A Bumble Fumble
“No, no, no, no, no...!”
Frantically, mortification growing exponentially and disproportionally grand all at once in a matter of seconds, I grappled furiously with my phone trying to undo the crime my thumb had just committed.
“OMG what have I done? Who was that? Did that just happen?” I continued whining out loud, anxiety through the roof, switching my best, strongest fingers to the screen maniacally trying to figure out how to use the damn app.
Messages... no. Home... no. Profile... no. Likes... no.
How do I use this thing?! Where did he go? I can’t believe this is happening.
Seriously. I was, despite being a cool cucumber in most high-pressure settings, an absolute hot tamale trying to find this guy I found and lost in a single swipe.
Why? How did I get there - an idiot, panic-pounding my phone two hairbreadths away from a seizure?
Fricken therapy. That’s how.
“Go to therapy,” they said. “It would be good for you,” they said.
That’s a negative. I was not thinking, at that time, therapy was at all enjoyable.
My relationship life has been a bit of a hodgepodge somewhat reminding me of Mary Poppins and her magic carpet bag. In the original movie version, Mary reaches into a normal-sized Victorian travel bag and pulls out impossibly large, impressive items such as a lamp, a mirror and hat stand. She puts these in her fully furnished nanny room to give it a “practically perfect in every way” personal touch.
Like her, I, too, reached into the metaphorical mystical grab-bag of relationships and pulled out impossibly large, impressive men such as the suburban blue collar guy, the Sardinian Italian Stallion, the Englishman and the Insane Syrian all who similarly decorated portions of my life though definitively not so practically perfect.
Not entirely unfortunate in my choices of men, however, – each one yielding both good and bad lessons – at 46 years old, I found I was simply befuddled by the dynamic of merging lives with yet another human and was not at all interested in opening that particular carpet bag again.
Mr. T, as I affectionately nicknamed my therapist, was not convinced.
“Why?” he asked. “Why is this so taboo for you? Why would you shut down this part of your life?” he wanted to know.
“It’s confusing” was my curt response. “Men are confusing. I am confusing. My emotions about relationships are confusing. I don’t need the confusion.”
“Do you know what you’re looking for?”
“I’m not looking.”
“Okay, smarty-pants. But if you were looking, would you know what you are looking for?”
In fairness, I grew to like Mr. T for his snark.
“No. Frankly, I don’t know. I know what I am hypothetically not looking for and I know the basics of what I would hypothetically be looking for but, to answer your question, no.”
He was a persistent booger, and toward the end one of our sessions after we had been meeting for about a month, he issued a challenge: “This week, I am asking you to download a dating app. Go through profiles and look at different types of men – expose yourself to what is out there. You don’t have to like them or even talk to them. Just take a look and note which ones you would talk to and why and which ones you wouldn’t talk to and also why. Try to understand yourself more.”
Being stubborn, I argued with him and felt my premise was outstanding.
I was in a transition time of life = instability is not a good look
I live in my sister’s attic (THIRD FLOOR!) = one step up from homelessness, also not a good look
I have RAD and avoidant attachment = damaged goods, looking less like a good look
Lastly, having left the bulk of my clothes behind when I moved into my sister’s attic, I didn’t really have nice bras or panties anymore = ew, manky. Literally, not a good look.
Mr. T stood up resignedly. “Okay, Shane. You’re either going to get better or stay the same. You choose.”
And that was that.
I got in my car and fumed all the way home.
It took me a couple of days – therapy was on Wednesdays – so by Saturday, I was sitting alone in the attic and figured there would be no harm as long as I did not have to actually communicate with a guy. I could go to the online zoo, take a look through the cage at the cute, yittle creatures and assess them from afar.
If I was going to understand me more and get past these labels, maybe I would have to venture into the world of the uncomfortable.
Arghhhh!
And so, after researching all the dating apps comparing them in side-by-side online charts while rifling through masses of reviews, I settled on Bumble as it seemed to have the most protective measures for women, allowing ladies to peruse and stalk without showing up in a man’s feed as having been a voyeur.
Which is creepy for a guy, when I think about it... sneaking up to his online window, taking a look into his world without having to offer the common decency of a greeting. Being a ghost before having to ghost, I suppose. But how men felt about my creepiness didn’t matter; I treasured the anonymity.
What they do not tell you about online dating is how difficult and anxious it is to set up your own profile before ever getting to look at everyone else’s.
For example, let’s start with pictures.
I have short, shaved hair and a sleeve tattoo. I like to wear bow ties and suspenders. But I also love dresses and the color pink. I don’t do selfies very often and never, ever in a bacteria-ed bathroom with a toilet as a backdrop. Gross. Even my personal Insta swings back and forth between a metrosexual hipster and a classic conservative Christian complete with white Keds.
