Dating at Damn Near 50

Welcome back to Dating at Damn Near 50: The Dating Chronicles, where Facebook Dating continues to provide me with enough material to question whether Mark Zuckerberg personally has a problem with me.

Because this shit has GOT to be a conspiracy.

Every time I think I've encountered the final boss of Facebook Dating, another motherfucker unlocks.

Part 5

Today's contestant?

Mr. Group Chat.

And before we begin, understand something:

I was not heartbroken.

I was not sitting around planning our wedding.

I wasn't doodling his last name behind mine.

We weren't in a relationship.

But apparently, unbeknownst to me, I had accidentally joined a very large organization.

And nobody gave me the employee handbook.

I met Mr. Group Chat on Facebook Dating.

Of course.

We matched, started talking, and immediately clicked.

He was a Scorpio.

I'm a Scorpio.

Now, I don't know what was happening astrologically, chemically, spiritually or hormonally, but the chemistry between us was RIDICULOUS.

We spent hours talking.

Phone calls.

Texts.

Conversation flowing like we'd known each other longer than we actually had.

He told me he was looking for a relationship.

Looking for something meaningful.

Looking for this.

Looking for that.

You know.

The brochure.

And within 24 hours?

Baby...

Let's just say the chemistry moved from theoretical research to practical application VERY quickly.

I was at that man's house.

Immediately.

Don't judge me.

I'm grown.

Sometimes you meet somebody and think:

We should take our time.

And sometimes your entire nervous system says:

Absolutely the fuck not.

This was the second one.

And after that first encounter, we kept dealing with each other.

For maybe a month or two.

I'd go over.

We'd hang out.

We'd talk.

We'd smoke.

And considering I own a 420-friendly clothing line, that's pretty much my natural habitat.

Good conversation.

Good smoke.

Good chemistry.

Everything seemed fine.

Except there was something strange about Mr. Group Chat.

TIME.

There always seemed to be a particular window when I could come over.

Never really whenever.

Always after a certain time.

And every time there was an explanation.

“My son is here.”

“My daughter is here.”

“My grandkids are here.”

Somebody was ALWAYS at this man's house.

Apparently his home had the occupancy rate of an airport.

Okay.

I noticed it.

But I didn't immediately turn into Detective Dakota.

Because remember:

We weren't in a relationship.

I wasn't asking for his Find My Friends location.

I wasn't driving past the house at 2:00 in the afternoon counting cars.

We were grown.

We were dealing with each other.

Cool.

Until one particular week.

Tuesday, I went over to see him.

Everything was normal.

Nothing unusual.

Nothing that would've made me think:

Dakota, prepare yourself. Saturday morning you're going to be summoned to a congressional hearing.

Tuesday came and went.

Wednesday.

Thursday.

Friday.

Then...

SATURDAY MORNING.

I wake up.

Look at my phone.

Group text.

Okay.

Who the fuck put me in a group chat?

I open it.

Women.

Women.

More women.

ANOTHER woman.

Wait.

Who are these people?

Why am I here?

And then the evidence starts dropping.

Baby.

This wasn't a group chat.

THIS WAS DISCOVERY.

One woman had apparently been dealing with this man for FOUR YEARS.

Four.

YEARS.

She had RECEIPTS.

Pictures.

Vacations.

Videos.

This man cooking dinner in her house.

Documentation.

Timestamped exhibits.

If she'd had PowerPoint installed, I believe there would've been a presentation.

Then another woman starts talking.

She'd been dealing with him for THREE YEARS.

Excuse me?

Another one:

A year.

Another:

Six months.

Another:

Five or six months.

And apparently that particular woman was supposed to be seeing his ass THAT VERY WEEKEND.

Meanwhile, I'm sitting there thinking:

I WAS JUST THERE TUESDAY.

Tuesday!

Sir, what kind of scheduling software are you using?

Because this was not dating.

This was LOGISTICS.

This man wasn't juggling women.

He was managing regional operations.

Monday through Friday apparently had appointment slots.

Weekends required travel.

There were local accounts.

Long-term accounts.

Legacy accounts.

New acquisitions.

And apparently I had unknowingly joined the Kansas City branch.

Every woman started comparing information.

“When did you last see him?”

“What did he tell you?”

“He told me this.”

“Well, he told ME that.”

“Wait, he said WHAT?”

And that's when I realized:

Ohhhhh.

That's why there were visiting hours.

The kids.

The grandkids.

The son.

The daughter.

