On-the-line Dating

Well, for all my talk and resistance about it, ongoing singlehood came down to swallowing my pride and giving online dating a chance. Despite the negative stories I’d heard, at least four people I knew found their spouse that way,.

A widow of a certain age doesn’t seem to meet eligible and qualified widowers and divorcees in exercise classes (well, one man asked me out, but he loved religious music and had a short fuse). Forget going to bars. My family didn’t know anyone who wasn’t dead, and my friends hid their husbands (and sons). So, unless a guy popped out of my television or ran his shopping cart into mine at the Hy-Vee supermarket, I was up a creek.

I researched the best online dating apps for senior women and chose one in the top ten. It boasted a large member base, and I needed the highest odds.

It was fun building a profile. Writing, after all, is my love. I even brought in a sister writer to edit. It was harder selecting photos that didn’t have the same smile and head angle. I was past the expiration date of showing off the goods like a twenty-year-old. I had to be strategic in camouflaging extra pounds and wrinkles. Photoshop was tempting, but one shouldn’t start a relationship built on lies. I chose a picture of professional me, mischief me, and handywoman me, me relaxing on a giant floaty, kayaking me, and margarita me (though not the shot of me with a straw up my nose, which would have been the most authentic).

In less than three hours after going active, I got a “like” and brief hello from “Michael.” He sounded nice enough on his profile. A widower with a graduate degree. Still working. We exchanged a few texts in the safety of the app. He claimed to be in finance and had just moved to Kansas City from Australia. He said he was originally from Norway. Not handsome, but a kind face. His profile said happiness always went right up to his eyes. That line hooked me. Then he asked me via text to tell him about myself, like where I worked, if I had kids, etc. A red flag went up. I replied that he should READ MY PROFILE. It was all right there: Widow, childless, cats, looking for a serious relationship, didn’t use drugs, social drinker, and then a whole summary section where subscribers talk about themselves: their philosophies, personality, or what they wanted out of a relationship. My summary shared that I’d rather meet someone over the broccoli at the Farmer’s Market, so be patient; I felt very shy about online dating. I offered up my Myers Briggs score. An educated person would know what that was and if we’d fit. I shared my education level and majors, my love of the ocean, my recent move to Kansas City from what I considered paradise California, places I’d like to explore, and that I enjoyed all music but country western (there went 50% of eligible guys. Country western is big in Missouri). I shared that I was not looking for marriage, but someone emotionally mature, fun-loving, and monogamous. All-in-all, I was right there in the display case, fileted and exposed, IF HE HAD READ MY PROFILE.

Obviously, he didn’t.

Turned out he didn’t exist, either. I got a message from the app’s administrative team that they had discovered he was an imposter and deleted his profile. The administrative team warned me there were a lot of predators on online dating apps.

Then came “T.” I liked a photo of him standing in front of a painting at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art in Kansas City. He looked sophisticated, educated (his profile mentioned a graduate degree), cultured, and gentle. Again, not handsome, but with a certain something I found attractive. We seemed kindred spirits in our favorite activities and beliefs. We exchanged two casual texts. In the third, he asked for my phone number. I froze. Did people give out their phone numbers to strangers without meeting them first? Not me. I wasn’t ready. The app administrative team cautioned members to be prudent about giving out personal information and also advised checking to see if a person verified himself (members who took a selfie that AI matched to their profile photos, which I quickly did for myself). “T” passed that test, but I needed more time to feel safe. I sent him another chatty text: how did he spend Thanksgiving, wanting more hours to see how I felt. No response. He ghosted me when I didn’t fork over my cell number.

Every member was able to see who looked at their profile. Apparently, at least thirty men a day checked mine out. Why did they pass me up? Must be my age, which I didn’t lie about (although tempting). Or maybe it was my ix-nay on country music.

Every day, a subscriber got an array of possible matches. Despite my filters that a potential partner be under seventy, the app threw a lot of eighty (plus)-year-olds my way, some of whom sent messages like, “Your cute.” Please. I’m an English major. Learn you’re grammar. And, no thank you, I wouldn’t be holding their bedpans.

Some choices were cadavers, men who took selfies while lying back in their Barcaloungers. No question that was where they spent their day. In one guy’s photo, you could see a sink of dirty dishes piled up to the cabinets behind him. Be still my heart.

And don’t get me started on men who pose with their shiny motorcycles or caught fish.

I liked to capture the choice picks and send them to my writing sister with my snarky remarks. At least we got some laughs.

I received a nice message from “David” who said he was a writer, too. I read his profile. He described himself as “rather pedantic.” He’d never been married. He wasn’t attractive, and it appeared McDonald’s cooked for him. I texted him back and asked if he knew any good writing groups. He told me his writing was of a scholarly ilk, so he didn’t. He was aware Kansas University had summer writing workshops. He sounded like a real person, just not the one for me.

