Way back in the 2010s, I would post happy holiday snaps on Instagram when, in reality, I felt like diarrhea on the inside.
And no that’s not an analogy. I mean actual diarrhea.
But it’s the 2020s, people! Authenticity has become very popular, you know. Now I airbrush pimples onto my face because being perfect is old news. Being perfect on social media is actually embarrassing. Sharing your bowel movements is not; it is very of this time.
So here I am being my most authentically authentic self. Real, relatable, genuine, honest, sincere, yep I’m all of those words too.
I recently got an unsolicited message on Instagram from a guy who claimed to have matched with me on Hinge in 2019. The DM is longer than a full-screen iPhone 11. A lot of effort has obviously been put into the crafting of this charming message.
He lists out his top-line stats.
39 years old.
Work as [insert impressive job title].
Never married, no kids.
Furthermore, upon investigation of your digital content, I’d like to take this opportunity to put in an application for a second chance at a date.
The message ends with: I hope…
Do you want to know why dating apps suck? It’s not the flakiness, or the animal selfies, or the inane chit-chat, or the misogynistic bios, or even the boring bios.
It’s because there’s no magic.
A few years ago, my mom discovered a box of her great-aunt’s old love letters. Audrey, my great-great-aunt, died more than a decade prior, unmarried with no children in a nursing home. She had been widowed as a young woman and never remarried.
When I was in my early 20s, dying alone would have been the end of the world.
I mean, HELLO, dying is…
I consider myself unlucky in love. People are always like, “No, you just haven’t met the right person yet.” I don’t agree. I’m a fairly superstitious and spiritual person. The Universe gifted me with (1) a loving family (2) a great job, and (3) D cup boobs. So, when it came time to allocate all the tall, dark and handsome men, the Universe said, “Sorry Hannah, these men are going to the girls with A cup boobs and estranged fathers. It’s only fair.”
And since short, pale and unattractive men aren’t my type, I am stuck in this purgatory of…
I once dated this guy, who in the four years I knew him, legitimately did not know what I did for a job.
We met overseas, and I wasn't working at the time. So totally fair! I didn’t expect him to ask me about a job I didn’t have.
A few years later, in the midst of the pandemic, we rekindled a Whatsapp friendship. I had been working at my job for THREE YEARS by this point. He would call me every month or so and I waited patiently for him to utter those three little words…
“So, how’s work?”
Google knows me better than any other person. Google knows my deepest, darkest, three-in-the-morning thoughts. Google knows when I’m in pain. Google knows when I have a rash on my ankle. I never have to hide who I am from Google.
You know what I hate about dating? Hiding who I am.
You know what I hate about job interviews, and LinkedIn, and “going for drinks”, and school reunions, and LinkedIn, and every other human interaction? Hiding who I am.
I just wanna be me. Crazy, lil ol’ me.
Every dating profile is the same. And I’m sick of it…
Those first few months together were fiery. Just like the flame below the wok that night.
He was holding two large zucchinis, one in each hand, with a seductive smile on his face. “I’m going to cook for you.”
I watched him chop the zucchini. The chunks were quite large. Some perhaps too large to fit comfortably in my mouth.
He opened a can of black beans. I waited for him to drain the beans, to watch the silky black water run clear. He didn’t.
He added water to the wok. No oil. No garlic. No spices.
I recently wrote an article about a bad date that, to my total surprise, went viral. It was nice that other people appreciated the ironies of dating.
But like anything that goes viral, it also riled a few people up. Well, men.
For these men, the article only exaggerated my own flaws. Because as the man I went on a date with explained, there’s a lot wrong with us women in our thirties.
The comments section became like the irony of the irony.
In the many, many, many years of His existence, God had never been down to earth. Until a few months ago. God had been feeling pretty flat and had heard humans speak of this thing called “mental health” and “getting help” and He thought to Himself, “Well, it can’t hurt.”
God found a solitary loner of a man, Dave, and inhabited his body once a week to see Doctor Jane. Doctor Jane had diagnosed Him with Narcissistic Personality Disorder.
“I think I’m lonely,” God said to Doctor Jane one day.
Doctor Jane nodded, “You claim to have created love, yet…
Let’s get up-to-date on my last seven days on dating apps, so I can demonstrate to you exactly what’s wrong with men on dating apps.
Bear with me because it’s gonna be like that Craig David song “7 Days” except that, unfortunately, I was not making love by Wednesday. Or Thursday or Friday or Saturday.
Oh, but I did chill on Sunday. Because I decided I would die alone instead.
I decided I would die alone instead.
I’m so chilled dying alone.
Let’s start with the guy who I met for a first date at the hardware store. …
Single & not ready to mingle. Happily lonely. Emotionally unavailable. Manifesting the life no one wants. I use humour to avoid all feelings.