Sir, were those family members...

or were they calendar blocks?

Because apparently every time one woman couldn't come over, somebody's grandbaby took the blame.

And here's what really bothered me.

Again:

WE WERE NOT IN A RELATIONSHIP.

If Mr. Group Chat wanted to date multiple women, that was his business.

I was grown.

He was grown.

Nobody had signed an exclusivity agreement.

But if you're being physically intimate with multiple people, the people involved deserve enough information to make decisions about THEIR OWN health and boundaries.

That's where my problem was.

Don't put me into a situation I didn't agree to participate in.

If you're dealing with other people, SAY THAT.

Then I decide whether I want to continue.

That's my choice.

But apparently transparency was not included in the Scorpio package I'd purchased.

And baby...

My ego was HOT.

Not my heart.

My EGO.

Because another thing about me?

I don't particularly enjoy discovering that I've unknowingly been entered into a competition.

Especially when I didn't submit an application.

So while everybody else was dropping relationship timelines, my Scorpio ass was in that group chat losing my entire mind.

Now, at the time, I was talking BIG shit.

I mean BIG.

My mouth had apparently obtained a concealed-carry permit of its own.

I was sending pictures of my legally owned firearms and talking about:

“I'm about to level that motherfucking house!”

Was I going to level anybody's house?

No.

Absolutely not.

I was at home.

My house shoes probably weren't even on correctly.

But emotionally?

Baby, I had demolished the entire subdivision.

In my imagination, there was nothing left but a mailbox.

Then eventually my grown-woman brain came back online.

Dakota.

What the fuck are you doing?

This man isn't worth your freedom.

He's not worth your peace.

He's not even worth putting on outside clothes.

And most importantly:

YOU'RE A WRITER.

Oh.

Right.

Put the artillery away.

Open Microsoft Word.

Because revenge is temporary.

A published story has a URL.

So I stopped dealing with him.

Immediately.

No competition.

No audition.

No:

“Pick me.”

Baby, there were apparently enough contestants already.

Remove my number from the raffle.

---

Time passed.

A LOT of time.

Maybe a year.

Maybe two.

Mr. Group Chat disappeared into the archives where he belonged.

Until one day...

Guess who spun the block?

Mr. Group Chat.

Sir.

Why?

He came back trying to explain everything.

And apparently, according to him, the group chat had been wildly inaccurate.

He wasn't sexually involved with all those women.

He wasn't in relationships with them.

Nobody understood what was really happening.

Even Four-Year Woman?

Apparently not a relationship.

Sir.

Four years?

Vacations?

Cooking dinner at her house?

Pictures?

Videos?

At what point does it become a relationship?

Do y'all need to file articles of incorporation?

Because according to Mr. Group Chat, everybody had apparently misunderstood.

Eight women.

Nine women.

However many women were in that damn chat.

We had ALL independently hallucinated the same man.

Amazing.

Do you understand the statistical probability of that?

This man basically walked into a courtroom where eight witnesses had identified him and said:

“Your Honor, everybody lying.”

Including the woman with FOUR YEARS of receipts.

Okay, O.J.

And the funniest part?

He tried AGAIN recently.

Yes.

Again.

Mr. Group Chat apparently believes in recycling.

He popped back up trying to see if there was still an opening available.

Maybe he thought enough time had passed.

Maybe he thought I'd forgotten.

Maybe he thought:

We're both Scorpios. She understands me.

Oh, I understand you perfectly.

That's WHY you can't come over here.

Because I recognized the same energy.

The secrecy.

The vagueness.

The little pieces of information that don't quite connect.

The feeling that you're only being allowed to see whichever portion of his life he's decided you're authorized to access.

Baby, no.

Been there.

Smoked that.

Left.

I did not sign up to stand in a line of women waiting for my appointment with one man.

I don't care how good the chemistry is.

I don't care what your zodiac sign is.

I don't care how many hours we can talk.

I don't care how good the smoke is.

I don't care if Mercury is in retrograde, Venus is doing cartwheels and Pluto personally wrote us a recommendation letter.

NO.

Because there's mysterious...

and then there's secretive.

Those are not the same thing.

Mystery can be sexy.

Secrecy gets your ass put in a group chat on Saturday morning.

And THAT is what Mr. Group Chat taught me.

Sometimes the red flag isn't what somebody tells you.

It's how much access they're willing to give you to their actual life.

If I can only see you during certain hours...

If every question has an explanation...

If every explanation creates another question...

Eventually I'm going to stop investigating.

