t stop texting! But they won’t ask for another date! I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS.”

“Did you meet them on Bumble?” one friend asked. “I have this theory that maybe it’s training men not to make any moves [since Bumble requires that the woman ‘make the first move’].”

“Some were Hinge,” I replied. “But you might have a point. I think I did initiate the first date in all cases. …Are they just not that into it? Back burner-ing? Friend zoning? Too scared to wind up on my blog?”

There had been an impressive uptick in Dates Who’d Discovered My Blog Before Meeting, after all.

Hi boys. Told you I always change names.

I sighed and put my phone back in my purse, trying not to think about the last three dates I’d line up – all canceled, by them, just hours before our meeting time. A bone deep weariness and latent anger threatened to take over as I recalled all of the recent dating disappointments – including one crushing heartbreak.

“Don’t worry. I understand women. Like I knew you took your purse to the bathroom just now because you have your period.”

Gross.

“You’re having so many bad dates because you need to improve your screening process.”

F&@% you.

“If you did run a background check on me, you’ll see that I have a restraining order out against me by my third ex-wife for strangulation. But it’s not true.”

Help.

“I’m just not ready for a relationship.” x 1,427

You don’t say.

Not just the mental load of making plans, carrying the conversation, and offering to pay (all still resulting in little more than the above), dating was taking its toll in deeper, identity-challenging ways. Had I lost my ability to read the room? Could I no longer tell the difference between sincerity and narcissism? Genuine interest and politeness?

Meet Cary, a first date from a month ago.

“Hey! I just got done with a long training run and I’m STARVING,” I typed into Hinge. “Any chance you’d be up for meeting at [x] or [y] restaurant instead of the whiskey bar? [Y] restaurant has a full bar! And I promise I’m not trying to score a free meal – I’ll even share!”

I pressed send on my message to Cary, feeling bold but a little bad about proposing a last minute change. Twelve years my senior and brimming with goofy photos and energy, I assumed he’d reply along the lines of, ‘I got upgraded from first date drinks to dinner on a Saturday night?! Score!’

“Y restaurant is fine,” he responded 15 minutes later. I gulped.

“I can try to eat quickly here and keep the original plan,” I backpedaled, a knot forming in my stomach. Was he really that stuck on the whiskey bar? Should I have kept my mouth shut since girls are supposed to be pretty and agreeable and never hungry?

“No, your happiness is important. And I’m easy.”

The knot grew and I shook my head. Certainly I was reading into what seemed to be “off” replies. Besides, I didn’t have time to worry about it if I wanted to finish drying my hair and keep our original meet-up time. I put on a fitted shirt, corduroy skirt and winter tights, leaving my hair down. I raced to the restaurant to make sure I could get a table for us and not cause any more drama with the change in plan.

Feed me.

A minute or two after 5:30, Cary walked in, unsmiling. The knot in my stomach became a full on Boy Scout lesson.

I’ve definitely earned the badge for this one. Photo by Will O on Unsplash

I sprung up and opened with my usual,

“Hi! Are you a hugger?”

Cary was much slighter than I had imagined and we hugged awkwardly.

“Are YOU a hugger?” he replied after we were already embracing, a tone to his voice that might have been teasing if not for the edge. I laughed nervously, failing to think of a witty comeback.

“Thanks so much for your flexibility with the change in plan,” I blurted as we sat down.

“Do you normally have trouble asserting your needs?” Cary retorted.

I blinked. This opening line rivaled, “You’re wearing gloves? Are we boxing?” and “I left my oven on.” Overwhelmed by rushing to the restaurant and thrown by his aloofness, I felt my eyes prick with tears.

“Well it depends… In dating situations, usually not…,” I started rambling. “Not with my family, especially not my sister. But with friends…” Could he tell how flustered I was? “Anyway thanks again so much for your flexibility! I’m so excited to eat! Have you been here?”

“Yeah, I actually live nearby,” Cary said, still not offering any smiles, a stark contrast to the silly poses in all of his Hinge photos.

Okay, so the location change shouldn’t have upset him… What was the problem??

“I guess I should order if you’re eating,” he continued, looking at the menu.