And there I realize how photogenically quirky I am. And how am I supposed to show who myself in six snapshots without a man thinking I’m a total nutter?
Then, there’s questions. They want you to answer a smattering of basics.
Some of them are easy like “do you want kids?” and I’m like “hell, no”.
But some are hard such as “do you smoke?” and I’m like “uhhhhh.... ummmm... do they mean weed or cigarettes or vapes? And what if I do but only in stressful situations? Or what if I do but only when I’m not trying to quit? And if I answer ‘no’, am I lying if I go on a date, have a few drinks and then bum a cig from another guy outside and then tell him I don’t usually smoke but now I want to with alcohol?”
Those questions are not easy and I always sweat when testing.
Once past the query gauntlet, I came to the “Tell Us About Yourself” section - a free-for-all area to spew whatever I want in a 500-word attempt to showcase my entire personality in what will be my closing argument for “pick me, pick me!” in hundreds of invisible male mini-trials.
This one was tough.
“Hi, I’m Shane. I live in my sister’s attic.”
Wait. I delete, delete, delete. Probably not a good beginning.
“Hi, I’m Shane. I live on my sister’s third floor.”
Oh crap, that’s not better. Maybe I should just be cute and fun and spring the dirty later.
So finally, after seven hours of treachery, I perfected my personal ad posturing myself as a “transitional creative”. I added a humorous line about liking the smell of singed bunny hair, pushed the button to let that baby go public, closed the app and got up to hyperventilate.
I said no to notifications, opting to log in whenever I felt inspired rather than to be pinged incessantly and returned to life as normal.
On Sunday when I eventually logged back in to survey the scene, there was a noticeable red dot next to the bottom prompt titled “Likes”. Clicking on it, I discovered this tab was a neatly arrayed assortment of males who had already stopped by my profile, decided in their little head court they would take the leap of liking me and had given my profile the honor of a heart rather than a fat “X”.
Thus began the exploration of myself and tastes.
And the first thing I noted in my journal was “I don’t like baldies” and “I do like man-buns".
This has nothing to do with men who are short on hair and should not be taken personally. I just found, as I perused, that I tended to first choose the men with hair. Color of hair did not much matter; I just preferred hair.
Secondly, bathroom and gym pictures were rejected. If the main profile portrait was either, Bumble allowed me to swipe “X” on that alone without ever having to go into the actual profile. It didn’t matter if the bio of the man was Pulitzer-winning, it was never being read by me. Gym shots suggest big arms, little brains and bathroom pictures are, as stated, yuck.
Yes, I do realize this is stereotypical and yes, I can be judged for it but the fact is every person has chemical and physiological parts which are custom-built into their operating systems to either gutterally accept or deny this or that thing.
Baldies, obsessive gymners and toilet dudes were not accepted.
As I began to make it past picture and into profiles, I started to find naturally developing further criteria.
Empty profiles meant a man couldn’t be arsed and meant neither should I. Bad grammar? Nixed! Because, again, if he couldn’t be bothered to spell check it, I was not required to pursue it.
If further pictures included an imbalanced number of similar people or animals, it was also a bye-bye. Meaning, if a man had pictures only of him and his dog, it was my assumption he was quite in love with his pet (nothing wrong with that) but had nothing else in his life except for this pet. My translation? He’s a single-faceted guy. If all the pictures were with his kids (adore dads, by the way!), red flags went up for me. I am not interested in being an instant-mom nor am I going to enter into competition with a bunch of brats.
And, lastly – pizzazz!
On top of all the cutting and vetting and rules of engagement I found I was applying, there had to be some rizz somewhere. All boxes could be ticked but if it was a tiresome read or had no personality, it was another nay.
Long story short, in the journey of discovering myself, my likes and my dislikes, I came to the sad, abysmal conclusion that I am an undeserving, picky, stingy kind of bitch who would – and should – die alone.
WHICH IS WHAT I HAD TOLD MR. T ALREADY, DAMMIT!
And was cool with it until he popped this top open and now I felt worse.
Some therapy.
I was coming to the end of my scrolling, feeling appalled about this whole thing, when my thumb, in a cruel twist of fate, decided to do its own thing. Holding the phone in my right hand, I pulled the screen up from bottom to top and as I did, my digit also chose a random picture and slid to the right at the same time, lighting the screen with a huge red heart, some fireworks and a banner that read “It’s a match!”.
Motherfucker.
I immediately realized I had accidentally opened a creature cage. And the problem was, in that brief, tiny second before I could stop the action, I had caught a glimpse of the critter and was pretty sure he was a baldie.
Blimy - anything but a baldie!
But now I couldn’t find him to look at his likeness and was stressing out.
