Exhausting

Dating apps are exhausting.

Bumble has informed me I have run out of matches, “that’s all for now!” and change your profile filters if you want to find more folks.

Nah.

I’m a bit over it.

Especially as I didn’t match with all that many guys.

And that’s ok.

I have gone back in with a more discriminating eye and frankly if any one even mentions smoking weed, I’m out.

I can handle the occasional cocktail drinker, but the weed just grosses me out.

And I’m pretty set on my age range, five years younger, five years older.

That makes for a nice span.

Except when the person lies.

There are some guys that lie right from the start and put up a fake age so they will pop up in your search and then the first thing they say is, “I lied about my age, I’m really, blah, blah, blah”.

Fuck off.

I didn’t lie about my age.

I’m 49.

You don’t like kicking it with a 49 year old woman I want you to swipe left.

Swipe away motherfucker.

And frankly if you lie about your age, what else are you lying about?

I found out in a recent phone call.

Not to self, gave out my number a little too fast.

I was getting discouraged with all the not matching.

When I did match with a guy and we chatted a bit and then he asked to move to our phones and we texted a bit and then he called.

Holy shit.

I was on the call maybe fifteen minutes.

He did most of the talking.

And he lied about his age.

He wasn’t 44, he is 51.

And he gave some bullshit excuse why he lied and how women don’t want men his age and he’s actually got all this energy and he does’t look 51, blah, blah, blah.

Without letting me get in a word.

I would have told him if he had taken a moment to catch his damn breath, that I was actually more interested in a guy who is 51 versus 44.

See I figure, 44/45’ish with guys, they still might want kids and I’m out of that ball park.

Oh.

The other thing the guy lied about, he has kids.

Two.

And!

He wants more.

I was like, ok, you’re 51 and you want more kids, cool.

But.

Um.

I don’t.

And I said that really clearly, if that’s what you’re looking for, I am the wrong person for you, I don’t want kids.

I nannied for 13 years, I got my fix of babies (I do still miss a warm baby napping on my chest though, so good).

Plus, at 49, do you know what they call that at the hospital?

A geriatric pregnancy.

No thank you.

Dude rolled right over me, oh, you’ll have lots of babies with me (really, cuz I’m not thinking that at all), a whole bunch, you got time, women having babies into their 70s.

Jesus.

I want to retire when I’m 70, not be having a baby.

I repeated myself, nope, no kids, no thanks, you want kids, you better look elswehere.

And he ran me over again and said we’d have loads of kids and more word vomit.

I was like, I need to get the fuck off this call.

Then he asked where I was in San Francisco and he was telling me how well he knew the city and when I said, “Hayes Valley” he had no idea where that is.

Um, ok, I’m sorry, but Hayes is a super popular little hood and most people that “know San Francisco like the back of their hand” know where Hayes Valley is.

But you know.

Fuck, I’m glad he doesn’t know.

Cuz stalker vibe.

And then he told me his last lie, he’d lied about where he lived so that, again, he would get picked up by a wider range of women.

Not cool dude.

I want someone who is geographically desirable.

I don’t want to date a guy in Martinez.

Or where ever the fuck you actually live.

I told him I had to go and I got off the phone real fast and immediately blocked him.

Then I went back on Bumble, messaged him, thanks for the call but I don’t feel a connection, and I unmatched with him.

So imagine my surprise when he sent me a video message the next day.

WTF?!

Then he texted me twice the following day.

Hello, Iphone, it says blocked, why aren’t you blocking?!

Then yesterday while I’m in a client session he calls, now my phone’s off, but I see the call come through, not once, but twice, later when I’m out of the session.

Fuck you Iphone, block this guy.

I google it.

Restart my Iphone, block again.

Nothing today.

So hopefully he’s gone.

So yeah, just yuck.

I matched with four guys.

One responded with all emoji’s.

I didn’t message him back.

Grow the fuck up.

The other was persistent guy who wants me pregnant into my 70s, like who are you, Hugh Hefner?

The other guy was hot and I thought, jackpot, cool, went back into his profile and shit, I saw the red flag, the little marijuana leaf symbol had “frequently” next to it.

I hadn’t caught it on the first round.

So.

I didn’t message frequently smokes pot guy.

Leaving me with one match.

We have a date on Friday.

For tea.

That is hopeful.

I have not expectations at all.

The meeting for tea and/or coffee, the way I look at it, is a dry run for an actual date.

And maybe I go back on Hinge.

Who knows.

But.

I’m out there trying.

But, damn, it is tiring swiping left all the time.

No, nope, nope, cute dog, nope, NO, is that a picture from your wedding? NO. Next, nope, nope, nope, ew, why are you wearing a mask in the photo? We are not socially distancing on the app, I can’t catch COVID through my phone. No, No thank you, yikes, no to you, sir, smoking that fat blunt, no, to you friend–drinking straight from a margarita pitcher, um, no thanks. PLEASE STOP POSTING PICTURES OF THE FISH YOU CAUGHT, or your kids–does the other parent know you’re putting your kids pix on a dating app? No pictures of you and your ex, especially if you “x’ed” out their face, noooo, no to “love to laugh,” who the fuck doesn’t. Me, I hate laughing, next.