“Oh, you don’t have to! I’ll shamelessly shove food in my face by myself,” I joked to no effect.

“Do you care if I get beef tacos?” he asked, knowing I was vegan.

“If I cared about things like that, I’d be upset a lot,” I teased, still trying to lighten the mood.

“Okay, I’ll get fish.”

I stared at him.

“I was kidding,” he replied, and proceeded to order the meat tacos. And beer, despite me reminding him that they had a full bar and he could get the whiskey drink he so obviously had had his heart set on.

We carried on the kind of painful conversation you might have with a distant, visiting relative; plenty of questions asked, but only out of pure obligation. I couldn’t for the life of me pinpoint the issue, but I felt like the nerdy high schooler whose older cousin was forced to take her to prom.

When the waitress brought the check an hour and a half later, I quickly grabbed it.

“Ah-ah, this was my idea. I’ve got this.”

“We can split it,” Cary offered half-heartedly and I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

“Excuse me, I have to use the restroom,” he continued.

I grabbed the bill and ran it up to the counter, desperate to get out of there as quickly as possible. Cary didn’t walk me to my car, instead giving me another awkward hug outside.

“Nice meeting you,” he said and took off in the opposite direction like he had somewhere much better to be.

The whiskey bar, presumably.

I got in my car and stared at the clock. 7:15pm. 7:15pm on a Saturday night and I was alone. Thirty minutes later, I got an alert that Cary had messaged me through Hinge.

“Thank you so much for dinner. You are really sweet and kind. I don’t think we’d be a great fit romantically. [sad face emoji] And I want you to find your guy and get off the apps! It was fun chatting tonight and I enjoyed your company.”

No. He. Did. Not. I stared at my phone in disbelief. Pour a little salt in the wound much?! I gathered myself before uncharacteristically responding (given that my go-to move is silence).

“Haha yeah… I read the room and you immediately gave the distinct impression that you did not want to be in said room. No worries! Take care!”

I put my phone down, poured a manhattan, and fired up Emily in Paris – a mental load-free plan that never disappointed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Blonde Moments, Dating, humor, PSAs

I Think I Botched This One

Go Jules Go

“Jules! You have a radio voice!”

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.

We still love chivalry, gents.

“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.

When life hands you lemons, start a blog. (Photo by Francesco Cantinelli on Unsplash)

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.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dating, humor

It Finally Happened

Go Jules Go

“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.

“Holy forking shirtballs.”

***

I shuddered. I was now two minutes away from my current destination, on yet another Hinge date. After recently dipping a toe back into central Oregon’s shallow dating pool following a six month hiatus, I was somehow still feeling optimistic about the night.

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.

Henry never interrupted, asked questions, listened, responded appropriately, and there was never a lull in conversation. He didn’t even bring up his time in a mental institution, his alien blood type, or his shotgun collection. I felt like I was in The Twilight Zone.

“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.

~*~*~*~*~

humor

The Gloves are Off: Another First Date Flop

Go Jules Go

Last week I told you about Mr. Saturday, Kyle: our shining star in the latest round of, “How Much Worse Can It Get? Dating Edition.”

What you couldn’t have known, even if you’d read every word of that post with your jaw quickly migrating south, was that I’d been on the heels of another eyebrow-raising first date, Mr. Friday, Nick.

Nick was also a cute guy in his 30s with whom I’d texted back and forth for a few days before meeting up. He mentioned that he didn’t drink, so we made plans to meet at a local park.

Oh, you don’t drink? ha ha, yeah, I don’t really either. Before noon.

It was fairly chilly in central Oregon, especially by 6pm, and I wondered how to look cute and warm at the same time. I settled on black sneakers, black winter leggings, a black crop top turtleneck, and a puffy jacket that hugged my waist so I (hopefully) didn’t look like a shapeless blob.

I stuck gloves in my pockets and pulled my hair into a low ponytail, anticipating a breeze with bite.

“I’m leaving now,” Nick texted once I was already sitting in the parking lot waiting. (In case you’re curious: out of the past nine first dates, only one has shown up before me.)

