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On creating a dating app profile

For this week’s risqué exposé on the sad state of my love life, I thought I’d let you in on a vital process for a newly single person, the creation of a dating app profile.

Please bear with me, we can "do hard things" as Glennon Doyle would say, to which I reply that she possibly wasn’t referring to re-entering the dating world as a 50-year-old divorcee with dark chin hairs, a bad attitude and a filthy mouth.

You see, the last time I went on a date with someone who wasn’t the father of my children we shared a pitcher of recycled beer at the Peel Pub on a dark February Thursday night, and I threw up on his Converse shortly after.

You might be surprised to hear that he still put his tongue down my throat later that night and that we even made it to a very brief third base on a downtown park bench. Youth is really wasted on the young, isn’t it?

I hear he’s an orthodontist now, divorced with four kids.

So, Matt, if you’re reading this, call me. We can rekindle our common interest in pitchers and fingering.

Just saying, perhaps we can bypass the seduction dance altogether, non? After all, I’ve touched your penis a on a park bench at -23 degrees weather, dude. I have a bed we can use now, or a gently used Honda Odyssey if you’re feeling adventurous and bendy. I even almost got the dank Cheetos smell out from last November, especially if you breathe through your mouth.

Anyhow, I digress.

So I’m toying with a couple of angles. I want the profile to authentically express who I am as a powerful goddess and showcase my gifts as a vibrant and mature woman. But, mostly, it has to get me laid. Preferably a lot.

No platitudes for me. I mean, who cares if I enjoy sunsets and long walks on the beach. I live in Montreal. Of course I enjoy walks ANYWHERE if I don’t have to wear a tuque and mitts. Jesus.

So here are some of my ideas:

1. I almost don’t cry at parties anymore even if the words divorce, steak or paddle are spoken in front of me. My therapist and I are still working on duct tape, James Bond and gin; we are both fairly optimistic for a meltdown-free social interaction by Christmas 2021.

2. I may carry a tuft of my ex-husband’s pubes in a locket around my neck, but it’s because Madam Jackie said the "good luck" charm will only work if I keep it on my person. I suggest that if we end up having sex, I’ll just stuff it in my bra. You won’t even know it’s there, unless you want me to take off the bra, which may or may not be a possibility depending on how hot your profile pictures look and whether I evaluate the effort to opportunity ratio to be worthwhile enough to pluck my boob hairs.

3. I hear that polyamory is a thing now, so I’m totally willing to be ethically non-monogamous with you if a) all your other dates have IBS and bigger feet than me, and b) you lend me your car on evenings when you sleep with them, more specifically on Wednesdays when I have Zumba in Pointe-Claire.

Eleanore Roosevelt said that "the future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams". In my case, a more accurate version would be "the future belongs to those naïve suckers who believe in the beauty of my carefully curated heavily-Photoshopped selfies."

Wish me luck, you guys.

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