“David”

“Chomper” sent me a “like.” A jovial person per his picture, but he definitely lived up to his name. He’d never missed a meal. Or snack. Or snack between snacks.

“Chomper”

“Vern” from Texas sent me a “like.” “Leroy” from New Orleans sent one, too. Difficult geographical dating situations there. Plus, I could never be with a man called “Vern” or “Leroy.”

Someone named “Greg” sent me a message. I texted a hello back. Not someone I was interested in, but I felt bad not to acknowledge a person’s attempt at contact. A day later, I got another notification from the app administrative team that “Greg” had his profile pulled due to suspicious conduct.

Same with “George,” who sent me a “Hi” with his “like.” The app administrative team notified me “George,” too, had been yanked due to improper behavior.

“Bill” sent me a “like.” His favorite reading material was political essays. For the other side. I didn’t bother with any communication.

Then came “Steve.” I was so taken by his chiseled face, blue eyes, and salt and pepper hair that I didn’t at first notice his incomplete profile. I sent him a “like.” I got one back in minutes. He told me he was looking for a woman with integrity and openness, one he could communicate well with. He was a widower looking for a serious relationship. I responded that I felt the same way. I went back to his profile and asked him why he didn’t have a summary. He wrote back asking for my cell and e-mail so he could send me more photos and tell me more about himself.

“Steve”

The app administrative team had cautioned against people with incomplete profiles. They said these were often people with malicious intent, and would use the very line “Steve” just used. Once victims provided personal contact information, the predators planted malware. Did people really have nothing better to do with their lives than try and destroy others? A second after I told “Steve” “No” and why, his profile disappeared. A day later, the app administrative team sent me a notification that they found “Steve” fishy and removed him from the system.

After that, I hid my profile for a week, debating whether to continue down the online dating road. It seemed there were few serious match-lookers out there. I did discover a benefit to having a hidden profile. It let one play the fly on the wall, snooping into other profiles like the invisible woman, without being tracked or detected. I happened upon a guy I knew from a different exercise class. He was trying to date? In his main photograph, he wore a clean, white, artsy tee shirt, looking into the camera with a warm smile as though easy-going and charming. Very misleading. In class, he always wore the same unwashed gym clothes. He was a grumpy, stubborn controller, fighting any activity the instructor had us perform, making us wonder why he didn’t work out on his own. Talk about a battle ax. I found it enjoyable, however, in my spying mode, to learn more about how he sees himself. I felt sorry for him. And a kinship: two lonely souls reduced to looking for fulfillment in the Ethernet.

When I re-activated my profile after the down time, I found “Tom.” Nice-looking. A photo of him in Europe in a charming S-curved stone street, and another of him out hiking, possibly in Arches state park. His profile hit the right boxes and I sent him a “like.” He sent a “like” back. He texted, I replied. Casual stuff, but I felt confident a real person who truly wanted to meet a woman was on the other end. He shared his love of photography, the loss of his wife, and his lack of children. He made compliments about my summary, which showed he read it. We conversed back-and-forth for almost an hour until he said he had to set up and teach an exercise class. I liked the sound of that. Then he said he’d need to take a cold shower first after talking with me. That was odd. Nothing in our conversation had been the least bit sexual.

Despite a twinge of misgiving, I pictured us out at a fine restaurant (him paying), toasting wine glasses, and getting to know each other.

That evening, more texting, each of us pulling out our wit. He said language-wise, he was fluent in sarcasm but just beginning to learn snarky. That sounded clever. I told him I was fluent in snarky and happy to give him lessons.

He’d mentioned in his profile that he like culinary classes. I asked him what his signature dish was. He replied, “Clams Casino.” Then he added that if he made them for me, I’d have to put restraints on him for sure. I got the drift, but I told myself he was a poor widower and clumsy in reactivating his libido. Surely, he would simmer down. I closed the app, though, and went to bed.

The next morning I had two more messages from him talking about his XXX dreams of me and his hard Johnson. Good grief. Leave it to me to find a troller with his hand down his pants. Wouldn’t it be cheaper and easier for the nut job to set on Pornhub? I played grown up and replied that his sexual innuendos made me uneasy, and then I blocked him.

“Tom”

I hid my profile a few more days, and debated again whether it was time to throw in the towel on this virtual match-making site. What the heck was I doing to myself? Self answered, “Trying to add a little pizzazz to your life, kid. You ain’t dead, yet. And your subscription isn’t up.”

I went online for a reason. That reason hadn’t changed. And I had about two months left on the subscription.

But in five weeks, other than “David,” I hadn’t caught a real person’s attention. Hope felt hopeless. Online dating, for me, proved itself to be 99.9% muck and anxiety.

I shut down my profile and deleted my subscription.

Fate will have to be in charge.

In the meantime, you’ll find me loitering in the produce aisle, just in case.