When he finally arrived, about 15 minutes late, he gave me a hug hello. He looked like his photos…mostly. A little rougher around the edges, with pockmarked skin, but tall, good hair, and he’d clearly just showered. (Sadly, that last bit is noteworthy.)

“Are we going to box or something?” he said as I pulled on my gloves.

“I think you’d win,” I replied in a chipper voice, my stomach dropping. What the hell kind of joke is that for your opening line? These gloves aren’t even big! “You know, I’ve never punched anyone.”

Will that change tonight, Nick?

“Why are you wearing gloves?” he pressed, his voice laced with sarcasm.

“It’s like 40 degrees!” I laughed, still trying to make light of it. Are we going to keep talking about this?

We walked over a scenic wooden bridge and Nick paused to take photo. He didn’t make eye contact and seemed on edge. My stomach continued to plummet.

“I hate this town. Everyone’s so clique-y,” he snarled as we walked down the sidewalk, heading downtown.

“I’ve heard a couple of people say that,” I replied, making an effort to catch his eye and smile to see if he’d soften. “I got really lucky because I had some friends when I moved here.”

“My friend is a bouncer over at [a bar],” he said as we got closer to town. “Do you know where that is?”

“I think so,” I answered. It was becoming clear that Nick, a California transplant, didn’t know our town very well, underscored by the strong scent of cologne trailing behind him. No one -no one- in central Oregon wore cologne. “I always get the two main streets mixed up, but I think it’s this way.”

Does he want to go to a bar? He said he didn’t drink.

“Nah, he’s not working tonight. Let’s go this way,” he steered us to the left. “Did you hear about the guy who just got shot downtown?”

“What? No!” I exclaimed.

“Yeah, my friend saw the whole thing. Some black guy was beating the sh*t out of this white guy and finally the white guy shot him and now everyone is saying it’s like a black lives matter thing, but the dude had it coming.”

Nick’s voice had gone from sarcastic to chilling and I swallowed, wracking my brain for a reply that wouldn’t trigger him.

“That’s awful,” I breathed. And so are you.

Only 25 minutes into our date, I started trying to figure out how to make a break for it. We were now standing in a brick-lined courtyard near the river, several vendors and a band setting up beneath white tents. Nick started walking towards a coffee shop.

“I didn’t bring a mask,” I said.

“Me either,” he replied, and proceeded to poke his head inside the coffee shop.

“Excuse me, sir,” a sweet-faced security guard cautioned. “You can’t go in without a mask.”

“I’ve got my skin mask on,” Nick growled, but came back outside.

I stared at the security guard with wide eyes.

“Help me,” I mouthed.

Did he just say “skin mask”?

His eyes twinkled as he laughed and mouthed back, “Blind date?” I nodded.

Soon, people filled the courtyard and the band started playing.

“I can’t wait to get out of this town,” Nick moaned. “I sold my house and I’m moving next month.”

“Oh wow,” I replied. “Congratulations. Great time to sell.” Good riddance.

“Yeah, this town is ridiculous,” he went on. “One time I was watching TV at like 4am and I heard this noise. It was a couple of tweakers in my garage, robbing me. So I called the cops and they were like, ‘Well you’re a vet[eran], right? Can’t you take care of it?’ So I’m like, what the f*ck, and all of my guns were upstairs. Eventually they left and the cops came, but they thought I was making it up! Like some PTSD bullshit. So they wanted me to get a psych evaluation and I was like, fine, and then I was stuck in the hospital for four days. And when it all finally went to court, the cops never showed up, so the whole thing got dropped.”

“That is an unbelievable story,” I replied, my mind spinning in circles.

“Do you have any crazy stories?”

“Uhhh, not that crazy,” I said, no longer even trying to make eye contact. “I went out with this guy once who showed me a video of himself surgically removing his toenails. While we were eating dinner.”

Nick’s face was blank in response. I started to panic. How do I get out of here?!

“This band sucks,” Nick snarled. “A bunch of white guys playing reggae. God.”

“I’m gonna take off,” I blurted before I said something I might regret. Not realizing what was to come the following night, I had just ended my quickest date of all time: 40 minutes.

