By: Rebecca Cooney
After a couple of years back on the dating scene, I’ve come to a conclusion: if you reach the age of 40 and you haven’t been married or cohabitated, there is something wrong with you. Oh stop with the indignant squeal. It’s true. You’ve worked too much the last 15 years. Too many late nights at the office. Too many late nights out on the town. Too much attention paid to people who don’t matter, are the wrong fit, who don’t treat you well enough. Too much time wasted on the one who got away. The one who didn’t make sense then but who would now. It’s really not your fault. Nor has it been all for naught. But you’ve grown particular, set in your ways, inflexible, and, dare I say it, selfish.
But then again, it would be remiss of me not to say that there is, in fact, something wrong with all of us. I was married for a long time and I am not yet 40, but I’m the first to admit my numerous interpersonal shortcomings and peccadilloes. I’m rather cold. I am, as one gentleman so directly put it, hypersensitive and dismissive. I can be distant and removed—always dual processing. It is probably some Teutonic remnant, but I value efficiency über alles. I think most of your jokes or artistic efforts fall flat, your tattoos are for the most part ill-conceived, and your cats are a deal breaker. I know all of this and more through intensive soul searching and the constant feedback loop of online dating.
The positive thing about online dating is that the pool, much like the canon of Andrew W. K. songs that feature the word “party” in the title, is virtually unending and self-replenishing. Let’s put aside all of that female-to-male ratio in NYC aside for a moment (but if you’re interested, New York Economic Development Corporation has a nifty ratio-by-neighborhood map here), but you’ve got options. There are the antediluvian pay-to-play institutions, e-Harmony and Match–old stalwarts in the dating game. But unless you enjoy filling out tedious questions to determine your 24-dimensional personality (like an anabolic Myers-Briggs), fancy guys with hair plugs, or who live in exotic locations within the Rust Belt, it’s hard to stay optimistic. Now in its tenth year of operation, OK Cupid pares things down a bit but still allows you room to list every obscure band you’ve ever listened to, to specify certain matters of import like height or astrological sign, and the thrilling opportunity to interact with married men who send messages like, “Your [sic] beautiful.”
More recently down the pipe is the mobile mingling app Tinder. Or “Timber” or “Shinder” as I like to call it as its interface allows you to conduct business while you conduct business. Just swipe right if you’re interested. Swipe left if you want to remove offending images of chubby men wearing pantyhose or pictures of guys on boats. Alright already, I get it. You’re into pantyhose or you can operate watercraft. I’ve developed a mild case of carpal. Now, the major issue with Tinder and other new generation networks is the relative paucity of details. Some people (the Millennials) have it figured out. Include your height in the description and any other really important information like whether you’re really looking for someone also into pantyhose. But there’s a fine line for the inclusion of some pertinent details (apparently, it’s not pantyhose), namely, what to do if you’re a parent. A critically important item, but one that also feels like an overshare for such a minimal selection process. Not broadcasting having a child or children can feel like a lie of omission—a venial sin but one that you’ll have to deal with sooner or later. My new approach, however, is one of complete openness. Being a parent is part of who I am. Something you need to know. At least on par with whether you are harboring some unanticipated deal breakers like an extensive collection of live recordings of Dave Matthews Band. Or a cat.
There are moments when it is all too exhausting and the very notion of bringing another person into my strange personal solar system seems rather absurd. Like Saturday afternoons when I’m on the couch, drinking microwaved coffee, surrounded by loads of laundry that I only have the will to do about every three weeks, listening to death metal. This week’s favorite, Goatwhore’s “Constricting Rage of the Merciless.” Compounding my enduring inability to fold a fitted sheet with a propensity for listening to music that is best coupled with hypoglycaemia and vague feelings of persecution, I’m not exactly feathering a nest for couplehood here. In fact, much of the time, I can’t even conjure up a guy who would appropriately fit this scene. Except maybe Andrew W. K. Who is, incidentally, married and under 40.
Still, I find myself persevering. Some days, it can be downright entertaining flipping through a ceaseless stream of profiles. Oh look, another guy wearing aviators smiling from the edge of the pool. Mr. Insert-your-initials-here-NYC76 have you met Mr. Insert-your-initials-here-NYC75? I don’t know how tall you are, but I see that you like Heineken. And camping. That’s a shame. I like indoor plumbing. Why are there so many pictures of guys with tigers? Is that a thing? Maybe this time I’ll make an exception and swipe right. Even though a tiger is technically a cat.
Rebecca Cooney is a mom to a 4-year-old man baby and, in her spare time, the North American editor of The Lancet. You can follow her on Twitter: @BekRx.