One funny thing about dating apps: you can match with ten men in a week, and somehow not a single one knows how to hold a conversation. They all feel very safe behind the keyboard, but the minute actual dialogue is required?

Poof.

Gone.

Or worse… still there, but absolutely nothing to say.

And yet, because I am a persistent optimist with good hair and a hopeful heart, I keep trying.

Which brings me to yesterday.

This wasn’t a relationship.

This wasn’t emotional investment.

This wasn’t even a second date.

This was supposed to be a first in-person coffee, after meeting on an app. Barely a blip on the calendar.

And still… the universe managed to give me a full reminder of why I am very, very selective about who I give energy to.

Let’s rewind.

A couple of days ago, this man was enthusiastically planning our future and telling me he could set up a workspace at his house so we could work closer together, a bold statement for someone who hadn’t met me yet, but hey, confidence is cute.

Then, he was going out with a friend the night before our date. I sent a light, friendly message wishing him fun night and joking about our upcoming “coffee or dinner” situation. No intensity. No expectation. Just a playful comment from a woman who has tried the apps enough to know that humor is sometimes your only tool to stay awake.

Seventeen hours later, I got:

“Whoa.”

“I said coffee.”

“Dinner if you like me.”

Ah yes. Another man who panics at tone he imagined, but not at the real things, like consistent communication, courtesy, or accountability.

What came next was a long list of explanations: errands, responsibilities, someone needing him, pressure, chaos… everything except the one thing that would have actually mattered:

“Hey, I misread your message, my bad.”

But here’s the plot twist: I wasn’t invested.

Not yet.

This was pre-coffee. Pre-meeting. Pre-connection.

And because it wasn’t emotional, it was actually easier to see clearly:

If a man is inconsistent before coffee, it won’t get better after lattes.

If he’s overwhelmed by a joke, he’s not ready for a woman.

And if he dodges accountability, he’s disqualified gently, cleanly, painlessly.

So, I canceled the coffee date.

And instead of stewing or rereading like a detective, I grabbed my keys and drove straight to the beach.

Because when a man hits me with “whoa,” the ocean hits me with perspective.

The waves were calm.

The breeze was warm.

And for the first time all day, everything inside me clicked into alignment.

This wasn’t a loss, it was a reminder.

A reminder that my standards are solid.

A reminder that early patterns reveal the whole story.

A reminder that I am not here to coax consistency out of strangers on the internet.

I didn’t lose anything.

He just showed me his ceiling early, and I prefer men with roofs that don’t leak at the first sign of a joke.

So I sat there, toes in the sand, realizing:

This is why I step back quickly.

This is why I trust my intuition.

This is why I don’t get emotionally tangled in “potentials.”

And this is why I’m still, intentionally flirting with my future, not anyone’s confusion.

The ocean doesn’t flinch.

The tide doesn’t hesitate.

And the sun certainly doesn’t deflect or sidestep responsibility.

So I’ll keep letting go of what doesn’t feel right the moment it doesn’t feel right.

Because the right man won’t need to be explained, convinced, or recalibrated; he’ll recognize me. And he’ll show up steady.