“Okay,” Nick replied, looking surprised. To his credit, he didn’t ask questions. But he did follow me a solid half mile to our cars – because he couldn’t remember where we’d parked them.

I pulled away quickly and beelined for the supermarket to buy a bottle two bottles of wine. With my gloves on, thankyouverymuch.

~*~*~*~*~*~

humor

The World’s Worst Buffet: Another Dating Fail

Go Jules Go

DISCLAIMER: Names changed because we already know people I go out with once like to read this blog and leave comments six years later.

“Oh wow, someone else just recommended that book to me,” Carl smiled. “You know when you hear something twice in one week, you’ve got to pay attention!”

I grinned and nodded, sipping my can of sparkling wine. The gas fire pit cast a faint glow across our faces.

“It’s the book that got me into hiking!” I went on.

The conversation meandered from food to family to the outdoors, just as it had done the night before, on our first date.

“You guys, I’m so, so sorry to do this,” a head popped out of the tent behind us. It was my friend, Sara. “I can hear everything you’re saying; I’m so sorry. But it’s 1am and I can’t sleep.”

Photographic evidence that I actually went camping again after this experience.

“Oh my god,” I whispered back, mouth agape. “I had no idea! I’m so sorry! We’ll wrap things up right now.”

I glanced at Carl, mortified.

“I seriously thought it was like 11,” I grimaced. “Do you know how to turn this thing off?” I gestured towards the gas fire pit, which was fastened to a large propane tank.

“I think so,” he said, leaning his long, lanky frame forward to unscrew the tank.

I got up and turned off the twinkle lights that another friend had set up in the surrounding trees. Oh man, I have to pee. What is this goodbye gonna look like? I wanted Carl to kiss me, but not here, in the middle of the woods, with five friends’ tents within earshot, my bladder bursting.

“Thanks so much for inviting me to come by,” Carl said sweetly as we walked over to his car, our phone flashlights illuminating the path. “Let’s hang out again this week.”

We hugged, much less awkwardly than when he’d first arrived that night. On our first date, the evening before, we’d realized we were camping in the same location the following night. It felt like Fate, so we seized the opportunity to meet up again for dinner at my campsite. He was clearly nervous, walking into a group of five strangers – and a blonde chick he’d just met.

When I’d handed him a plate full of homemade food, I had noticed his hands were shaking.

I get it. Vegan food sounds scary – except when my friends and I are behind it. (Pictured here: one of my famous sandwiches complete with homemade muhammara. You can find the recipe in the cookbook I wrote. #crossovermarketing)

I hadn’t been on a date in over a year, and found his timidity endearing and comforting. In fact, my last blog post was about how I prefer the long game, and Carl certainly seemed like a long game kind of guy, letting me take the lead and not making any swift moves. The only downside was that we’d met on a dating app.

Somehow, in between these two blog posts, I found myself on Bumble. Okay. I strategically placed myself on said app in the hopes that I would virtually ‘bump into’ my current crush and present him with an easy way to ask me out.

“Because that’s the kind of s%@& that can happen in a small town.” -Boca Betty

Instead, I matched with Carl. His profile and photos were positive and sweet and stood out amongst the men holding dead fish, looking for a ‘swing’ partner, and/or living in a van.

And better yet, my other single girlfriends hadn’t already been out with him. #smalltownwin

By day three on Bumble, my crush no where in sight, I was about to throw in the towel when Carl sent a follow up message. I realized I couldn’t find a single good reason not to meet up with him.

“I hope this doesn’t seem too forward,” I wrote. “But I don’t think I’ll last much longer on this app; do you want to meet up for a drink tomorrow or Thursday?” We settled on Thursday, and our first date then quickly became our second.

Feeling confident that “First Date Selfie” might lead to “Second Date Smoochie”

“Oh my god, I felt so bad,” Sara said first thing in the morning, as we all sleepily emerged from our tents.

“Me too!” another friend, Rachel, chimed in. “I was trying so hard not to eavesdrop, Jules, and then I remembered I had ear plugs!”

“Are you kidding?” I laughed. “This is a dream come true! Witnesses and firsthand feedback on a date!”

