Flying the First Kite – Date One

The price of love today runs the average single person between $19 to $100 a month to expose yourself on popular dating apps.  Inflation has hit everywhere.

Nonetheless, this is where people now meet, or we are supposed to. It’s designed to be efficient for maximum exposure and I read an average person should expect to have 75 online encounters (meaningful ones - not just a like or swipe) before they can expect to have a relationship.  

And yet, in spite of this tremendous efficiency and exposure, Pew Research Center reports 47 percent of Americans say dating is harder now than it was 10 years ago.  

I always miss the curve.

In case you are not in the know, here’s how this works. It starts with a photo or two (or 14 in some cases). A few words about how fabulous you are, followed by what you are looking for, and then decorated with photos to show off your bad self.

Then, if you are inclined and see someone you find interesting, you simply ‘like’ someone to say, ‘hey, look at me too – whadda ya think?’

For the most part, all the platforms are very similar so once an older person like me understands how to use the thing, you can travel between sites pretty ubiquitously and not screw things up. At this point in the app evolution, it appears the only real differentiation of sites is a digital icon which represents a ‘like;’ stuff such as roses, smiles, stars, chicken bones, whatever.  

IF you send someone a smoke signal of a like (say a rose or chicken bone) then they can either like you back using the same stupid signal. Then you connect and it’s off to the altar.  Or the bedroom depending on your preference. Most likely coffee or maybe an occasional meal.  

But mostly, the connecting part does not happen because the digital world has invented something to simply eliminate the people who you don't find interesting, or to be honest, attractive.

It's called the swipe.

I’ve done some reading about this swipe. For the uninitiated, swiping right on a dating app means you're interested in someone; swiping left means you're not. There are a lot of lefties out there I think, myself included. 

Apps reward frequent swiping with more choices of the specimen of your choice. A UX designer Loren Brichter, created this pleasingly tactile pull-to-refresh feature now used by most apps. It seems he came up with this idea in the shower as he imagined a roomful of people and the ability to swipe or remove people you didn’t like and be left with only the interesting ones. There you have it then.

Tinder claims to have patented the swiping system which facilitates online connections between individuals. While it is a tangible patent, Bumble contests its validity. Wonder what Hinge and eHarmony think about all of this too?  Litigation in the digital dating space. 

How cool.

Swipe aside, in the one-dimensional world of online dating, my view is the photo rules. I am fully convinced there is a viable business model to help people with profile pictures. It’s remarkable what some people think can pass for a reasonably good pic that has a shot at getting that swipe thing heading in the right direction.  

It’s very amusing though.

Some post action photos. Look at me fishing (please.) Look at me hiking. Look at me on my motorcycle. Look at me shirtless. Aren't I a sexy beast?  

Nope. Not in the least.

The photos are accompanied with words to further entice you. People probably read these early on in the journey, but after about a minute, it’s evident that profiles all sound the same and are pretty much crap.

We all know it. Mine sucks as well.

Some really do try though. Maybe that works for those folks as their brand differentiation.

"My family is the most important thing to me. I love the outdoors, the water, sunsets,all kinds of music, dinner and drinks out, and am looking for a partner and soulmate."

God Bless Us Everyone.  

At first, when you open up shop on an app, hundreds of men appear through the magic alchemy of the app and your phone. Within 24 hours, men are literally raining all over the place in the privacy of your living room. Dear Weather Girls, can I get a Hallelujah? I’m ready to let myself get absolutely soakin’ wet.

What a glorious thing, for a minute.  

But in about a day, it gets sort of get sad and repetitive and sad again because in just a moment’s time you are now part of the superficial one-dimensional machination of judgement and bias against your fellow human kind.  

While owing up to that very bad thing, I will further degrade my moral human core and continue with some very harsh, bad news for women my age.

Ladies, prepare yourself, the men our age look old.  

I feel bad about this twist of time and even saying this. I feel judgmental and mean that my contemporaries are no longer 30 and hot. And, it saddens me that I'm not either. But please, a girl can hope.

This revelation arrived as a great shock. While I was building a career, raising kids and being in a marriage minding my own business, men got old.  

Admittedly, of course, I had aged too. But for now, let's just set aside my own sagging neck and thin, collagen-deprived upper lip to compliment those breasts which are hovering around my navel. (more on all of this later)

But, again, the photographic evidence is UN-refutable. Things had evolved and not in a good way.  

Here’s the down low.

The lucky ones still have hair. Some even still retain color.

Teeth seem to be different now.  

Beards have made a comeback in the 60s. In fact, so many of them rock one now that while beards are not my jam, I had to get over myself on this point to keep a viable pool available.

I am so ashamed of myself for copping to all of this because I sound like a real bitch. I probably truly am which is why I’m extraordinarily still single. 

