This week’s highlight in dating text exchange:

Him: “I saw you this weekend!”

Me, genuinely curious: “Really? Where?!”

Him:  “In my dreams. You don’t remember?”

Me, annoyed: “Was it the one where aliens ate my homework and I show up at school in my pajamas or was it the one where all my teeth fall out?”

Him: …

I guess two can’t be the comedian, but I hate playing the straight man.

I can, however, be completely serious when necessary and it is with that sentiment that I tell you after months of real, full-time effort put into online dating, that: I HATE IT.

Oh, and I am certainly not alone.


“Waste of time.”


Those are just some of the adjectives I’ve been given by friends who are also looking. “I just feel so defeated!” That was an unprovoked text I received just last week from a friend who never thought she’d be looking for love after having been married some 20 years, but there she was. There I was. There WE are.

Not only are we dealing with cases of incompatibility—I mean that would be completely understandable, but what is emerging is something more than that, something totally unacceptable.

Example.  Let’s talk about my last batch of matches. They were absolutely unbelievable. I mean, literally.

A widowed Lieutenant Colonel stationed in a secret location to be revealed to me at a later date.

A widowed (a theme?) surgeon from Beverly Hills who doesn’t know how to spell.

A jet-setter who looks just like David Beckham, so much so that I Googled images of him only to confirm that, yep, those were pics of David Fricken Beckham.

The frustration is enough to make me want to go dark, and so I do. That is until my mean case of FOMO (fear of missing out) gets the best of me and I log back on. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Ridiculous.

The whole experience is enough to not only callus your finger but your soul. I get a Pavlovian response of revulsion that washes over me when I come face-to-screen with a new match. Yep, the thrill of yesterday’s What-Ifs have taken a back seat to today’s Probably-Nots.

Just picture Patty and Selma, Marge’s sisters from “The Simpsons” sitting before a computer, cynically judging the prospects on the screen while blowing out cigarette smoke. OK, I exaggerate. I don’t smoke, but rumor has it those two cartoon characters chose a life of celibacy.   Smart move gals, smart move.

Coming to the conclusion my subscription to online dating sites was becoming another bad habit, I decided to delete them. I was surprised to find that this was very hard to shake. I mean, I scroll, man. It’s what I do. I scroll to maneuver through my social media and peruse my friends’ photos. I scroll to make purchases. I scroll to read the news and, historically, I scroll to look for Mr. Right.

It’s been my digital destiny and it seems the prevailing way, isn’t it? I just don’t know anymore. I do know one thing for sure. The lack of mutual interest has left me discouraged and bored and with that, I got off the sites.

A weight was lifted and I thought perhaps that I might find some contentment in my surrender, then it happened. The very next day, whilst taking my lunchtime stroll down by the shore, I noticed a couple. They looked in the early stages of love; giggling, holding hands, being nice to each other. You know, that lovers-stagger, the zig-zag saunter; drunk in love.

As they passed, I looked at my coworker and made a pretend spit noise while saying “Gross.” We laughed and continued on our way when we passed another happy couple. After they passed, and I was sure they couldn’t see me, I flipped them the bird. As we approached our office building I noticed, and I kid you not, another happy couple at which time, I simply said “Ewwww,” and raised my arms to the sky in surrender. Laughter gave way to a smile. A lingering smirk suddenly sparked uninvited memories of romances gone by and it felt good.

What can I say? I’m a sucker for love.

And now, just around the corner is Valentine’s Day, and as a woman challenged with romantic love I know I’m supposed to hate this holiday.  Yes, yes, it’s birthed by consumerism, it’s cheesy and dumb, but guess what? I don’t hate it. I even kind of love it.

Problematic experiences in the love department will not extinguish my thirst for romance. I’m in love with love, always have been. When I was a kid I used to play Strawberry Shortcake and I remember the thrill I would get when imaginary Huckleberry Finn was coming over.  My Barbi always had a Ken. (please note I had the cheap Barbi from Pic n Save with the hollowed plastic feet that I would inevitably chew off, but Ken loved her nonetheless). I even pretended that the banana in my lunch bag was dating the string cheese.

I did that.


Adorable, huh?

Creepy, maybe?

Well, that’s me and I can’t stop. I won’t stop searching, even if it takes me back into the bowels of the dark web.

That’s right, sign me up. Again.