I’m 33. I’m single. I live alone. I work remotely. And I’m not on the dating apps.

I’m not on the dating apps because I thought I would make my grand debut on Hinge with my 6 stunning photos and witty one-liner prompts and hot men would be falling all over themselves to message me, wondering how exactly such a catch is single. I’ve given Hinge three honest attempts now over the course of the last two years. Spoiler alert: that fantasy of cleaning up the moment I crack open the app never once came true. Instead, I was met with the creaturiest of creatures. Creaturiest isn’t even an adjective and yet I’ve made it one because there’s no other word that can adequately paint the picture of what lies in wait in online dating in the Central Jersey Shore region, age range 30-35. During my last dance with Hinge this past May, I got into a literal war of words with one candidate who couldn’t stop alternating between asking how my week was going or how my weekend was on repeat. At first, I was spitting my A game in sarcasm and hilarious convo starters…giving it the ole college try that this chump might loosen up and start to hold his own in the conversation. By week 2, I realized he only had one move and it was saying the week was crazy and asking how it went for me. And because I’m immature and think everything is fodder for a bit, I then got into a “how’s your week going-off” with this unsuspecting character. I was bloodthirsty for a battle of who could volley it back without actually saying anything of substance more and I wasn’t backing down. I wanted to win. It was clear we were stuck in a TGIF tornado and I wanted to be the last one standing in the eye of the storm. Unfortunately, I’m pretty confident I was talking to an actual robot and finally had to admit defeat. It was like IM’ing with Smarterchild. (s/o to my fellow millennial late-night AIM whores…idk how we can justify chatting with a bot, but I guess it was cool for that time.) Out of all of my fails on Hinge, giving up the “how was your week bit” and letting “Michael” win was my BIGGEST F. Here’s a snippet of ole Pete and Repeat’s robot moves, plus a lil bonus of what someone sent to me after just viewing my profile one time. He wanted to wear my skin to his birthday, obviously.

As you might be able to gather from that glimpse into sheer insanity, being on a dating app and genuinely thinking I’d find a husband from it was not doing great things for my mental health. I was obsessed with checking the app multiple times a day and was disappointed every time I did. I was coming from a place of desperation and the options at my fingertips were grim as hell and all of that made the perfect storm of plummeting my self-confidence and general hopefulness that I’ll ever snag a mans. I’ve come to learn that no one wants to be on that app and therefore has a real negative “this is a last resort” attitude from the jump. Also, men are TRASH at marketing themselves. It’s really not that hard to post some good pictures and be normal answering questions. Seeing the brown trout that I was reeling in on that app was genuinely making me feel like lake scum. I know I’m funny (you do too since you’re reading this right now.) I know I photograph well…or at least I hope so because otherwise the world is being absolutely PUNISHED by how many photos of myself I post on a regular basis. But you would think I’m Ursula with the responses I was getting. So taking all of that into account, I deleted Hinge and said I can find other ways to hurt my own feelings.

So that brings us to present day, where I’m very much not looking to be a lonely old spinster and would LOVE to find a partner, but I’m not subscribing to basically the ONLY method for dating in the year of our Lord 2024. The peanut gallery has told me that deleting the apps means I won’t meet anyone because apparently NO ONE EVER DATED OR GOT MARRIED BEFORE 2013. In my most recent therapy sesh, she urged me to think outside the box of other ways I could put myself out there and meet someone without re-dipping my toe into the cesspool of Hinge. And let me be clear, if you’re itching to make a suggestion and your suggestion includes any of the following cliches that make me want to hurl my body off of a cliff, pls refrain.

• You’ll meet someone when you’re not even looking.
• It’ll happen when you least expect it.
• Trust the timing of your life.
• Everyone has their own path.
• Enjoy being single and do what you love and you’ll attract the right guy.
• Don’t settle.
• Don’t compare yourself to others.
• Be open to new experiences.

Obviously, everything about my lifestyle is isolating and knowing that, I’ve always made an effort to get out and do things even if it means doing it alone so that I can meet people, connect, and socialize. It’s not always easy…in fact it’s usually pretty difficult to constantly be doing stuff alone when I’d rather be enjoying it with someone. But I’m not going to hide from life just because no one wants to date me, SO SUCK ON THAT. While many of my interests and activities lean more towards the girly groups (craft nights, biking, flower fields, reading Reese Witherspoon Book Club picks, etc.) I figured just existing outside of my home is upping my chances. I’ve tried to work from coffee shops, attend a group exercise class, hang at dog parks, go to the beach, and check out breweries by myself or with the dog. Realistically, my homegirl Charlee should be pulling in mad booty. She’s super cute and friendly as hell. And yet not one time has anyone under the age of 55 ever struck up a conversation with us in public. My dog park group is 85% retirees. On the rare occasion a male in his twenties to thirties shows up at the dog park, I often have to ask myself is this man actually attractive or is he just the only man here that isn’t wearing compression socks.