“[My partner] Dan kept gripping my arm,” Sara laughed. “It was like listening to a soap opera. He thought Carl was going to invite you back to his tent!”

“So how are you feeling about him now?” Rachel asked. “What else did you talk about?”

“Oh I can tell you!” Sara said with a smile. “There was a long part about kitchen appliances.”

“Yeah, it was another titilating conversation,” I chuckled. “But I think he’s really cute.”

And I’m not just saying that because I could talk about this blender all. night. long.

“And he said he wants to see you this week,” Rachel’s fiance, Tim, added. “The fact that he specified ‘this week’ is a good sign.”

“He’s definitely into you. I can’t believe he stayed until 1am!” everyone concluded.

When I got home, I kicked myself for metaphorically sitting by the phone, twirling the phone cord, waiting for a boy to call. I’d been down this road so many times; it was impossible not to count the hours between dates and texts.

On Monday, two days after our campfire marathon, Carl texted.

“How’d the rest of your weekend go?”

We entered into a painstakingly slow back-and-forth over the next couple of days, each waiting hours before replying to the other. When is he going to ask me out for this week?!

I texted a few softballs his way and he let them crash to the ground. I tried again. In response to his sadness over summer ending, I wrote:

“So what needs to happen on Carl’s list before he can part ways with summer in peace? ;)”

“Not really sure,” he replied. “I don’t plan things out more than a week at a time. Maybe another good hike or two and another weekend of camping. Then bike riding in the fall is always amazing.”

Really? We’re going with that response, Carl?

I slapped my forehead. Good god, Carl. Help me help you. Since I’d already dated a Carl, I knew what I needed to do. I waited until the next day and took a deep breath before texting:

“I feel like you’re forgetting something important on this list… Like, I dunno, ‘hanging out with a hot blonde’?”

I included a couple of smirking emojis at the end. Less than an hour later, he replied.

“Well I would like to spend more time with you. Definitely good company to be around!”

I stared at my phone, wearing the same expression as when watching people in a Wal-Mart parking lot. Is that a bathing suit bottom or actual shorts? Before I had more than a moment to consider my reply, he sent another text.

“Although I should be upfront and say I’m not sure I feel a romantic connection between us. If being friends works for you, then great… if not I understand.”

Tears pricked my eyes and I closed them, feeling that old familiar nausea pool around my stomach. The One-Two Sucker Punch. I knew it well. I laid down in bed and let it sink in. How in the ever loving chipmunks did I -and five of my good friends- read this guy SO wrong?

I decided to share the news sooner rather than later. After unmatching him on Bumble and archiving his message thread so I didn’t have to see it in my text feed, I sent a screenshot of Carl’s final messages to several girlfriends.

“Oh thank god,” Sara wrote back. “Now I can finally say it. THAT GUY WAS SO BORING, JULES. That’s why I kept saying, ‘Yeah….but do YOU like HIM?'”

“I just told Tim and he was like, ‘Wait, HE said that to JULES?'” Rachel added.

Two days later, I deleted Bumble, not caring that I left several people hanging. I immediately felt re-centered and relieved. I can’t help but think that the gamification of dating, the endless carousel of two-dimensional profiles that we can dismiss with the flick of an index finger, created this entire experience – along with so many similar ones for so many people.

Thanks to technology, we treat dating like a crappy buffet, wading through one disappointing dish after another. We don’t stop and savor. We don’t wonder what’s behind each ingredient. And why would we? Every second there’s another tray wandering by, and we don’t even care that it’s turning our tastebuds numb.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Do you think dating apps are the devil’s work? Discuss.

*~*~*~*~

humor

I Lasted 48 Hours on Tinder

Go Jules Go

“We met on Tinder!”

“…And now we’re engaged!”

“It’s really not just a hook-up app anymore.”

In recent years, I’d heard testimonials trumpeting Tinder as, “No Longer the One Night Stand Dating App You Used to Love to Hate.” Nevertheless, given that I wasn’t a big fan of dating apps (or, let’s be honest, dating), I’d steered clear.

