#Tinder profile plus
“Menopause wasn’t on my radar, plus I figured you’d confess when you were ready.” “And you still thought I was pregnant, at 53?” Great, now he thinks I’m a liar AND bad at math. “You were born in 1969, right? That would make you 53.” I just dropped a grenade from Crazy Town. Heart racing and palms clammy, I blurt it out, “I’m 52!” My cat will be apathetic, but that’s to be expected, he’s a cat. Sure, he’ll probably dump me, but on the upside, a new season of Virgin River just dropped, not to mention the Costco-sized bag of cheese puffs I have hidden under the bed. This kind of high anxiety is sure to induce a major hot flash and it’s hard to maintain a poker face when I’m beet-red and sweating. I need to break the news before he rattles off his favorite baby names. If it wasn’t for Helen’s dating intervention, I’d be curled up in bed with my cat, binge-watching Virgin River on my iPad with a mug of pinot noir and a bag of stale cheese puffs.
Truth be told, this Tinder lie is exhausting, even more than all the sex we’re having.
Plus, he’s so young he doesn’t even snore yet. We’ve only just started and I’m too blissed-out, floating on a loopy cloud of sex, caffeine and pillow talk. Trapped in bed between a cup of lukewarm coffee and a lie I’m not ready to admit, not yet anyway. He’s glazed over, slowly drifting off into a dreamy wonderland of “Am I a daddy now?” as I burrow deeper into his armpit hair, trapped. I can feel his wheels churning while he compiles the evidence – no period, bloated belly, tired, robust appetite.ĭammit. I can explain away the night-sweating because it’s summer and “I should go to Ikea for a lighter comforter, but I get claustrophobic and too distracted by the smell of cinnamon buns to shop.” I’ve managed to shield his millennial eyes from the underbelly of my hormonal shift – plucking the dark web of unwanted hair behind locked doors, and cleverly diverting any conversation that might reveal my age with foreplay or craft beer.
#Tinder profile how to
I roll over and play dead, contemplating how to distract him, either with more sex or more toast.
“You haven’t had your period since we met. Now, three months into our newly minted morning routine – sex, tea, toast, shower, coffee – we’re post-sex and pre-toast on a lazy Sunday morning when – bam! – the honeymoon phase hits an iceberg. I was seconds away from deleting Tinder when his profile appeared like a phoenix rising from my dating cesspool: “Josh. What horny “genius” sent out the memo that dead fish are a selling point? And don’t even get me started on bathroom selfies. Fur-clad unicyclists at Burning Man and swollen gym devotees in muscle tees, posing with Vegas showgirls and freshly caught marlin. Mine, on the other hand, was an unfortunate spectacle of basement dwellers and commitment-phobes. Whatever golden dating algorithm she fell into should be cast in bronze and preserved in a museum. I blame Helen – she lured me in with her blissful dating stories of tapas and Spanish wine, seaside bungalows and sunset hikes. I was way over the legal limit when I signed up for Tinder, buzzed on cheap rosé and expensive cheese, and high on the idea of meeting someone.
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