I even went so far as to taking myself out to dinner on a Saturday night this past summer because I figured no one else is wining and dining me so why not do it for myself. I biked to the local seafood joint, brought my own wine, clammed it up, and read my lil thriller. It was nice to get a change of scenery but I assure you I was surrounded by families all wondering if this was a choice or I got stood up. Since it was beautiful out and good food, the vibes were high and I was able to romanticize the shit out of this sad circumstance and act like I was the main character of an Elin Hilderbrand beach read and not like I couldn’t get a soul to buy me a crabcake.

Now the weather is getting chillier and we’re heading into my favorite seasonal depresh months where it’s dark all the time and the wind is always whipping. GR8! This is when I really need to force myself to go do things. And, of course, always conscious of saving money and not overspending, I’ve got to limit my excursions to live within my means. That’s why when half price sushi night came back at a local restaurant, I immediately thought this would be the perfect sitch to step out on the town solo for another date night. I obsessively checked their Instagram to make sure there was indeed a price cut. One thing about me, I will bend over backwards for a discount. I will die for a deal. Cheap date and proud of it, BB! I put on an adorable outfit, mascara (a rare occurrence these days), and took the 3 min drive downtown. I would’ve biked but the wind has already started it’s 8-month long F-U campaign against humanity. I debated bringing the book I’m reading but made a conscious choice to leave it at home. In my RomCom-saturated brain, I pictured sitting at the bar with no book or phone as a distraction, striking up a convo with another like-minded hottie open to sushi chats for the ultimate fishMEAT-cute.

I walked in, was greeted by the hostess, immediately asked if it was 1/2 price sushi night to be up front with my intentions. She said yes, I asked if I could sit at the bar to which she also gave me the affirmative, and then I did a hot lap of the bar and saw every spot taken with sushi in front of each individual and realized that every other Point Beach resident apparently had the same idea. Get a life, everyone. I hit up the hostess stand again and said I guess I need a table. She asked, “for one?” WOW, WHY DON’T YOU SHOUT THAT INTO A MEGAPHONE SO EVERYONE HERE KNOWS I’M EATING ALONE LIKE STEPHEN GLANSBERG. She then proceeded to sit me basically in her lap at the hostess stand. First high top table by the door, so either I’m getting knocked into by people entering and exiting, blown over by the gust of wind that hurls through every time the door opens, or confused for staff because I’m within touching distance of the hostess stand. GR8 SPOT, BABE! I take in my surroundings as I am facing the entire restaurant like I’m onstage at a freak show and see that there’s one TV in my sightline and it’s playing the YES network pre-game radio show. No sound. No captions. WHO THE HELL PLAYS A RADIO SHOW YOU CAN’T HEAR ON TV?! So I don’t have my book. I can’t feign interest in the TV because I’d literally be watching Michael Kay yap into a microphone without knowing what he’s actually saying. And every time I just look out into the room, I awkwardly catch eyes with someone and shit gets weird. You wanna yell at our generation for having our noses buried in our phones? WELL, WHAT OTHER CHOICE DO WE HAVE?

I sat staring into the abyss for an uncomfy amount of time. So much time that the hostess actually asked if someone had been over to take my order yet. I guess when you sit on the sidewalk it’s easy to be forgotten. Surprised someone didn’t ask me how long the wait was. One gentleman did ram his entire body into my table coming off of the bar too hot and had I gotten my drink yet, I would’ve been wearing it. No apologies were made because I had an invisibility cloak on, apparently. A guy finally comes over, takes my drink order and because I’m awkward I didn’t tell him I was ready to order too since I had a cool 45 mins with the menu to decide. Yep, you read that correctly, I’m so terrified of speaking up, that not disrupting the server ‘drinks then entree’ pattern is a fabulous example of how crippled I am by day-to-day interactions. Yet I’ll write an entire blog about one bad night and share all of my vulnerabilities on the world wide web. I AM a riddle, folks! But like, a fun one? I should save that tagline for the next time I’m forced to answer an online dating prompt.

Anyway, the server comes back and takes my order and I notice that there’s no verbiage on the menu about what counts for 1/2 price and what doesn’t, so I assume the whole menu is fair game. I order sashimi and rainbow roll. It comes out 5 mins later…the perks of eating skinned cold fish. In that time the radio on TV has switched to Texas Chainsaw Massacre. What a perfect dinner time show! I get to shove a roll in my mouth while humans get sliced and diced in front of my face. The ambiance is stunning. There’s two guys around my age sitting at the high top next to me putting away massive amounts of sushi and I have basically fallen out of my seat leaning to check if they have wedding rings. That’s how committed I was to still turning this night into a W. Then I saw a pretzel with cheese delivered to their table and almost puked in my mouth. Sushi and a pretzel? What are you two, serial killers?!

I delete my sushi at warp speed. TBH, it wasn’t even that good. I goofed and ordered sashimi thinking it was nigiri and was immediately disappointed when it was delivered sans rice. The rainbow roll was cut so big that I had more than one occasion where my mouth was so full I thought I was going to choke…let the records show I’ve never seen a bite too big…or the fish was flopping out of my mouth and I had to unattractively poke it back in with the chopsticks. I locked eyes with a staff member mid-cheeks full and overflowing with raw fish bite and she literally made a face of pity at me. It’s time for me to hit the road, Jack. I signaled for the check and WOULDN’T YOU KNOW IT, that baby shows FULL PRICE SUSHI. I call my nervous awkward bird of a server back over and say this is supposed to be half price. He magically produces a paper insert menu with HALF PRICE SUSHI in block letters at the top. He tells me that ironically, I ordered two things not included on that specialty menu. COLOR ME SHOCKED!

