MOTION SICKNESS

Nothing new here. I’ve long bemoaned the gay dating scene in Vancouver. I’ve often mentioned that the online sites are stagnant. Same profile pics, same frustrations with three- or four-word messages. Grunts, not sentences.

In the past few months, things have been especially quiet on the dating sites. I’m going through the motions. Dating. A seventy-year-old woman wanted to go for tea. (No thanks.) Someone who claims his occupation is “cannabis coach” expressed an interest. (What the hell is a cannabis coach?!) A fifty-three-year-old man—a year younger than me—apparently tried to be hip by eschewing all capitals and punctuation. (This rendered his profile unreadable.)

Bleak times. Status quo.

I’ve tried to be proactive. My messages typically go unanswered. I did receive a response from one guy who politely said he could never date a vegetarian because he identifies as a foodie and likes the experience of sharing food. Fine. (How many guys have been turned off by my vegetarianism?!) Another guy didn’t want to meet because I mentioned that I like dogs and he has allergies. (To dogs or people who like dogs?!) 

These responses were met with a shrug from me. Sensitive to criticism that I may be too picky, these were men I may have overlooked before. The guys I truly hoped to hear from didn’t reply at all. My gut instincts about good matches are completely off.

Up until this week, I hadn’t gone on a coffee date this year. Then last week I received two messages on the same day from guys in their sixties. I hesitated. I read their profiles. Nothing stood out. Still, I was acutely aware that “few and far between” is the phrase that best fits my dating life.

I agreed to meet each of them for coffee.

On both meet-and-greets, the conversation was fine. We were cordial to one another. There were no horrendous missteps. There was an ebb and flow to things—at some points the discussion was interesting, at other times things were stilted. Everything was okay.

Both occasions ended with a hug and an exchange of “Nice to meet you.” I knew from the start of each date that things weren’t going anywhere, yet I fought to be open, to counter an indifferent first impression with something more. I tried to get myself into considering a second date.

Nothing doing. Why prolong something that isn’t going anywhere?

I always feel badly after these experiences. Although one of the men seemed equally indifferent, the other was genuinely interested and I never want to be part of someone else’s disappointment, however brief. These days each dead end wears on me even more. I don’t feel connected in Vancouver and that goes beyond dating. It would be nice to click again with someone. And yet chances seem slimmer with each message that fails to merit a reply, with each one that informs me that I’m disqualified from consideration and with each coffee that feels decaffeinated from the get-go. 

It’s been twenty-four hours since that last coffee date and I feel myself trying to muster up hope anew. Frankly, it feels more like desperation than hope. It may be months before another new profile within my age range appears on a dating site. I know this. It allows me to step away but it does nothing to ease the loneliness and isolation. 

Just once I’d like to meet a guy in the real world. Or, at least the way they do in rom-coms. At one of the cafes where I write. Go ahead, good looking fifty-something single guy: show up and accidentally spill coffee on my shirt. It may be the start of something beautiful. Yes, I’m willing to experience third-degree burns on my quest to meet Mr. Right. Like I said, desperate. 

Maybe I should just get a couple of dogs and gorge myself on plant-based pizzas. That’s how guys see me anyhow. Why not own it? 

Not there. Not quite yet.