Let’s start at the very beginning…that’s a very good place to start.

Dating is hard. Even when you’re good at it – and apparently, I’m better than I thought – it’s a lot of energy, from a lot of different directions. Is this where the phrase “balls flying at your face” originated? Because figuratively – if not literally – yes.

Last time I posted, I was only three – now four – dates in, but DAMN. That’s four dates in seven days, and frankly, I’m not sure I still possess the stamina. I can’t seem to get enough sleep. Am I too old for this s***?

So…I took a much-needed break; to regroup, re-swipe, and renew my faith in this entire endeavor, because what the hell have I gotten myself into??? To recap: so far, I’ve dated a Silver Fox (Brazilian), a Bro, and a Great Dane….all of which were perfect gentlemen, and have all requested second dates (Silver Fox and I are scheduled for Round Two this evening). In the meantime, I spent an afternoon with an aging Bloke (who resembles a ginger Elvis Costello). He may have been the most fun to date, but no sparks yet, on my part.

My brain is crowded. My bed remains empty. I’m pretty sure this is as it should be.

On the verge of collapse, I took an evening off for a little rooftop and a lot of rosé with two close friends (and seasoned “Tinderonis”) to commiserate about false starts, failed relationships and the danger of lowered expectations…what exactly are we entitled to expect at this point, anyway? I mean, every guy we know – even the ones we love, who claim to love us – seems to be skewing younger (because they can), while we’re still trying to convince even the most basic candidates that we’re neither marriage, sex nor baby-hungry.


“It could all be so simple; but you’d rather make it hard…”
I’ll give it to L-Boogie on that one…but that doesn’t mean I’m easy, either.

God, I hate being turned into a cliché.

And as much as I love my girls, and respect our VERY different tastes in men, I almost lost my s*** when one of them snatched my phone and began to swipe right on the most unusual suspects, one of whom decided that Marky Mark-style shirtless pics were his best marketing tool. Shirtless selfies are in the top three of my “HELL NO” list.

Lo and behold, we were a match. *pearls clutched*

Before I could un-match us, he’d already messaged me. I explained the situation, and he was incredibly sweet and gracious. Intelligently gracious. Too gracious.

His name is Dylan. We’re still communicating. Pray for me.

About the author

Who me? I'm just your average Grammy-nominated goddess next door. May I borrow a cup of sugar? But seriously: I'm a musician, model, writer, all-around creative and devoted auntie. Like you, I'm just out here in the universe, trying to make it happen...whatever that is.