Natch this is the first time I’m seeing this menu, which leads me to believe the hostess had it out for me from the get-go, even before my dumpster table choice. She knew what I was here for and slipped that discount menu right on out with a sleight of hand. I’m nothing if not inappropriate, so I replied to my server, “well F me, right?!” He was certainly not expecting that response but he saw the “I’m cheap AF” glint in my eye and knew I wasn’t going down without a fight. He told me he’d go see if he could fix the bill. KthxbyEEEEEE! I’m not saying he’s the problem, because this was clearly hostess girl-on-girl crime, but if someone orders sushi on a half price sushi night, wouldn’t you take a beat to say, I don’t know if you know this but those aren’t included in the deal? I could either say, sure I’m rich, I don’t need to nickel and dime you for mid sush. Or what I would’ve said is YEAH, OBVIOUSLY I AM HERE ONLY FOR A DISSY, DUDE. WHICH ONES ARE THE CHEAPIES? Either way, he would’ve given me the option. Not really a crack team here.

He returns to the table, slides the bill over to me, and purrs, “I talked to some people and took care of it.” OH, OK PHIL! Did you just wink? Am I dating my server now? Did I get what I wanted after all? I’m kidding, Phil can’t handle me. I paid the bill and beat it out of there as fast as I could but not before noticing the bar was wide open when I left. Sometimes it doesn’t pay to be 33 trapped in a 65 year old’s body that will literally wither away if she doesn’t eat dinner at 5pm sharp. I live in an early bird special town and that doesn’t bode well for chair availability. I’d never survive in Boca.

As always, I relive this fail of a night on my drive home, already thinking about how I must blog another CLASSIC Salty Ju hopeful to a fault, fantasy-bursting, mediocre experience. I was already looking forward to ripping my bra off and getting into soft clothes and probably never leaving my home again. But NOPE, the universe had one more practical joke in store for me. In the form of a LITERAL practical joke. As I drive down the road leading to my neighborhood, I see teenagers up ahead in the middle of the road. Since I’m not looking to kill a child, I naturally slow down, which isn’t hard since the speed limit is already 25 and I’m barely crawling. That’s when I see two lil punks meet in the middle of the road, hold their hands out, and run back towards the edges where their stupid lil punk friends are waiting, iPhones out, flash on, cameras rolling. Since I’m hip to the Tok, I know exactly what they’re doing because I’ve seen it before while doom scrolling. It’s a “prank” kids do where they mime like they’re pulling a rope across the road, and then film drivers’ reactions. If I had to guess, your chance of getting an outraged reaction from a Jersey driver is about 8 million percent higher than anywhere else in the country. So these little shits are pretty smart. They get their Tok views from their dumbass high school buddies and a laugh.

NOT TONIGHT, BITCHES. I was a SECOND away from womping on the horn and screaming FUCK ALL THE WAY OFF out the window. A real R-rated version of old man yelling get off my lawn. KIDS THESE DAYS. Go back to ding dong ditching, ya fools. I’m so afraid for our future if this is what youths are doing for weeknight entertainment. What’s even more sad is that these f*ckfaces will end up making six figures from a post like that in the era of influencers as a career. I sped through and gave them a dirty look, which is my idea of confrontation. I also wished (in my head and through text) that one of them gets clipped. I’m not a monster, I don’t want a kid getting seriously injured but would LOVE a lil dust-up with a side mirror or something. Just enough to scare them straight.

Listen, I’d like to end this story with the fact that I’m never going out for solo bargain sushi again, or that I’m never going out again full stop. But we all know that’s not true. As long as I’m breathing I’m going to keep trying and then weaving a tale for the greater good when I end up mortified. In fact, If you’re a long-time listener, first time caller and this story rang a little familiar it’s because I told almost the same exact story after attending Taylor Swift Trivia. The only difference is that three years later I’m out looking for a man to dine with and not 22 year old friends who know what time Taylor Swift was born. That’s called growth, baby! So whatdya think? Should we continue the saga? Do I keep tabling for one and reporting back until I’m a skeleton? LMK.

Also, not a cry for help but kind of a cry for help…if you have any suggestions or know of any babe sodas interested, I’ve really had to kick the huzz hunt into high gear after finding a mouse living in my grill for the second time in the past three months. A grill that I use every single night. And let’s not forget about the Stuart Little that was cruising around in my glovebox last November. So, REALLY need a bruh to manage all of the rodents trying to infiltrate my life and punish me for merely existing. I am a beautiful princess but I’m not trying to be Cinderella out here kickin it with mice pals so there is an urgent need to fill this prince role by EOY. Pls inquire within. And don’t even think about asking me how my week is going.