Divorce or Date #2
DoD, Ep. 27: So. Much. Material.
I didn’t plan to write another dating dispatch so quickly since I just got on an app last week, but online dating apparently moves at the speed of light and I want to get these stories down in real time before I forget them as fast as I forget the dudes piling up in my inbox.
Brutal.
After two days, I felt sad for literally everyone who’s on a dating app (which is literally everyone) and let me tell you, there are straight hotties1 on there, which was a pleasant surprise. Ninety-seven percent of dudes are looking for monogamy and longterm relationships (especially any guy over 40)2 and this somehow made me sadder.
The societal narrative has been that men don’t want to commit and women have to convince, cajole and strong-arm them into marriage. Most of us still believe this story, even though it’s not true. But I think it makes a lot of women wary of players… not realizing the amount of energy, money and charismatic sleaze it takes to be a player. Even Leo DiCaprio doesn’t get those model-children he dates for free. Red carpets, mega-yachts, celebrity hangs and designer goods must be provided!
But I digress.
Everyone is lonely, men especially, judging from how many of them want to find their “forever partner in crime (must love dogs and travel).”
Guys, please stop with the hyperbolic dog love. You know what makes women believe you’re capable of unconditional love and genuine care? Treating us that way, not a photo of you making out with a goldendoodle. (I know, I know, that’s not a goldendoodle in the photo.)
Criteria aka What’s My Type?
I’ve been asking my guy and girlfriends how I’m supposed to sort through hundreds of profiles to match with someone good. What does “good” even mean when you’ve got a handful of words and photos to go by? Who are these people, even? Who am I?
App dating can rapidly descend into existential crisis and nihilistic dread.
The dating criteria of my youth was best summed up by my good friend, Angie: “Our type is hot.”
Angie’s been married for 15 years and when I asked her what my criteria should be now, she was as succinct as she was in her 20s: “Look for a hot adult because that’s what you are: A hot adult.”
So I put aside my habit of reading all the words and judged by photos and their opening gambit: “You’re really pretty.” I tried to be generous, “Well, in this photo, his eyes look kind and his hair seems not so thin?”
I’m a Libra. This was useless.
So I asked my best friend, Tim, to screenshare and help me X out the people who wanted to match. It took two hours. “This is depressing,” he said, defeated. “It’s why I don’t date."
I was happy because we got it down to 28 people, but the next day, it was back up to 100. Sisyphean. Rolling a giant rock up a hill over and over is less torturous than scrolling through hundreds of lonely (probably lovely) humans while using an indeterminate barometer of “hot or not” and whether they know how to spell.
tl;dr: I have no idea what my type is. Think it’s like the legal definition of porn: I’ll know it when I see it.
European #1 - Canceled
I left Europe 5 years ago but can’t seem to fully shake it… The first guy I spoke to was a 48-year-old astrophysicist from Switzerland. His photos were questionably cute (a little blurry and long lens-y) and our connect happened before I got Angie’s advice. Still, I like smart, tall guys with thick hair and—broadly generalized—European men are often more mature and masculine than American men. They’re Old World and not confused about who pays for dinner.
I kept our phone conversation brief. I interview people for a living so I can make almost any conversation interesting but I don’t have the bandwidth for this kind of socio-emotional labor anymore—unless you’re paying me at least $1/word. Or I love you. Or you’re hot and smart enough to intrigue me.
European #1 wasn’t these things, but I figured I had to break my first date cherry with someone and he seemed polite and harmless enough. He texted on Superbowl Sunday about meeting up and not “letting things fade out.” He said he’d drive to my hood; if you don’t live in LA, know this is a gentlemanly gesture.
Tuesday morning, he texted to ask if we were still on for our date. He had to work late so couldn’t meet until 8pm and could we go to dog-friendly Urth Caffé because he has a “very anxious dog.”
Again for non-Angelenos, Urth Caffé is a pseudo-Euro-crunchy-hipster spot for smoothies and gluten-free muffins. I hate that place and always have—not least because the accent over the “e” is in the wrong direction. Café is French; caffè is Italian. WTF is Caffé? A mistake. (Kind of like this date.)
Anytime someone says, “Let’s go to Urth Caffé,” I reply, “That place is awful. It’s overhyped and overpriced.” And everyone always agrees.
This was not the first date I was picturing, with an overworked space guy and his little dog, too.
I called Naomi and burst into tears. “This is what dating is now? They don’t even take you to a real restaurant for dinner? And they bring their pets?!”
Naomi agreed it wasn’t a normal date and said I could either cancel or suggest something else, but that I should take care of myself first because I’m tender and healing and maybe I’m not ready to date yet.
But, she said, I could also take the approach that this is material, whether for Substack or my standup.
This is what we writers do. It’s all material. Sorry.
I had an NYU professor who shared how he was once at a funeral and he could feel himself observing the grief and goings-on for possible inclusion in a future story and he felt like he was a) kind of an asshole for not being fully present during the mournful ceremony and b) accepting that as a writer, everything is material, even your dad’s funeral.