Because I'm not applying for a detective position.

I'm dating.

And if dating you requires forensic accounting, surveillance equipment and three references from previous girlfriends?

Baby, keep moving.

But I do have one final question for Mr. Group Chat.

Sir...

How in the FUCK did you maintain all those conversations?

Because I have friends I love dearly whose text messages have been sitting unanswered for three business days.

This man apparently had women on four-year, three-year, one-year, six-month AND two-month contracts simultaneously.

At 54 or 55 years old.

Baby, forget the relationship.

WHAT'S YOUR TIME-MANAGEMENT SYSTEM?

Do you use Google Calendar?

Outlook?

Calendly?

Was there an administrative assistant?

Because coordinating this many grown women while maintaining different stories and allegedly remembering who was supposed to be where sounds exhausting.

I would've accidentally texted:

“Good morning, beautiful ❤️”

to the fucking plumber.

Maybe that's why he kept everybody on a schedule.

Tuesday: Dakota.

Wednesday: Legacy Account.

Thursday: Three-Year Plan.

Friday: TBD.

Weekend: Out-of-Town Division.

Sunday: REST, because even God took one day off.

But eventually the corporation collapsed.

The departments started communicating.

And management's biggest mistake was allowing everybody to get each other's contact information.

Because once the women started comparing notes?

THE MERGER WAS COMPLETE.

So no, Mr. Group Chat.

You cannot spin this block again.

The block hasn't burned down.

The block has been rezoned.

There is a new development there.

Security gate.

Guard dog.

HOA.

And your name is specifically listed under:

DO NOT ADMIT.

You had your opportunity.

Actually, judging by that group chat, you had several.

I'm good.

And that's the beautiful thing about dating at damn near 50.

Twenty years ago, I might've wasted energy trying to figure out why a man did something.

Now?

I don't need to understand.

I need to observe.

And what I observed was a grown man operating what appeared to be a multi-state romantic call center without properly notifying the participants.

Sir, shut the operation down.

And Facebook Dating?

We need to talk.

Because between Mr. No Sequence, Mr. New Leaf, Mr. Technically Separated, Mr. Culture Shock and now Mr. Group Chat, I'm starting to think this isn't an algorithm.

It's a writers' room.

But keep them coming.

Because I'm Dakota Denise.

I'm a freelance writer.

And these men keep forgetting the most important rule:

If the date doesn't work out, at least the story will.

Welcome back to Dating at Damn Near 50: The Dating Chronicles, where I have reached the conclusion that Facebook Dating is not actually a dating service.

It's an ambush.

At this point, I'm considering deleting Facebook altogether.

Not Facebook Dating.

FACEBOOK.

The whole motherfucker.

Dating profile? Gone.

Regular profile? Gone.

Messenger? Gone.

Marketplace? Sorry, y'all gotta find somebody else to buy that used dresser.

Because there is absolutely no way one algorithm has managed to locate this many varieties of bullshit specifically for me.

Mr. No Sequence.

Mr. New Leaf.

Mr. Technically Separated.

Mr. Culture Shock.

Mr. Group Chat.

And now...

Ladies and gentlemen...

Please welcome: Part 6

MR. MEET ME HALFWAY.

And unlike some of the other contestants, this man didn't need months to reveal himself.

He completed the entire evaluation process in approximately three business days.

Efficiency.

I appreciate that.

---

We met on Facebook Dating.

Of course.

He was originally from California but was temporarily in Salina, Kansas, for work.

Salina is roughly a couple of hours from where I live, so there was some distance between us.

But initially?

No problem.

We started talking.

And for the first couple of days, we talked A LOT.

Hours on the phone.

Texts.

Getting-to-know-you conversations.

He seemed interested.

I was interested enough to continue talking.

We discussed my businesses.

My writing.

Life.

Relationships.

The usual shit two people discuss when they're trying to determine whether the person on the other end of the phone deserves an in-person audition.

Except there was one recurring character in every conversation.

His ex-wife.

Baby...

I felt like I knew this woman.

Never met her.

Didn't know what she looked like.

Couldn't pick her out of a police lineup.

But based on the amount of airtime she received?

She should've been receiving residuals.

Every conversation somehow found its way back to her.

And according to him, she was a narcissist.

Now, I'm not a psychologist.

I don't diagnose people I've never met.

So I'm listening.

“What makes you say that?”

And then this man tells me a story about cutting his hair.

Apparently, one day he intentionally messed up his own haircut.

On purpose.

