Dont Mince Words

Andy and I never seemed to be able to connect. In the Fall, we met on Bumble then I guess we got distracted by the holidays. He resurfaced right after my birthday in January.

We hit it off on the phone and met for a drink. He seemed like a perfectly decent Mr. Right Now with growth potential. We were on date three or four when he asked me if I’d like to be exclusive. “I’m not interested in dating multiple people. It’s exhausting,” he admitted.

Great. Me either. So we had our dates. We talked about weekends away. We did couples shit.

Until. . .

Richmond is a small town. When you narrow it down to age-appropriate men, divorced, no kids in the house, educated, and tall, it’s a one-horse town. So, when I go out with someone, I always check in with my divorced girlfriend who also online dates to do an asshole check and to also ensure we don’t cross-pollinate. When I started dating Andy, I texted her with his online handle. She didn’t know him.

Imagine my surprise, a month into the relationship, when my girlfriend texted me to let me know TennisGuy423 was chatting her up. “What do you want me to do?” she asked. “Tell him Marna is home from CrossFit and he should call her.”

He immediately left the chat and, as you would imagine, I never heard from Andy again. I’m not sure what his operational definition of “exclusive” is. I’m just thankful I have good friends. The dating pool just got one man smaller, if you can call that a “man.”

I made a hasty decision agreeing to meet John. We’d talked on the phone once and texted for a day, but he was eager and I was bored. I knew I was in trouble when, four hours before before meeting, he asked me how I felt about shorts. “I usually don’t make the switch until after the New Year,” he confessed. This is Virginia and we’ve already had 20-something degree days. While I wanted to tell him to put his big boy pants on, I told him to be comfortable.

An hour before meeting he texted me that he had just gotten home and was jumping in the shower. He had one clean, ironed shirt that he couldn’t wait to show me. At this point, I was in it for the cider and chanted an old New York girlfriend’s manta, “A girl’s gotta drink.”

He was standing in the cider tasting room and he was easy to spot because he was the only 50-something in shorts amongst the 20-something cool kids. “Tah-dah. What do you think? I got the shirt at Fan Thrift,” he boasted. He had on a bright green/chartruse-colored Ralph Lauren button down on with a blue horse on his nipple. Cargo shorts are never a good look on anyone, especially when the pockets are loaded. But the outfit was truly complete with old LLBean duck boats. This was a preppy flashback like I’d never seen. My response was unfiltered, “The 80’s called and they want it all back.” That made the bartender choke on whatever he was drinking.

We sat with our sampler platter and I feigned interest for an hour. After he confessed he had been separated since 2009 and couldn’t get divorced for “tax purposes,” he asked me if I’d like to go to a nude beach. I smiled and said no, naked middled aged people are not my thing. He then asked me to take him shopping. “I know I can do better,” he said. I declined that invitation and suggested he purchase a pair of jeans and up-to-date mock turtlenecks for the winter.  Better yet, maybe his wife can take him shopping.

Not my actual date….

My girlfriends and I joke about fall “hunting” season. This is when all our online dating sites and app inboxes get jammed with men trying to find love before it gets cold. They need someone to make hot wings while they watch “the game” and someone to keep them warm at night.

Two years ago, I took a class with John. He was tall, nice goatee, full sleeves, educated, and funny. But when I saw the wedding band, my thoughts of having a writing partner and bed buddy were banished. Like everything, if you wait long enough, men become divorced or widowed. Three weeks ago, I was surprised when I saw John wrote on POF. We had a few exchanges and when I mentioned the class and how we’ve met, he ghosted me.

I told a neighbor who has taken John’s class. He laughed and said, “you don’t want him. Yes, he’s divorced now, but he’s a crossdresser.” I rolled my eyes. “It figures.” My neighbor proceeded to pull out his phone and show me photos of Cross-John. He does not make a pretty woman. Or maybe I’m too judgy since I lived in West Hollywood and have seen the best drag queens in the world. John was just half assing his look. The wig was bad, the makeup was bad and he definitely needed a stylist. I dodged a bullet, but at the same time I know he’d never borrow my clothes.

I had my first Bumble date in October. This app is like Tinder except only women can write the men. I got distracted and forgot to write Don in the 24-hour window, so he paid to excalate and extend. I owed him a note. Hot to trot, he booked a dinner date for the next night. This didn’t give me time to screen him properly, but you know, a girl’s gotta eat. Before the menus were collected, I learned he didn’t drink and had been married three times. Yeah, I don’t need a guy that has impulse control issues. However, it was nice diversion from my usual Netflix and Dixie Friday night.

I’ve never had a problem being alone, but I truly wonder how much longer I can continue trying to date.