Sigh.

Just needed to vent.

I’ll be back out there tomorrow.

Maybe.

I Dumped Your Whiskey

Down the drain.

You brought over a bottle with you the first time I cooked a meal for you, a little weird, but I was trying to be a good hostess and you wanted a cocktail with dinner.

So, sure.

But you procure it, I’m not buying booze for anyone.

You left it on the counter when you left and I did think, hmm, do I really want this in my house?

But, I figured, well, I have neutrality and I’m certainly not tempted, so I put it in the cupboard over the stove behind the bottle of Bragg’s Amino’s and the bottle of balsamic vinegar.

And mostly forgot it.

Until recently.

I threw your toothbrush in the trash.

Granted. It wasn’t your toothbrush, it was an extra one from the dentist that I asked you to use when you asked me, “Can I kiss you,” and I said, “only if you brush your teeth.”

The combo smell of dinner at Absinthe with a client and three whiskey Manhattan’s on your breath was just too much for me to entertain kissing.

I composted your homemade raisin oatmeal cookie vanilla ice cream sandwich.

Yeah.

That went away too.

I’m not exactly mad.

Although I am a touch flummoxed.

What happened?

I mean, on one hand I have a pretty good sense, we weren’t quite as compatible as perhaps we were both pretending to be.

I’m sober.

You’re not.

It’s been a long time since I dated anyone who drank.

So there’s that.

But it was some other things too.

Not taking me out last Friday was definitely a disappointment.

Especially when I showed up at your house dressed to the nines, because as you told me last Wednesday night, “we’ll do something fun on Friday and have sex.”

Excellent.

Something “fun” on Friday turned out to be a well done steak on a plate in your house while you drank whiskey and smoked weed.

I can handle the booze to a point, but the weed, man, I don’t like it.

Especially when I asked from the beginning, literally I said it on our first date, I am allergic and I hate the way it smells, you can’t smoke weed around me, I can handle you drinking, but pot is too much–you also can’t snort cocaine off my boobs–to not have it smoked around me.

But I suppose when one is in their home, doing their thing, smoking their weed is par for the course.

I didn’t say anything when you lit up while we watched a movie, which, fyi, 1917 is fucking phenomenal, but I did pull away from you on the couch.

I just super hate the way it smells.

I recognized, from working with my therapist in a session earlier that day, that I wasn’t letting you know when I was disappointed.

I was also really disappointed to find out that you were going to go away for the weekend.

I guess you forgot that you had offered to help me move things into storage over the weekend too.

Sigh.

I mean, I understood, you had to go spend the weekend with a client in Tahoe.

Awesome.

Get your client on.

“Do you ski?” I asked.

“No, we’re just going to drink whiskey, smoke weed, and hang out in the hot tub.”

Ok, then.

You wanted me to spend the night, and that had been the plan, and Tahoe meant up early and hitting the road, so we compromised and I said I wouldn’t spend the night, but I would still come over.

But you know, I still thought we were going out.

And I did at least manage to say I was disappointed that we had to change up our plans.

I can see, however, that I was diminishing my feelings.

We had the sex.

Thanks.

I left and let you get sleep for getting up early to go drink whiskey and smoke weed and hot tub.

Aside.

WTF?

Maybe it’s just me, but my choice would have been hang out with a hot woman who’s fun and smart and creative and hella good in bed.

So, maybe I don’t drink whiskey.

So, maybe I don’t smoke pot.

But.

Fuck.

I have moves, and I have energy.

I am also five years older than you and have a lot more energy.

But this is not about you, I’m making this about me.

Meanwhile, I figured that like the other time you went out of town and didn’t text me while you were away, you’d do the same this time.

I also, honestly, didn’t feel like fishing for attention.

So I didn’t text you either.

But then when Monday came, when you told me you’d be back from Tahoe, I thought you’d check in with me.

Nope.

Nothing.

Crickets.

Zilch.

Five days with absolutely no contact.

Five.

I thought about texting, but truly, I think I’d already came to the conclusion that there were things that just weren’t working for me.

And.

In your actions, to not reach out, you spoke mighty loud.

You made a choice, which is your right, but it was a disappointment.

And.

It’s been fucking weird as hell, as each day has drifted by, that you didn’t text or call.

Not once.

Not after 11 times hanging out.

No phone calls.

No text messages.

I have questioned it, a lot, but I figure this is God doing for me what I couldn’t do for myself.

Ultimately you were saying it loud and clear, before the lack of connection, when you decided to Tahoe it up.

You don’t want to hang out with me.

And after this week, and the disappointment of last week.

I don’t want to hang out with you either.

I also have plenty to process with my therapist tomorrow.

Plenty.

Until then.

I hope you’re ok, like you didn’t drown in the hot tub or anything.

And I guess it means I’m still single.

I think I’ll pause for a moment before I jump back in.

Give it another day, but I do figure I’ll try the damn dating apps again.

And I’ll keep practicing speaking up when I feel something and not diminish it.

And I’ll eat my next damn steak rare.

Never eating a well done steak again.

That was fucking egregious.