Three swipes left, one swipe right and many thoughts in the middle…

Swipe left. Swipe left. Left again. Swipe right. Phew. No match. Ugh.

Keep on swiping. Unsure as to whether I am looking for a funny description or a killer six pack. Maybe both, even though realistically it seems impossible. Oh hello, Kevin. Perfect smile, good job, mediocre description (seems to enjoy fart jokes). 3 seconds pause. Would I? Meh, why not. Swipe right. No match. I ran out of people. Put the phone away, right now.

Last date I had seems like a distant memory. I vaguely remember it being ok, as in not a total waste of my time and energy, but still wasn’t something I would repeat. It wasn’t even because of him. He was nice, and funny, even though he had less hair than his profile picture. We ate a whole lot of cheese, had a good time, shared stories, opinions and self-deprecating jokes. We even spoke French to each other, thank you white wine. Or may I say “merci, vin blanc”. But at the end, there was no spark, there was no “I want to see this guy again”, it was more of a polite thank you for being good company for two plus hours. That is the norm for me anyways.

There used to be a time when I could picture my perfect man. The way he would look, sound, his name, age, and how we would be together. Now it seems easier to imagine myself winning an Oscar next to Leo DiCaprio. It would be his second one, of course. My “mangination” (man-imagination, get it?) does not go as far now. It kind runs out of fuel right after I start thinking “my perfect man would be….” ugh - so exhausting, I’d rather watch Netflix. I guess that’s due partially to the fact that I no longer believe “He” (i.e my perfect man) exists.

Anyway, tonight I am going out. Going to take a shower, shave my legs, curl my hair, do the whole thing. Go to a bar and put on my “too cool to worry about that shit” kind of face. So good at it. Maybe too good, actually.

And after a few drinks, who knows, I might find someone interesting enough. Or attractive enough. Yet, I still know that if and when the “let’s go home” question pops-up, I will probably say no. My “mangination” as tired as it might be, still won’t let me.

Phone chimes. It’s a match. Oh god, it’s killer-six-pack-nice-smile-good-job-fart-jokes-Kevin. Shit. Do I say hi, followed by something sassy and seemingly original? Hmm. Can’t come up with anything. Meh. Give it 23 hours. It will expire. Go back to Netflix.

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