As I’ve written about before, I only started dating in recent years.
I met my ex-husband at 13, got engaged at 19, and married at 21. Thinking back I’m like why didn’t anyone tell me how fucking stupid that was? And then of course I’m like…oh yeah, literally everyone did but I was 19 and knew everything so clearly I didn’t listen.
When you date in high school it’s a very different game. As an adult you date for awhile and then decide if you want to put a label on it; in high school you label it first, date later. So when I entered the dating world, it was essentially for the first time.
And so of course when you enter the dating world for the very first time in the 21st century, you do it online.
Which, really, is so great for an introvert because I can sit at home on my couch in my pyjamas and judge the fuck out of people. I can make decisions completely void of actual human interaction. It’s just a swipe here, a swipe there, everywhere a swipe, swipe…and then a dude shows up at your house and you fuck him. That’s how it works, right? Right, guys…?
My therapist at the time (the one who most recently fired me) likened it to ordering a pizza. At first I found that incredibly offensive until I actually thought about it and determined…yeah, it is like ordering a pizza. We need to come up with an app that’s like a cross between Skip the Dishes and Tinder. You go on, you find what you want, you order it, and then you track it’s delivery via GPS. But instead of watching the little car move across the map on your screen, it’s a dick. And then when it’s one minute away you get a notification that says, “your booty call is almost here.” Patent pending, my friends.
I did actually have some real dates. I had some good ones…or, good ONE, singular, and I had some bad ones…pluralize that plural. This one dude, he was close to 40, took me to Tim Horton’s for our date. I say he took me, but in reality he doesn’t have a driver’s license so I had to pick him up from the two bedroom apartment he shares with his mother. His room is super cool though, guys. He has bunk beds for when his son stays over. Legit. 40 year old man with bunk beds. You cannot make this shit up.
Anyway, we get to Tim Horton’s. Of course buddy calls it “Tim’s” as if that makes it classy or something. Yes, I get that a coffee shop is a good first date option. It’s short, it’s public, and who doesn’t like coffee. (Murderers, that’s who.*)
*Have not fact checked this.
But yes, a coffee shop is fine but at least put some effort into it by picking a nice local shop or something. I digress.
We’re in line and he graciously lets me go ahead of him. I place my order, which is a medium black, and he makes this big show of saying, “Oh, no, I got this.” And he’s not saying this in an ironic, ha ha let me lavish you with this expensive gift of burned bean water. He actually legitimately thinks that he is making this grand gesture of paying for my $2.00 coffee. What, am I supposed to be like… “Oh, he paid for my coffee, I better let him stick it in my ass.” No. Not gonna happen.
And it’s not like any one app is better. You can use Tinder, Bumble, POF, Match, whatever. They’re all the same. Do you want to know the difference between the free apps and the paid apps? It’s simple, really: the dudes on the free apps are just looking for a hookup, whereas the dudes on the paid apps are just looking for an STD-free hookup.
In the first days of me having any of these apps, a guy opens the conversation by sending me a gif. No explanation, just sends me a gif of Jason Momoa with his hair blowing in the wind, and a caption reading, “u dtf?”
Well…no, I’m actually not dtf. I mean the new season of The Good Place had just come on Netflix so obviously I have plans for the next six hours. But hey, I can play along. So I send back a gif of Emma Stone looking all innocent saying, “Who, me?” And he comes back with another gif, just boobs bouncing up and down. At this point I’m stumped. How are you supposed to respond to that? Is there some kind of algorithm? Rock beats scissors, scissors beats paper, what beats bouncing boobs? I got nothing.
So I send back this gif of a dinosaur, the one with the big long neck. What’s that dinosaur called? You know the one. Anyway, the gif is of that dinosaur eating leaves off a tree. I dunno. If you can’t beat ’em, just be awkward as fuck, you know? It’s my thing. #awkwardaf
Um…hashtags. And the “af”. Do I say “a-eff”? Or do I say “afff”? Like I have no idea. Help me, people. I am aging rapidly and it is terrifying.
I’m 31, so I’m basically like menopausal at this point. I’ve started looking at coffins, writing my own obituary…you know, normal things. But shit really does start going downhill at 30, doesn’t it? The first time I went to get my eyebrows done after I turned 30, I went to the same place I always do. The woman asks me if I want my upper lip done too. What. The. Fuck. I have never been asked that before. Never. It’s never even occurred to me. And I mean, I still get terrible acne, and my first bra in grade five was a C cup so trust me, I’ve had lots to be self-conscious about in my lifetime. But my upper lip? Never fucking occurred to me.
Another thing about turning 30 and venturing out onto my own, I have to cook. I’ve never been a cook. I don’t like it. I don’t like the passivity. Waiting for things to preheat, waiting for sauce to thicken, timing everything to be done at the same time. I don’t like it. I just want to Get. Shit. Done. It takes too long. But at this point in my life, I really need to start cooking more. I do. You know you’re pathetic when the doorbell rings and your kid yells out, “Supper’s here!”
And I mean especially when you get the GPS Dating App confused with Skip the Dishes and you’re expecting pizza but you just get some horny 25 year old named Matt. It’s just no. Not good. I mean in my defence his screen name was Italian Stallion which legitimately could be a type of pizza.
So yeah there’s still some work to be done on my GPS dating app, but don’t worry. It’s coming, guys. #delickery. It’s not delivery, it’s dick. Just reach into my warm bag, baby.
Okay I’m grossing myself out now. Goodnight, guys.