I wiped away my tears and texted the scientist that we should probably cancel and FYI: I hate Urth Caffé. He then asked for Friday, which was Valentine’s Day! I had plans already but even if I didn’t, I would have said no.3
When I told Angie about this, she said, “He pulled the wrong card with you and the smoothie place. If he’s so attached to his dog that he needs to bring it on a first date, you know his priority.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That dog is his wife.”
European #2 - Catfished
The Eastern European was attractive, 6’4, and had kind eyes in his photos.4 He was talkative on the phone and told me he only wanted to date moms because he had a teenager and he felt another parent was mature enough to understand what that entailed. He said he wouldn’t date a younger woman without kids who would want a family with him. He was 50 and wasn’t doing that again.
This is a European trait: The men like and appreciate moms and accept that women have children. Many Europeans have multiple kids by their early-to-mid-30s (merci, socialized childcare), so by the time they’ve split up in their 40s, the dating pool is rife with MILFs and DILFs. Blended families are the norm—and most middle-aged European men don’t think chasing childless younger women is a worthy or interesting goal like their American counterparts do. European men in general, young and old, love MILFs and older women. They’re cool like that.
He asked me for drinks and dinner at a chic place nearby since we live in the same area. I was relieved it was a normal restaurant without anxious animal chaperones. Then he sent me a selfie saying, “This is what I look like now.”
Ummm…
His profile photos were at least 10 years old. I’d been warned about this by my friend, Lionel, who recommended a FaceTime call before meeting in person. He’s been burned a few times.
I dithered. European #2 seemed cool and I thought he could at least become a neighborhood buddy.
I sent his pics to Naomi. She thought it was ridiculous he was posting photos that old and I should cancel.
“You could say, ‘Oh, how old were you in that photo? You look 20 years younger!’ and see what he says,” she laughed.
“I can’t say that!” I told her. “I feel bad.”
“This is what we’re socialized to feel.” Naomi is way more of a woke feminist than I am.
In the end, I told the big catfish I wasn’t ready to date and there wasn’t enough of a spark to meet up, but thanks for being so nice and good luck on the apps. He responded that he understood and “good luck to you and your kiddos.” See? Cool. Maybe we could be friends?
Generic Tall & Handsome Guy - Flaked
He was clever at messaging, had lived in NYC for awhile and he rooted for the Eagles. All good things. He’s 51 and casting-call handsome: Tall, blue-green eyes, good hair and dimples. My algorithm is giving me so very many dimpled men, which is great because I love ‘em.
He lives in Sherman Oaks which isn’t Pasadena-far, but from the West Side, it’s still a trek. Once you’ve lived in LA for awhile, it’s all just an episode of the Californians.
He wrote to say he had to come out to the West Side for some errands and did I want to “meet, look into each other’s eyes and see if sparks fly?”
Like I said, clever texter.
We made lackadaisical plans to try to spark, but it rained a lot on Wednesday and I was tired and irritable from the full moon. I didn’t bother confirming.
We never met up, even though he did write me after.
“Isn’t it so hard to make it happen and actually meet up?” Peter said when I told him about my 3 non-dates. He’s been app-dating for years and has seen and done it all.
He’s right. I’m not in my 20s, when I had the boundless energy, curiosity and hope to date almost anyone who asked. (And yes, it was also my job.) A friend back then had a glamorous single aunt in NYC who called herself “Meals on Heels.” She would date men for the free dinners. Most of us did. We were poor assistants, living in shitty walkup studios. Better to eat in a nice restaurant with a guy who might be interesting and then party with your friends after when he wasn’t.
Helena’s a new friend, a model-gorgeous mom and a crypto trader. She’s been quasi-dating an older European herself, but she’s mainly going through the motions. She’s canceled on him a few times. “I can buy my own expensive dinner,” she told me. “I’d rather stay home and take a bath than have to deal with a date.”
I totally feel this. I don’t need a man to eat a good meal. I enjoy being in my pretty, peaceful home, where I chose every piece of furniture and artwork without any man’s input.5 For me to want to shower, shave, get my nails done, put on makeup, actually brush my hair, order Postmates for my kids and lie to them about where I’m going will take a “high-value” person—like all those horrible relationship “experts” say.
At the very least, he better be better than a new episode of Severance or White Lotus.
And…
I think I just matched with him.
Stay tuned.
Week One Dating Results
Number of Likes: 300+
Number of Matches: 38
Number of Planned Dates: 3
Number of Executed Dates: 0
If you want to share your dating-after-divorce or dating-a-divorcé(e) story, let me know! I’ve already got some (anonymous) juicy stories from readers coming your way…
Quoting my favorite Eleanor (not Roosevelt… Shellstrop).
I am aware guys could also just be saying this because they aren’t dumb enough to broadcast they only want a hookup, though about 2 guys were straight up about it in their profiles.
Never have a first date on Valentine’s because then it’s your anniversary and if/when you break up, it doesn’t pass by like just another day because capitalism. (Of COURSE my anniversary is Valentine’s Day.)
I’m a sucker for kind eyes.
Except for my gay husband, Tim.