Somewhere between losing Sadie and trying to breathe in a house so quiet it echoes like an abandoned Costco, my girlfriends decided the cure was… Bumble. Because clearly, when you’re grieving, exhausted, and emotionally duct-taped together, the obvious remedy is to hand you an app full of men who think “hey beautiful 😘” is the equivalent of emotional therapy.

And I’ll admit it,  I fell for it fast.

I’ve been lonely for a long time.

Not “girls’ night fixes it” lonely.

The kind of lonely where you sit next to someone you married and still feel like you need an emotional service animal.

So when Bumble dangled even the illusion of connection?

I dove in like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic.

Suddenly I’m opening the app more than I open my fridge, and trust me, my fridge gets a lot of attention. I’m checking Bumble like it’s part of my daily wellness routine:

Cleanse.

Moisturize.

Open Bumble.

Swipe.

Lower my standards.

Swipe again.

But the real journey, the true entertainment, is the visual buffet Florida’s eligible bachelors have served me.

Like thrift store shopping, welcome to the Men of Bumble: A Guided Tour

1. The Beard Boys

These men’s beards hang lower than saggy boobs in a gravity experiment.

I’m talking knee-length facial hair.

Beards that could double as scarves.

Beards with more secrets than the Vatican.

Sir…

I should not have to wonder if you store snacks in there.

2. The Florida Fish Kings

I had no idea the men of Florida were ALL professional anglers.

Apparently every eligible bachelor within 60 miles is hauling around a dead fish like it’s a newborn in a hospital photo.

Redfish, catfish, something prehistoric, all of it, proudly displayed.

It’s as if there’s a state requirement:

“Must love God, country, and holding a fish up to the camera at an unsettling angle.”

Sir, blink twice if someone forced you to take that picture.

3. The Midlife Crisis Car Models

Then we have the gentleman, and I use that term loosely, who take photos with their shirts unbuttoned to the belly button.

Chains glistening.

Chest hair trying to escape.

Standing in front of a bright red sports car they definitely bought after reading a book titled How to Survive a Midlife Crisis by Impressing Women Half Your Age.

Sir…

Button your shirt.

I can see your retirement regrets.

______

But occasionally… someone seems normal.

And that’s where things get dangerous.

Like the recent charmer, oh he was GOOD.

Music? Matched.

Hobbies? Matched.

Ideal Sunday? Matched.

He painted me a scene so romantic I practically got sunburned reading it:

A blanket on the sand. Lunch by the ocean. Sunset walk.

I melted.

I ignored my gut.

And, like a woman starved for gentleness after years of emotional drought, I handed him my number.

Mistake #1,204.

Not even two hours in, between my meetings, he was diving into my retirement plans like I was interviewing at Fidelity.

And then came his spiritual financial advisor:

Mr. Li, the god of Bitcoin.

Apparently this man could triple my savings, solve world peace, and probably cure seasonal allergies.

Bless him.

I do, in fact, have a functioning brain.

I politely informed him our retirement visions did not align.

He told me I “misunderstood.”

No sweetheart… I understood before you typed it.

Then came Mr. Nice Guy… until 11:02 p.m.

Lovely. Respectful. Normal.

And then, as the clock struck creep-o’clock:

“What are you wearing?”

“You got underwear on?”

“Send me a pic.”

Sir…

This is not OnlyFans.

It is a weekday.

And I am in five-year-old Target pajamas that have seen things.

And the Instant Boyfriend.

Five messages exchanged.

Five.

Not enough time to confirm he’s not a felon.

Suddenly:

“How’s your night, baby?”

“How’s your day, baby?”

“Okay, baby.”

Baby?

SIR.

We do not know each other.

I don’t even know if you own real sheets.

And between them all…

There’s the one who selected me first, matched with me and initiated the connection, which meant Bumble then forced me to send the opening line… only for him to never reply.

The audacity.

Sir, you rang the doorbell.

Then there’s the one who wants a relationship exclusively through text like we’re reliving AOL Instant Messenger.

And then there’s the one who wants photos and to know if I “suck”, and let’s be very clear, he was not talking about lollipops.

Sir, please.

And finally, the one who wants my money and maybe my Social Security number.

It’s like God shuffled a deck labeled “Absolutely Not” and handed it directly to me.

⸻

But here’s the part that matters:

I keep going.

Not because I’m desperate.

Not because I’m trying to fill Sadie’s place, nothing and no one ever will.

But because I still believe there’s someone out there, like finding a gem at a thrift store that probably wasn’t meant to be donated…

a Jake Ryan type of man, 

the kind who sees me like I’m the prize at the county fair.

A man who:

• texts during actual daylight

• doesn’t call me “baby” before he knows my birthday

• and isn’t posing with dead fish or preaching Bitcoin gospel

⸻

So for now…

I’m throwing out Bumble.

But don’t worry, girls, you’re not losing your virtual happy hour entertainment.  

I’m just switching apps.

I’m giving eHarmony a try.

Because at this point?

I want to open an app and let the guys pick me.

Let them start the conversation.

Let them make the first move for once.

And honestly?

I’m hoping eHarmony is detailed enough, and expensive enough, to weed out the perverts, the creeps, and the Hell’s Angels auditioning for my affection.

New app.

New hope.

New chapter.

And who knows?

Maybe somewhere in that algorithm is a man who doesn’t own a single fish photo.

Until then…

I’ll be over here, laughing, swiping, and sipping my wine like a woman determined to find the one good item in the clearance rack of modern romance.