Those first weeks after I put myself on offer to single men of a certain age (more on that later), within a certain distance of Seattle, I felt like a piece of raw meat dropped into a shark tank. As the little counter tallied my “likes” and my inbox filled up with messages, I was surprised, foolishly flattered, and completely overwhelmed. I scrolled through the photos of guys holding dead fish, shirtless guys on boats, and shirtless guys holding dead fish on boats. I tried to make sense of the logic of leading with a photo of you smiling with your arm around a likely ex-lover with her face scratched out. Shirtless iPhone bathroom mirror selfies were also ubiquitous.
As an advertising and marketing veteran, I wondered if these guys had considered their audience? Maybe not, because maybe it didn’t matter. Peering into the world of online dating is like taking a master class in patriarchal privilege, and American gender inequities on both sides. It was clear there was an alpha class of men. Attractive, financially successful, with full heads of hair, and (perhaps above all) TALL. On Match in particular, they even proudly listed their income range…the $150K+ guys clearly the top of the heap. And they would add humble brags like, “6’2″, since that seems to matter. Bring your heels.” These men saw themselves as catches, and the women they sought would have to meet their standards to proceed. Many of them had long lists of “no’s,” the chief among them “no drama.” Many listed their partner’s top desired age range to be 5 to 10 years younger than their own.
Many, but not all, of the shorter, less attractive, less financially secure, and balder guys seemed more humble, as if the world had long-taught them to adjust their expectations. Interestingly, some of these profiles had the most substance, as if the writers were making up for their lack of money and hair by offering their hearts and minds and souls instead. Once I moved onto swipe-fest sites like Tinder and Bumble, I realized that many of the handsome guys didn’t even bother writing anything. As if their chiseled jaws, washboard abs, and reassuringly un-receded hairlines spoke for themselves.
No matter the “class” of man, tired cliches emerged. In addition to the aforementioned “no drama,” they all seemed to “work hard and play hard” and were looking for a “partner in crime.” As a writer, I began to swipe left reflexively, every time I read a line I’d read a hundred times before. And don’t get me started on the wild misuse of “your and you’re; to and too; they’re, their, and there; and its and it’s.” Not to mention the gratingly inconsequential “LOL” after all kinds of statements that simply weren’t funny.
The Fish and her Bicycle 