As a test.

He wanted to see whether his wife would tell him his hair looked bad.

She didn't.

According to him, she told him he looked fine and could go out like that.

And apparently THIS was submitted as evidence for the prosecution.

Sir...

You fucked up your OWN hair...

as an undercover marital investigation?

What was the expected outcome?

Was she supposed to tackle you at the front door?

“NO, BABY! DON'T LET THE PUBLIC SEE YOU!”

Because if a grown man deliberately fucks up his own haircut and asks me how he looks, I might say the same damn thing.

“You look wonderful, sweetheart.”

Go.

Be free.

Let the community handle this.

Because I'm not participating in a psychological escape room before breakfast.

But every ex story had the same theme.

She did this.

She did that.

She was the problem.

Another woman did this.

Another woman did that.

Everybody had apparently failed this man.

And I was listening.

Because I have learned something dating at damn near 50:

When somebody spends enough time telling you about everybody else's problems, don't interrupt.

Let them cook.

Eventually they'll accidentally put themselves in the recipe.

---

At some point during our three-day telecommunications relationship, Mr. Meet Me Halfway said:

“I'm gonna call you right back.”

Okay.

Talk to you in a minute.

Except apparently “right back” was being measured in geological time.

Because that call never came.

Hours passed.

Nothing.

Night passed.

Nothing.

The next morning?

“Good morning.”

Oh.

Good morning?

Sir, did we collectively hallucinate the part where you said you were calling me back?

Did your phone fall into a canyon?

Were you kidnapped?

Did California reclaim you?

Because where I'm from, “I'll call you right back” generally means sometime before the next sunrise.

But okay.

Strike one.

I didn't make a federal case out of it.

We're still talking.

We're still getting to know each other.

Maybe something happened.

Fine.

Then comes the day that officially earned him his nickname.

We're talking on the phone.

He's in Salina.

I'm at home.

And this man says something along the lines of:

“I want to see your raggedy ass today.”

...

My what?

My RAGGEDY ASS?

Sir.

We've known each other for approximately 72 hours.

You do not have raggedy-ass privileges.

There is a tenure requirement for that level of disrespectful affection.

My best friend can call me raggedy.

My children might be able to call me raggedy depending on how fast they can run.

A man I've known for THREE DAYS?

Absolutely the fuck not.

You don't know me well enough to play with me like that.

There are levels to joking.

You don't walk into a new job Monday morning and call the CEO a bitch by Wednesday because everybody laughed at lunch Tuesday.

READ THE ROOM.

So I checked him.

“Why are you talking to me like that?”

Because maybe that's how he jokes.

Maybe that's what he's accustomed to.

Cool.

But I'm telling you:

I don't like it.

That's your information.

Adjust accordingly.

Anyway, apparently Mr. Meet Me Halfway still wanted to see my allegedly raggedy ass.

He was going to get dressed.

Get himself together.

And come see me.

Great.

YOU proposed this.

Let the record reflect:

THE MAN INVITED HIMSELF.

Nobody begged him.

Nobody sent a handwritten invitation.

Nobody stood outside waving airplane landing sticks.

HE said HE wanted to come see ME.

So I told him what city I lived in.

Conversation continued.

A couple hours passed.

Then I get another message.

“Where do you live again?”

Okay.

Maybe he forgot.

I sent the city again.

And that's when Google Maps apparently entered the relationship.

He looked it up.

And suddenly there was a development.

“Oh, that's two hours away.”

...

Yes.

Kansas remained the same size since our previous conversation.

Then came the sentence:

“You're gonna have to meet me halfway.”

I beg your finest fucking pardon?

I'm going to have to do WHAT?

Meet YOU halfway?

Sir...

YOU WANTED TO SEE ME.

You specifically announced that you wanted to see my “raggedy ass.”

My raggedy ass was perfectly comfortable AT HOME.

It wasn't requesting transportation.

It wasn't stranded.

It wasn't standing beside I-70 with a cardboard sign.

YOU wanted to see IT.

Therefore, YOU need to transport YOUR ass to the location where MY allegedly raggedy ass is currently residing.

That's how invitations work.

You don't call somebody and say:

“I want to come see you.”

Then discover mileage exists and turn it into a group project.

This is not DoorDash.

I am not meeting the driver at the halfway point because delivery exceeded the service radius.

And let's discuss something else.

I DON'T KNOW YOU.

We had been talking for DAYS.

Not months.

Not years.

DAYS.