In my rich and full fantasy life George Clooney (or at least a look alike) was going to show up on my feed and send me that coveted chicken-bone-heart-like thing.

Not so much. 

In fact, a very wise friend counseled me regularly on this matter. “All the really good looking ones are going to get a lot of attention, and all they want is a younger woman anyway, so think beyond the lookers. 

Word.

I began to, what my inflated ego would describe as, punch beneath my weight. You know, get off my high horse and dip down a bit. My inner bitch is back.  

It appears that one must like, swipe, send roses, messages, compliments and whatever the platform reasonably allows to get attention or a ‘like’ back. This can go on endlessly, and eventually you sort of run out of pithy comebacks to ‘any big plans for your weekend?’ or ‘you have a beautiful smile.’ 

But every so often it works.  Sort of.

ME: Hi, (#1)  nice smile. Hours and days can pass before someone responds, or just ghosts (aka, ignores) you all together.

Eventually, I hear back. 

#1 Thanks, you too.

ME: Are you still working or retired?  I retired a few years ago and stay very active - travel a lot and hang with friends. How's your experience out here?

A DAY goes by.

#1: Want to meet and talk?

BINGO baby, got a hit. Heck yeah, even though you are not my type. Reeled one in.

Finally.  

We exchange numbers; I suggest a place to meet that is somewhere between where we both live. 

My last date was 27 years ago. This is a really bad idea. I tell myself to put on my big girl panties and get it together. Friends were consulted. Outfits were tried on and reviewed.  

The day comes, and I arrive on time. He’s 15 minutes late. And it’s winter and dark and cold.  He texted to say he can’t find the place. It’s a mall. Seriously? Aside from chemistry, coordinates are already misfiring.

He arrives. Wearing work clothes – told me he was a general contractor (no employees so essentially a glorified handyman). OK, that’s all good. Stay open. Stay cool. I’ve decided to wear lashes to accentuate my eyes, and the right one is precipitously dangling. This leaves me with just one good eye, and it is very dark.

But, I knew right away. This was going to be a hard no.

Have a drink, make small talk, take in the vibe, be grateful for the practice.

I order a chardonnay.

He orders a coke.

We are at a wine bar. He tells me has never had a glass of wine in his life. I say swell, they have beer if you’re interested in that option. He says, no I'm OK.  

Then I ask, “Oh, OK, are you sober then?”

He says, “No, I'm a good friend of Captain Morgan but I don't like wine or beer.” 

Now I’m flustered and feel bad that I suggested an unsuitable place but he says, “Whatever. Doesn't matter.” 

He starts the conversation recounting his last relationship with a narcissistic partner and how he's doing therapy and working on himself. 

I say, “Well, this is a good thing. Always good to tune-up and bring your best self to the next relationship.”  

Then he spends the rest of the evening telling me about his kite flying (yes, this is a real thing...and how they are 44-feet long and so on and so forth) and I'm thinking this lash is going to fall in my wine glass in a minute and how do I get out of here?  

I don’t recall being asked much about me or my life and began to wonder who was the narcissist in his former relationship, but again, who cares, because now I’m focused on how I extricate myself because that lash is dangling, my feet are freezing and my couch is waiting.

We banter a bit longer about what he’s looking for in a person? relationship? kids? other stories.

And then I say it. I've interviewed hundreds of people and I think I can extract myself from this with little carnage. So, with the one good eye looking straight at him I say, "Well," and make one of those pleading and firm faces that conveys, we are done now aren't we?

And he quizzically looks back with the bulging blue eyes and says, “OH.  Is the interview over?” 

I shrug and say, "Well, kind of, yes, I guess so."

He huffs and shakes his head, stands up and begins to walk away. I quickly gather my stuff and follow him a few steps and say, “Hey, I'm sorry I'm really new to this.” He looks back at me and shakes his head and continues to walk away a few more steps, and I manage to get out, “Thanks for the wine."

Mortified and unnerved, I head back to my car with the dangling lash and my cringe worthy self, chastened that I wasn’t more elegant with the rejection phase. I am grateful for the short ride home and relieved the first encounter was off the ‘to do’ list.  

At home and securely on my couch, I checked the app once more to take another look at #1, to evaluate what I might have missed in his profile as part of my learning experiment. I can do this better next time.

He had deleted me and our conversation. Probably blocked me too, obliterating me from his consciousness and sending me the firm, and proverbial message to “go fly a kite lady.”

OK, Mary Poppins and Bert – let’s do this. If nothing else, let’s send the experience up through the atmosphere where the air is clear and let it go.

Let's go fly a kite

Up to the highest height

Let's go fly a kite

And send it soaring

Up through the atmosphere

Up where the air is clear

Oh, let's go fly a kite