I was torn between wanting to date to find a partner and wanting to stay home and hide. Dating apps are tedious and even though it’s fun to swipe through and look at the current inventory of men, nothing is as it seems. Pictures are edited. Profiles are fake. Descriptions are either too lengthy or too vague and before you know it, you’re reading all things with the eye of a hardened skeptic. Once in a while a heartfelt and beautiful profile would catch my eye and I’d get sucked in and excited. Then the little cynic voice would whisper, “that’s TOO good, what’s wrong with him?” Swipe left.
My thumb grew weary. Once in a while I’d swipe right, not because of a perfect combination of photo, description and qualifying match criteria, but simply because of a feeling of “he will do” and my thumbs boredom with moving left. Sometimes I’d go on a date. All of the times I would return home, horrified at the experience for one reason or the other. Archie Bunker was at least a decade older than his photo. Pigpen had poor manners. Freddy was missing too many teeth. Face Licker tried to make out with me after five minutes. Warren talked about all of his money. Trumpster talked about his evil ex-wife and her fat ass. Roger asked if I liked olive oil for lube. My thumb failed me.
I wanted a partner, but not bad enough to waste time sifting through the pile of candidates. I also knew my future partner was not going to just show up at my door one evening, knock, and introduce himself as my perfect match. I had to at least participate in the dating experience in order to date. I had to keep the thumb working.
Many of my dates were a disaster and yet hilariously so. I talked about them on my podcast and soon, my listeners were responding to my dating stories more than my nutrition advice. I monopolized and talked about more dates until I realized I was on to something. What if I stopped taking dating so seriously and simply started dating to get a story? If I met someone awesome, even better, but the story was always going to be there.
First step was to turn my dating into a pressure-free game, to date on my terms, date consistently so I wasn’t hiding anymore, and waste as little time as possible. One date per week, choosing someone I actually would be interested in and dates that were perfectly easy for my preference and timeline. This meant only afternoon or morning coffee dates, lunch, or a walk. I would squeeze it in between appointments so there was always a stated timeline and I’d pick a place in my neighborhood or in a place I wanted to spend time anyway. This weeded out guys who just wanted a hookup, wanted to show off their money, and didn’t respect my time.
My thumb’s swiping criteria was important. They must have a good profile picture, not too professional but not involving a car or a fish. They must have written a few sentences about themselves, but not a novel that indicated they’d be talking only about themselves in person. Non-smoker a must, no kids because I’m out of that era, within 10 years of 50 years old, gainfully employed but not bragging about it.
One Monday my thumb was cramping. Too many left swipes. But I had some time to kill so I stretched and kept it up. One profile popped up that had no words. No matching criteria. No description. Just an image of the back of a guy, facing the ocean, arms spread wide in a jumping for joy pose, much like the hundreds of mine on my camera roll, my signature photo shot at every opportunity and all over the world. Oh wow, a guy who knows my pose! The thumb got excited and enthusiastically swiped right. Then I looked for more pics and there were a few. He was hot. He had a cigarette in one of them. Oops. Oh well, the swipe was done, can’t take that back.
Twenty minutes later I checked the app messages and saw that Jump For Joy Guy had messaged me, stating he had hoped I would swipe him. That was nice. Flattering. JFJ was only in town for a quick vacation, on the apps to meet people and to try to see more of Miami. Also read, “I hope to get laid on vacation.” I chose to believe I could resist his charms and find out if he’d balk at my coffee date template. I offered two hours for a coffee the next day. He seemed super excited and I got wary. Seemed a little too excited, I hoped he wasn’t a nerd.
I showed up at Lincoln Road Mall early, so I could try to see from afar if this guy was going to be 70 years old, creepy or looking like an ax murderer. I wore my typical date uniform, a cute and relatable outfit of sundress and tennis shoes. This was code for “I’m a girly girl but not easy.” I spotted him from a block away and JFJ was tall. Score. He was wearing khaki pants and a loose, flowing white shirt, looking both cool and sexy. He was pacing and looked nervous which I liked. A normal guy. Probably had all of his teeth. I crossed the crosswalk, he saw me and smiled. I smiled. I got closer and said “I’m a hugger.” He said, “oh, good, me too.” We hugged. My thumb quivered.
We started walking and talking and an hour melted into two hours of pure fun. I called and bailed on my client and drove JFJ and me all over Miami to show him all the best spots. He was not old, he was not a smoker anymore, he was visiting from California and he told me all about his heart and soul. We ate dinner, had multiple coffees, laughed, cried, danced and we shared all the beautiful stories that opened our hearts wide open. He kissed me on the Bayside Ferris Wheel, he kissed me on Ocean Drive, and he held me tight while he kissed me on Miami Beach. I never wanted him to let go.
Hours flew by and the longest, most perfect date of my life never ended. It continued for a year of laughter and walks, sunrises and travel. The date switched gears to a surprise sunrise proposal and culminated in a redwood forest wedding of our dreams.
There was never another podcast episode. My thumb retired after having done its best work. One swipe, to the right, and it jumped for joy.