Two years ago, when I moved to Oregon from New Jersey, I’d been single for two years. Free from marriage, Corporate America, and east coast humidity, I decided it was time to fire up Bumble (a dating app similar to Tinder in its swiping, but where only women have the power to send the first message). Let’s see if the scene is any different now that I live 3,000 miles away from my hometown.

It wasn’t.

Arguably, it was far worse in my new, small town (as the story linked above will prove). In New Jersey, the most densely populated state in the U.S., you could go weeks without bumping into a familiar face. The likelihood of running into an ex or bad first date in Bend, Oregon, however: 113%. (Give or take.)

I quickly gave up and resumed my usual lifestyle: Friends, food, fur babies.

If only I could date him. Side note: My fur baby is famous now.

There was always the nagging thought that perhaps I’d “given up” versus consciously deciding to bow out of the dating scene.

“You’ve gotta put yourself out there!”

“It takes time to meet the right person.”

“Give him a chance!”

Despite honing my gut instinct over the past 38 years, the din of the masses still got to me. Maybe “they” all knew something I didn’t. Maybe everything I thought was right for me was just a way of protecting myself from getting hurt. Maybe I was going to DIE ALONE OH MY GOD I DON’T WANT TO DIE ALONE.

And that’s how I got sucked in -AGAIN- to downloading a dating app on my phone last week. This time, I bit the bullet and chose the infamous Tinder. I swiped right, I swiped left, and I periodically put down my phone to hide under a blanket.

As matches and messages trickled in, my heart raced. Not in the good way. More in the clammy, “it puts the lotion in the basket,” low-level dread kind of way. Okay, Jules. Maybe you’re just talking yourself out of a good thing. Maybe you need to just get a post-COVID date out of the way. Break the seal.

I fired back a couple of overly clever replies to two men. Ugh. No. I can’t do this! I don’t want to meet any of these people! Who knows who they really are?!

I’d been on enough online dates to know that, no matter how many photos and phone calls you exchange before the first meeting, you’re still going on a blind date. And does anyone really want to go on an endless series of blind dates?

NO. BECAUSE IT’S WORSE THAN SYPHILIS. Or so I’ve heard. From a friend.

Let me put it this way. The best online date pales in comparison to Netflix and pasta. And involves far more prep time.

Do you think this just happens?!

Within 48 hours, and long before I could exchange more than two short messages with anyone, I deleted my Tinder account. I briefly entertained the fantasy that some of my matches fell to their knees, shaking their fists at the heavens, crying, “WHERE DID SHE GO? WHERE?!?!?!”

A few nights later, I shared drinks with a couple of girlfriends, and the conversation turned to our exes.

“I just got this random Facebook message from my ex’s new girlfriend. Look.”

She showed us her phone, which displayed a long string of messages: “I hope you don’t mind me reaching out. I know you dated [him] a while ago and I just have to know… did you experience anything like this? He’s gotten really emotionally and verbally abusive, accusing me of cheating and calling me all of these names and I just don’t know what to do.”

My friend was too afraid to say much in response for fear that this ex had created a fake account and was in fact the one messaging her. “Oh my god he’s been doing that to me!” the new girlfriend wrote. “Creating fake accounts…stalking me…”

“I still fear for my life from one of my exes,” I chimed in. “Everyone knows who to arrest if I go missing.”

Hint: It’s not Uncle Jesse. Even though I know he’s still plotting his revenge after this haircut.

“Yes!” my friend exclaimed. “Every woman I’ve talked to has a story like this!”

A familiar feeling rose in my chest. A mix of nausea, compassion, and curiosity. All of the “scary ex” stories always made me think, “What are we [as a society] doing wrong? This can’t be the result of testosterone overload. If our male counterparts could express hurt, sadness, and fear freely, would any of this happen?”

The very next morning, I woke up to a ‘New Blog Comment’ alert. Someone from Match.com, with whom I went on one date six years ago, had commented on a blog post from 2015. I had written a post about our first (and only) date and… apparently it didn’t land well with him.

He also took the time to create a fake email address and website to leave this comment.

I scratched my head. How did he even FIND this? I don’t think I ever mentioned that I had a blog, I always change or omit names, and I try REALLY hard not to say anything seemingly cruel… In fact, I had intentionally framed the post as, “This bizarre thing happened on a first date: what would you do to handle it?” to avoid coming across like I was maligning the man.