You want me to get in my car, drive an hour toward an area I'm unfamiliar with, and meet a man I've never met somewhere in the middle of Kansas?

Absolutely not.

What location are you proposing?

Exit 214?

A wheat field?

A Love's Travel Stop?

Are we supposed to split custody of the date?

I'll take the first hour, you take the second?

No.

If we had been dating for months and were sharing travel?

Different conversation.

If we were in a relationship and taking turns making the drive?

Absolutely reasonable.

But this was supposed to be our FIRST MEETING.

And more importantly:

YOU volunteered to come.

You can't volunteer and then subcontract half the assignment back to me.

At this point, something clicked.

I started mentally replaying the previous three days.

The ex-wife.

The exes.

The tests.

The haircut experiment.

The disappearing “I'll call you right back.”

The “raggedy ass” comment.

And now:

“You're gonna have to meet me halfway.”

Sir...

I'm starting to understand why everybody in your stories is allegedly difficult.

Because you might be exhausting.

And that's another thing I've learned.

When someone tells me every single ex was crazy, terrible, narcissistic, toxic, jealous, controlling and unreasonable...

I don't immediately assume they're lying.

Maybe some of those relationships really were unhealthy.

I wasn't there.

But eventually I do start wondering:

What role did YOU play?

Because if every house on the street is allegedly on fire...

at some point I'm going to look at the motherfucker walking around holding the matches.

And we'd only been talking THREE DAYS.

I wasn't going to stick around six months to collect additional data.

The preliminary findings were sufficient.

So what did I do?

Blocked.

Immediately.

No argument.

No negotiations.

No:

“Well, maybe we can meet somewhere that's 45 minutes for me and an hour and 15 for you.”

No.

Sir, you will never have to worry about driving those two hours.

Because you will never see me.

Problem solved.

Look at us compromising.

You don't drive two hours.

I don't drive one.

Everybody saves gas.

---

And the funniest part?

Mr. Meet Me Halfway actually taught me something important.

Effort doesn't mean doing everything for somebody.

Relationships absolutely require compromise.

Sometimes you drive.

Sometimes they drive.

Sometimes you meet in the middle.

But “meeting halfway” is supposed to describe mutual effort.

Not a man announcing what HE wants and assigning you half the labor required for HIM to get it.

That's not compromise.

That's delegation.

And I'm not on payroll.

Also, ladies:

Please stop ignoring how people talk about their exes.

I'm not saying a person can never have a terrible ex.

Of course they can.

But listen carefully.

Do they tell you what happened?

Do they acknowledge anything they could've handled differently?

Have they learned something?

Or are you listening to a 14-season television series where they're the only innocent character and every person they've ever dated was the villain?

Because eventually you're going to become an ex too.

And guess who's probably getting introduced as the villain in Season 15?

Hello.

It's you.

Somewhere right now, Mr. Meet Me Halfway may be telling another woman about this crazy lady he met from Facebook Dating.

“She wouldn't even meet me halfway.”

And you know what?

He's right.

I wouldn't.

Please include that in my character description.

Tell her I was stubborn.

Tell her I was difficult.

Tell her my ass was raggedy.

Tell her I blocked you.

Just make sure you include the entire sentence:

“I told a woman I'd known for three days that I wanted to drive two hours to see her, called her raggedy, then informed her she needed to drive halfway toward me.”

Let the new woman decide whether I'm unreasonable.

Maybe she'll agree with you.

Maybe she'll meet you at the halfway point.

Maybe she's sitting at a truck stop right now.

God bless both of you.

As for me?

I'm staying home.

Because my raggedy ass has Wi-Fi.

My raggedy ass has snacks.

My raggedy ass has weed.

My raggedy ass has writing to do.

And most importantly...

my raggedy ass has a BLOCK BUTTON.

So congratulations, Mr. Meet Me Halfway.

You officially join Mr. Group Chat in the next installment of the Dating Chronicles.

One man apparently needed an appointment calendar to manage his women.

The other couldn't manage a two-hour drive.

Facebook Dating really said:

BALANCE.

And I swear, Facebook, if you send me one more motherfucker like this...

I'm deleting everything.

Dating.

Messenger.

Profile.

Memories.

Marketplace.

FarmVille, if that shit still exists.

Mark Zuckerberg is going to wake up and personally notice my absence.

Until then...

I'm Dakota Denise.

Freelance writer.

Business owner.

Woman with apparently unlimited access to dating material.

And you already know the rule:

If the date doesn't work out, at least the story will.