I can’t remember exactly where it was but I did eventually find it and true devastation set in as I verified not only was he bald, but he had been married for twenty years, was some kind of high school physics and biology teacher, had a couple of teenage kids, and knew how to fly kites.
Boring. Boring, and oh, look...! Just kidding. It was nothing. Just more boring.
I decided to keep quiet, closed the phone and walked away hoping he would not notice the match.
But he did. With an answer to a prompt question my profile posed and responded with the words “Closing Time” to “What song do you never want to hear again?”.
“Why not?” Mr. T asked. “You’ve done the same thing over and over again. Why don’t you try something new and say ‘hi’ to this guy? Just because you think he’s boring?”
“Yeah. Bro, the only thing I’ve consistently done over the course of the last 20 years is breathe and I wouldn’t have done that if it hadn’t been automated. So yeah. Married and a science teacher for 20 years? He’s probably living in the same house he grew up in.”
I can be a stubborn somebody, said every man I’ve ever dated.
Mr. T was starting to understand why.
“But different is good. Being uncomfortable is where you grow. Just greet the guy. You’re making more of this than you need to. Say hello and just see where it goes.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“Where’s it going to go, Mr. T? To the attic? Are we going to make love in the attic? When he asks what I do, what do I tell him? That I used to be a big boss but now I’m a commode connoisseur? That I’m not a writer yet but will be? That I have RAD and will possibly treat him like shit and avoid him? Where’s it actually gonna go?”
I think Mr. T wanted to break up with me. He was a little short when we closed the session.
Later that night, I opened the stupid app again, pulled up “Thad’s” profile. He was different than anyone I had been around before. The lack of hair was bugging me a lot but... there was a picture of him in a Baltimore Orioles cap that wasn’t half-bad. Being an O’s fan myself, I admitted we at least had something in common so I answered back hoping that, if we did go out, I would try to make it a hat-appropriate place.
Twelve days after we began conversing, I refused to go on a “date” with him but we did have our first “meeting”. Would you believe the guy, in a cute attempt at jest, emailed over a “meeting agenda” he crafted, resplendent with an ice breaker question and timeline including lunch at El Azteca followed by a viewing of Deadpool 2 in a nearby theater?
Adorable first reach from a guy I deemed “vanilla”.
It was a good meeting. Of course, I wanted to run but you know.... it turns out that I’m not the only loser on the planet.
Yeah, it’s true.
Consider the following: I live with my sister, but he lives with his mother. I live in an attic, but he lives in a basement. And, not only that - he has also never actually lived alone.
And though I found the whole “20 year” thing intimidating, I also began to see I am a pretty cool chick despite current circumstances because Thad has never really lived outside of Maryland and I lived in NYC and Abu Dhabi.
He has never owned a passport.
All this happened the end of last summer.
Now, we are nearly a year in.
In many ways – in many of the important ways – it has been smooth and easy. In other ways, it has been hard and I have had to go back to Mr. T to have him talk me off the ledge of sabotage and quitting.
From the beginning, we have said our differences could either make or break us. I am a spontaneous, a risk-taking, creative, nomadic and minimalist kind of gal. He is a planning, logic-driven, science-thinking, lives in a mundane golf neighborhood and a cares-about-cutting-grass kind of guy.
In a few years, I’m sure our picture will be next to “yin-yang” in the dictionary. We are complete opposites of one another in life experiences - our saving grace found in open minds and respectful, honest communication.
Throughout it all, for some reason, Thad loves me. Calls me his “wonderful box of colorful crayons” and reassures me often how and why he loves every color.
I sit sometimes and ask “Why? Why the guy?”. I have so many things out of whack. I am working towards being a writer and podcaster, I am not in a fulfilling job though I am grateful for work, living with my sister and her family, going through therapy while also trying to re-establish good relationships with my children.
It's a lot.
Many things to do and “finding a man” registered nowhere on that list.
So why? Why the guy?
A year later, I still do not know the answer to that question.
What I can say is that he’s a wonderful person.
Seeing myself through his eyes makes me love me more than I ever have. His acceptance sparks a reaction in myself to embrace me more – to hug my creativity, to hold tight to my weirdness, and to absolutely smile at all the wrong times.
And the whole “bald” thing, you ask? Well, first off, apparently, he is in some kind of denial because he claims he is “balding” and not “bald”. Admittedly there is a bit of fuzz that kind of grows out of his head in places, so I just smile and roll with it.
However, it doesn’t matter.
All my ideas and pre-conceived notions, all my close-mindedness now seems trite. Judging a bunch of pictures by head fibers, belittling twenty years of a career and marriage into one word: “boring”.
How dare I?
He loves he was an accidental swipe, and I love that life gave me a wonderful gift wrapped in a humble lesson.
I am grateful. I love him and, together, we love our story.
