Page 9 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
“Like, do you go to the gym, are you into yoga, macramé?” Kelly asks, her voice rising an octave with every suggestion. Ishake my head. “Okay,” says Kelly slowly, and I can see it dawning on her, why I need their help with this. She turns to Steph. “She doesn’t need to be defined by her interests.” They go on to ask me about my star sign; my love language; my position on Covid vaccines; what my sleeping habits are; what I eat, drink, and dream; my Myers-Briggs personality type. Kelly lists a catalog of potential interests: aquariums, jujitsu, road trips, paddleboarding, activism, craft beer, TikTok, gospel singing, Marvel movies. It feels like the most invasive and bizarre job interview I’ve ever had.
“That is the weirdest list, I’m not interested in any of those things,” I say, exasperated. “Okay, just put theater, travel, and ‘trying new things.’ ”
“Travel is good, that’s an easy talking point. Have you been anywhere interesting recently?” Kelly asks, looking thrilled to have found something.
“Nowhere recently, but I’d like to travel more in the future.” I pause. “If people are going to ask me where I’ve been, maybe don’t put travel.” I look at the list again. “Gin and tonic?”
Steph shakes her head. “Might put people off. Take pets off too. Divorced cat lady who likes G&Ts—it’s not a winning vibe.”
I sigh. “I don’t have time for ‘hobbies.’ ” I wave the waiter over to order us a third round of drinks. “Can I put TV? Doing household admin? Being a parent?”
“People really just go on the photo,” Kelly says, patting my arm sympathetically, then stopping when she remembers we don’t have a photo either.
“You need to give peoplesomethingto go on,” says Steph. “I met my boyfriend because on our profiles we both love Roblox and we both want world peace. He DMed me suggesting Roblox might be the answer to world peace.” She makes a lovesick grin. “It wassofunny.”
“See, there’s someone out there for everyone,” says Kelly,“even Steph. Now, the fun part. What are you looking for in a man?” Kelly asks, swiping to the next screen. “I assume man? You’d widen the net if you put both.”
“Just a normal, nonpsycho, ordinary man,” I tell her.
“You need to be more specific,” says Steph.
“Okay, then I guess someone kind, funny, smart.”
Steph pretends to yawn. “Boring. Everyone wants that. I’m thinking height, hair color, age, build. Do you want them to work out? Do you care about their politics or if they eat meat? Do you have a thing for facial hair? Are there any sexual proclivities they need to be on board with?”
I raise my hands in surrender. “Ideally taller than me, average height, I guess over five ten. Around my age, I don’t know, older than thirty-five, younger than fifty.” Kelly and Steph simultaneously scrunch their noses up at the idea of fifty. “Okay, forty-seven. Forty-five?” They both nod, deeming forty-five to be acceptable for someone my age.
“Kids, no kids? Wants kids? Are you done with kids? Can you even have more kids?” Steph asks, swiping to the next set of questions.
“Those don’t feel like first-date questions.”
“People want to know these things, but fine, put ‘not sure,’ ” Kelly instructs Steph. Then Steph lifts the phone, cries, “Smile!” and snaps a photo.
“We’ll use this one for now. Don’t worry, I’ll add a subtle filter to even out your skin tone.”
“Don’t add a filter,” I say. “I want to look like me.”
“You need a filter. Everyone uses a filter.” She hands me back my phone. “One profile, good to go.” As she says it, the phone pings with a notification from the app. “Ooh, someone likes you already!” says Steph, clapping her hands in delight.
“Don’t look so terrified, I love this for you,” says Kelly, putting an arm around me. “Dating is like riding a bike. You justneed to get back in the saddle and then the muscle memory kicks in.” She winks. It’s unnerving.
I thank them both for their help, then settle the bar bill. On the bus home, my phone pings with notifications and I scroll in wonder at this portal to potential dates. Could I fancy Hamish, forty-three, with his bulging biceps and interest in falconry? What about Paul, thirty-eight, who has a photo of himself at the top of a mountain, his arm around some poor cropped-out girlfriend? What went wrong between Paul and this girl? Is she on the apps too? Does she know Paul is using a photo with her shoulder in it to try to get laid? Then I remember Dan was on these apps. He signed up just weeks after he moved out. He will have answered all the same questions. Did he use a photo of us and crop out me? Is that how he met Sylvie? What if his profile is still active? What if I’m scrolling and I find a photo of cropped-out me?
My mood shifts. I don’t want to be thinking these thoughts. So, I flick over to Instagram and open my favorite account, @paulhollywoodkneadsdough, which features videos of, you guessed it, Paul Hollywood kneading dough. It’s comforting, hypnotic, sexy for reasons I can’t explain. Then I get so absorbed in Paul pounding a focaccia dough that I miss my stop.
Google searches:
Statistical likelihood of getting murdered by someone you meet online
Hobbies that don’t take too much time or effort
Dan Humphries, Bath, dating profile
Paul Hollywood focaccia fan fiction
Chapter 4
When I was eight yearsold, I rode my bike into a wall. I was going down a steep hill and I couldn’t brake fast enough. I flew over the handlebars straight into the side of a house and banged up my face, chipped a tooth, and dislocated my collarbone. So, when people tell me something is “just like riding a bike,” I get wary. All I can think about is the potential for injury and that however cautious you are, you can’t account for all the other idiots on the road. Yet despite my misgivings, here I am, back on my metaphorical bike, having a drink in a bar on a Saturday night with a stranger I met online. Richard, thirty-seven, whose profile picture is him holding a giant wheel of cheese.