(In a nutshell: After our first date, this fella started sending me a cappella karaoke clips he’d recorded on his phone, and some other things I wasn’t quite sure how to react to, like a LinkedIn connection request and an article he’d written many years earlier [which he copied and pasted, in its entirety, into a single text message].)

After rereading the story several times, I definitively concluded that the post was funny – and harmless. Also, half the reason I’ve suffered through dating is for the stories.

PLEASE DON’T TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME.

Still, I cringed. I’m sure it can’t be fun to stumble on a blog post about you, even if it’s innocuous (…and six years old). More than that, though, I felt that same swirling concern. Why? Why do we exist in a world where hurt and pain (or simply bruised egos) become violence, cruelty, stalking, and aggression?

Here’s a situation where I spent a few hours with someone -a perfect stranger- six years ago, never saw him again, and now I feel unsafe. Perhaps the most disturbing part is that my inner monologue shouts, “Well. You blogged about him. YOU’RE ASKING FOR IT.”

Sigh. If anyone wants a pasta and Season 4 “Breaking Bad” binge, hit me up.

Ah. That’s more like it.

~*~*~*~*~

I almost don’t want to ask this, but: Any similar stories or concerns you’d like to share? Or, what do you think we can each do to create a safer, kinder world?

~*~*~*~*~

humor

ORBITING: Is This Really a Thing?

Go Jules Go

“Sometimes I put up a story [on Instagram or Facebook] just to see who’s watching.”

“Wait. Tell me more,” I stared at my friend.

“Yeah, you can totally see who views your stories [that disappear after 24 hours]! It’s a great way to see if an ex is still creeping on your social media.”

As my friend explained more, it made sense. Unlike with normal feed posts, stories capture who has viewed them, so you actually get some insight into not only the total view count, but into exactly which followers have been checking out your stuff. In other words, anyone silently lurking on your social media, never liking or commenting, is CAUGHT. Watching you.

Amazing.

Terrifying.

Intriguing…

As a long-time blogger, I’m well aware of the depressing statistic that only 1% of readers ever leave a comment. 10% might like your posts, if you’re lucky. So even though you can see how MANY people visit your site [via behind-the-scenes analytics], you never know WHO’S reading.

But I’ve always assumed at least three exes, two bosses, and my father are reading every post. Hence the consistent lack of truly juicy details.

This was brand new territory.

Over the past few weeks, as part of building my [alter ego] The Vegan Dollar YouTube channel, I started regularly posting and sharing stories on my associated Instagram account. Right away, I noticed a familiar face checking out every. single. story. Sometimes within minutes of hitting publish.

Don’t mind if I do.

Wait. Didn’t he follow my account like a year ago? I thought that was an accident…I guess it wasn’t! I clicked on his profile image. His account was private. I didn’t follow back.

BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE INSANE.

BECAUSE HE DUMPED ME SIX YEARS AGO.

AND WE HAVEN’T SPOKEN SINCE.

Yup. That’s right. The infamous fellow who texted heart emojis just hours before asking for his apartment key back is now watching every single story…on my vegan brand account…

And I wasn’t even vegan when we dated! BECAUSE THAT WAS SIX YEARS AGO.

What. The. Actual. Fudgcicles.

I immediately snapped into research mode. After about an hour, I stumbled on a post that referred to this exact phenomenon. “Orbiting,” the article called it. (And apparently I was late to the scene.)

The definition provided by Urban Dictionary.

With this new phrase in my back pocket, I dug deeper. Unfortunately, I soon discovered tale after tale of people -women, especially- with experiences just like mine. In one case, the woman reached out to her peeping-Tom-ex-who-had-dumped-her-years-ago. “Hey, I noticed you’ve been watching my stories,” she messaged. “What’s up? How are you?” The guy never wrote back and immediately blocked her.

Even reputable sites like Psychology Today provided little helpful guidance. “If it bothers you, block them,” said the majority. “Don’t read into it,” common counsel advised. “They’re probably just curious.” And my personal favorite, “Get over it.”

