So, we've talked about online dating.
It's always been my preferred way of meeting people. As a social introvert, I do great one-on-one—but stick me in a group and my brain exits the chat. So dating apps? Honestly, a dream come true.
I signed up for Plenty of Fish, the same dating site my cousin Evan used (you know, back when he was doing full-time hookups instead of actual employment).
Immediately—I had matches.
So many matches.
Apparently when you're hot, single, and emotionally available-ish, the floodgates open.
Of course, I'd always talk to a bunch of people at first, then slowly narrow it down. Like dating roulette. Eventually, I was talking to two guys regularly.
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Guy #1: The Parking Lot Chapter
One of them stood out.
He was also recently divorced and had two girls—one biological, one he'd raised since birth. I liked that. It said something about his heart.
Also like me, he was living with his parents. Divorce is humbling like that.
And, as anyone who's ever moved back home knows, there's usually a hard rule: No bringing hookups into the house.
So... our "relationship" never left the parking lot. Literally.
Technically, my family did meet him once, but we both knew this wasn't going anywhere beyond… well, physical logistics.
It was awkward.
A lot of weird car sex.
Like, a lot.
Not the cute, steamy kind.
The kind where your knee hits the gear shift and your ass leans into the horn.
Where there's a juice box under your foot, a Barbie head in the cupholder, and a pack of half-melted fruit snacks stuck to your leg.
Where you're fumbling with a condom that feels like it came from a vending machine in a gas station bathroom.
Where you drive out into the middle of nowhere just seeking release.
Where the glow behind you might be the porch light… or the cops.
And you're praying no one opens the car door on accident.
It wasn't romantic, it wasn't permanent, and it definitely wasn't love—but honestly? It was exactly what I needed at the time. We didn't talk about feelings. We didn't make promises. We just made out like teenagers hiding from our parents—because we kind of were.
Sometimes, after your marriage blows up and your kids are safe in bed and your life is held together with grocery store-brand tape, you don't want love. You just want someone who thinks you're hot and kisses you like you're not a disaster.
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Guy #2: The Man Who Proposed After One Basket of Chips (and Before the Sopapillas)
The second guy I'd been talking to was named Jose. We'd been chatting for about two weeks, and things were actually looking promising. He was sweet, respectful, used proper punctuation in his texts—rare. He asked thoughtful questions. He had a full-time job and a car that didn't make strange noises. In the world of online dating, that basically made him royalty.
He picked a nice Mexican restaurant—tablecloths, candles, the whole "first date romance package." I even shaved my legs. Both of them.
The food was great, the margaritas were flowing, and we were vibing. Solid conversation, good eye contact, laughs that weren't forced. I'm sitting there thinking, "Hey, maybe this guy actually has potential!"
Then the meal ends.
We're sitting there with bellies full of queso and hope when he suddenly leans forward like he's about to whisper a state secret. He takes my hand across the table like we're in the final scene of a telenovela.
And he says, "You know... you're the most wonderful, beautiful, perfect person I've ever met in my life."
Now, okay. That's a lot. But also, I like being flattered. So I smile politely and say something generic like, "Aww, that's sweet."
But then he doubles down.
"No, really," he says, his eyes locked on mine like we've been through three world wars together. "I could see myself marrying someone like you."
Cue the first internal alarm.
That's a weird thing to say while the waiter's clearing the guacamole.
Then he triples down.
"No, actually... I could see myself marrying you."
Sir.
We've known each other 14 days. You don't even know if I leave hair in the shower drain or how I act during a Target clearance event. And you're already out here proposing in front of a half-empty bowl of salsa?
But wait—he's not done.
He leans in even further. Full forehead crease. Romantic intensity level: Nicholas Sparks having a mental breakdown.
And then he says:
> "Would you marry me if I asked you?"
"Would you marry me?"
Out loud. In a restaurant. On a first date. After approximately forty minutes of real-life interaction.
I wish I could tell you I responded like a normal adult. Something calm and dignified, like "That's really flattering but I think we're moving too fast."
Nope.
Instead, I panicked, grabbed my phone like it was a lifeline, and said, "Oh my god—I just got an emergency text from my sister. I'm so sorry. I have to go."
(Spoiler: I did not get a text. My phone was on Do Not Disturb. The only thing lighting up was my soul trying to evacuate my body.)
I stood up so fast I knocked over my chair. I may or may not have left a flip-flop behind. I practically sprinted to the parking lot like I was in the Hunger Games and the cornucopia just opened.
Reader, I did not even pretend to look back.
Safe to say—I did not call him back.
And before you ask: Yes, he messaged me later to say he still felt like we were meant to be and asked if I'd had time to "think about the question."
I blocked him.
And changed restaurants.
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Final Thoughts on This Round of Roulette
This is the thing no one tells you about dating after divorce: it's not just weird—it's weirdly desperate. Not always you, not always them, but something about rebuilding your identity while also trying to be desirable again? Chaos.
Online dating felt like hope in a pocket.
But some days it felt more like Russian roulette—with a guy in your DMs sending you unsolicited shirtless pics while quoting scripture.
This was just the start. I wasn't looking for "The One." I was just trying to remember what it felt like to be someone again.To feel wanted. To feel human.
Because sometimes becoming "someone again" starts with chaos, carbs, and really bad sex in the backseat of a minivan.
More disasters incoming. Stay tuned.