No Longer Accepting Applications for the Role of Boyfriend. The Position Has Not Been Filled—but the Closing Date Has Been Reached.
Well, I gave it the ol’ college try. And I have three degrees. Maybe that’s the problem.
I got a late start in the dating world after becoming a widow following 21 years of marriage. Who was I to think I’d fare better than the seasoned pros—many of whom have been in this dating game far too long and are now just burnt-out, whittled-down cynics? Honestly, the paucity of decent, emotionally available humans in the dating pool rivals the clarity of sewage. It’s rough out there.
Dating is the most exhausting endeavor since grad school. Only now, instead of needing caffeine and study breaks, I’m filing social reprieve requests more often than PTO from work. Forget the search for a dream mate—I’m just trying to stop having nightmare dates.
Everybody has a type, right? I didn’t know mine. Most of my adult life was spent married, so it was news to me. But over time, a pattern emerged. Apparently, I gravitate toward emotionally unavailable men with job descriptions lifted straight from a spy thriller.
Let's recap Round 1:
- A therapist who was a diagnosed narcissist. (Kills joy.)
- A government-trained assassin. (Kills people.)
- A close friend—but “not too close”—of a foreign cartel who could never quite tell me what he actually did for a living. (Kills trust.)
And a missile engineer. (Kills… groups of people.)
Apparently, my type is: men with classified résumés and unclassified baggage. I didn’t sign up for this.
After that first round of dating, I pressed pause. Hard. I emerged slightly dazed and headed straight to counseling to ask the million-dollar question: Is it me? Am I attracting this? If so… what does that say about me?
Friends said, “Nah, girl—that’s just what’s out here.”
Loose acquaintances chose optimism, ignoring the red flags and pointing out, “Well, at least they had jobs and stable income.” Oh. So we’re doing capitalism over character now?
Round Two:
- The self-made millionaire who wanted to buy me.
- Another millionaire with enmeshed boundaries with his adult son. (“We sleep with the door open so he feels welcome anytime.” Sir?)
And yet another wealthy bachelor I caught in a lie. It was small, almost insignificant. But something about it flickered. Amber flag. And you know what? I no longer wait for red flags. Amber is enough. Exit, stage left.
I’ve gotten to the point where I treat this like I’m running HR for a Fortune 500 heart. I’m conducting interviews, doing background checks, and yes—I desperately wish I could call ex-references. No one will give you the raw, unfiltered truth quite like someone who had to co-parent with a man-child or argue over gaslighting with someone who majored in manipulation.
Where are the normal people? Even semi-normal? At this point, I’d take someone within two standard deviations of the bell curve of emotionally mature relationships. Not a math person? That means:
- No live-in moms unless she’s in hospice.
- No “poly-curious” situations unless the third partner is Jesus and He gave the okay.
And definitely no one who says, “I don’t believe in therapy, I just journal sometimes.”
I now keep a canned rejection script ready for use after a couple of dates. Because ghosting? That’s for cowards and politicians. The people out here have been ghosted enough—we don’t need more rejection trauma.
Canned Script:
“I want to thank you for your time and the fun facts you’ve shared about yourself—both the ones you volunteered and the ones I decoded through context clues. That said, I don’t sense a genuine, organic connection between us, and I’d rather be upfront. I’m declining to move forward with any future plans or communication. I sincerely wish you all the best in finding what you’re seeking in a romantic relationship. I’m not a ghoster—I believe in the common courtesy of letting someone know when the curtain has closed.”
And now, as we reach the final boarding call for Boyfriend Applications 2.0, I want to make this perfectly clear:
The position is still technically open, but I’ve shut the lights off, locked the door, and left the key under a rock labeled “Jesus Take the Wheel.”
All future applicants must come vetted, verified, and carrying emotional intelligence in their carry-on. No more fixer-uppers. No more charming psychopaths. No more grown men who refer to their exes as “crazy” without a single ounce of self-reflection.
Applications may no longer be accepted, but trust me—the peace and solitude are priceless. And for the right candidate? There’s always a slim chance for a limited-time, one-day-only walk-in interview.
Until then, I remain gloriously, unapologetically… off the market.
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