But…

But…

But…

Is this okay? Are we okay with leaving it at that? Forgiving stalking just because it’s (arguably) passive? And furthermore, putting the onus on the stalked?

Does having a public social media account give implicit permission for any and all lurking? Are we signing a contract that says, “Sorry, pal, you asked for it”?

In fairness, I am asking for it sometimes.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’ve creeped on a page or two in my day. Truuuuust me. And there are certainly instances where exes can remain friends on social media, even if they need to take an initial pause after a break-up. But consistently checking out the content of someone you dumped years ago and with whom you haven’t exchanged a single word, like, or comment since?

Are we really okay with that?

What about a family member with whom you might have had a fallen out, but then notice they’re watching every story of yours on Facebook, while refusing to have an actual conversation?

Is that okay?

Where is the line between curiosity and cruelty?

…Is there one?

~*~*~*~*~*~

Um. So. Hey. Don’t forget to leave a comment 😉

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dating

I Dodged a Bullet. Possibly Literally.

Go Jules Go

DISCLAIMER: Names and identifying features have been altered or hidden to protect… ME. TO PROTECT *ME*! ME, okay?!

Go Jules Go Title Graphic Dodged a Bullet Possibly Literally_31JUL2019

“It was the best first date I’ve ever been on. …Not that that’s saying much,” I shouted in my friend’s ear.

Sara turned away from the stage and grinned at me.

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I swear. There’s live music EVERY. NIGHT. in this town.

“Let me see his picture!”

I hesitated. “They don’t really do him justice… He’s REALLY cute. And tall! And has great teeth.”

I thought back to the previous evening. I had walked into a popular restaurant, the usual butterflies-or-is-that-just-dread filling my stomach, and a handsome guy had grinned at me expectantly.

Nope. Wrong color hair. Not him. …Shoot.

Further down, I had spotted a familiar face.

“Jules, hi!” the man had greeted.

I had been pleasantly surprised by his, well, everything.

“So you just moved here?” he had begun, and the conversation had flowed from there.

I had been in shock. A tall, attractive man, in his 30s like me, financially and hygienically sound, AND he had known how to ask questions? Well, I’ll be. A normal first date!

I had had to shake off the memory of my only other first date in my new hometown. Maybe the Oregon dating pool really would put New Jersey’s to shame! Please don’t do anything weird, please don’t do anything weird…

The date had lasted a record-breaking four hours, and ended on the promising note of future hang-outs.

“But my gut is still saying no,” I had texted to a few friends. “It was like hugging my brother goodbye.”

I had wanted to slap myself. What was wrong with me? Over the next 24 hours, I wrestled with whether or not to text him. He had left the ball in my court, and the decision to reach out felt like trying to decide between Oreos or Nutter Butters.

Misfortune-Cookies-all
Don’t make me choose my own Fate! DON’T MAKE ME CHOOSE MY OWN FATE!

“Come on, show me his picture!” Sara insisted.

I reluctantly pulled out my phone and found his online dating profile, holding it out to her.

“JULES. OH MY GOD. NO. NO!” she shouted, staring at me with wide eyes.

“What. What?!” I replied, my heart stopping.

“THIS IS THE GUY I TOLD YOU ABOUT,” she said. “HE’S. CRAZY.”

Sara started recounting details – details fresh in my mind because she had indeed told me the tale several weeks earlier when we’d first met and exchanged dating war stories.

Yup. She too had been out with my tall, handsome, “normal” guy.

“He’s the rage-a-holic who told me to buy Magnum condoms and badmouthed his ex the ENTIRE TIME! MY WORSE DATE EVER! ”

mvimg_20190715_175229
I found this while walking home from another local concert. Apparently I’m not going to need it.

I scooped my jaw off the floor. “Oh my god! I’m showing you every photo from now on! Jesus. This IS a small town.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“What? Are you kidding? HE HAS GUNS. You saved me!”

Her face crumpled a little more.

“I’m so sorry that was your best first date!”

I burst out laughing. “I told you it wasn’t saying much.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

What do you think? Should I give him another shot (pun, um, actually NOT intended, but now that it’s out there…)?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~