Red Flag Roulette

Swiping Through Love with Zero Expectations

Photo by Bernd 📷 Dittrich on Unsplash

About a month ago, after taking a much-needed break from the dating swamp, I finally decided to end my man-cation and dive back into the murky waters of romance.

To be fair, I’ve moved to a new state where I barely know a soul, and let’s face it, ladies, it’s a lot easier to meet a man than it is to make friends with women, even in what’s supposed to be considered the friendliest state in the whole country—though at this point, I think even the squirrels are judging me. I’m the one wearing the parka in a sea of shorts, t-shirts, and Birkenstocks when the temp hits below 65.

I refused to shell out for a dating app, so I took a detour into the wild west of Facebook Dating. Spoiler alert for the newbies: paying for premium doesn’t magically upgrade the dudes—they’re still the same bargain-bin options, just with a fancier price tag! I think Leslie Jones was onto something when she recently said on The Drew Barrymore show that they should just have one dating app and call it What’s Left  - Facts right there.

I’ve got to give it to the men of the Midwest though—they bring out their big game, literally. I’ve seen profile pics with fish, deer, and what I’m pretty sure was a wild hog, and not the kind with wheels. Although, trust me, there are plenty of those hogs too, along with trucks, boats, and enough camo to disappear in a Home Depot. Now, I’m a city girl at heart. Don’t get me wrong—I can camp... I just require a raised inflatable mattress and a heat source that doesn’t involve rubbing sticks together like a caveman auditioning for Survivor.

So, after about a week of nope nope nope and a couple of false starts, I went out on a date, fully prepared or whatever ridiculousness would arise

The first date that I went on in my new state, literally and metaphorically, didn’t end badly, but let’s just say the red flags were waving from the moment I arrived. I prefer my potential trauma like my Starbucks—obvious, easy to spot, and with an exit close by.

I actually appreciate how easy he made it for me to get the ick and move on quickly.

So, back to the dating app I went—because, apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment. For the record, I’m not one of those people who can juggle a dating roster. Honestly, I can barely keep up with my two kids, three cats, dog, tortoise, and a full-time career, let alone a lineup of men who are probably just going to disappoint me anyway. And let’s be real—I’ve disappointed my fair share of men too. It’s basically a mutual hobby at this point.

I end up chatting with a new man who, on paper, sounds like the perfect match. Not looking to get married, definitely doesn’t want kids, wants someone to have fun with, but doesn’t want to support – financially, I mean. Also, from our conversations, I don’t think he’s looking to fix my life, which is also a bonus. He could be a really smooth catfish or one of those “hit it and quit it” types... yes, I’m that cynical. There’s no way he’s actually normal.

This is what happens to women of a certain age—we’ve officially run out of fucks to give. But hey, I’m bored and, let’s be honest, a little horny. If nothing else, it’ll be entertaining, especially now that I’m fully embracing my "You do you, boo—” era.

It’s not that I don’t care; it’s that I just don’t care like I used to. I’ve moved on from organizing my life around anyone else, and my world doesn’t revolve around finding Mr. Right—I’m more in the market for Mr. Not-a-Narcissistic-Psycho, with a side of emotional stability and decent texting habits.

We decide to meet up, and he makes the drive down to my neck of the woods. Honestly, I’m amazed at how many men on Facebook live hundreds of miles away. Are there no women up there, or have they just scorched the dating pool so badly that they’ve been forced to expand their search like they’re on some kind of emotional road trip to avoid a restraining order?

He showed up—so that was a plus—and he was on time. Clearly, my expectations are in the basement. I wasn’t dreaming of some barnyard wedding or anything; I just hoped he’d speak in complete sentences and not launch into a rant about his ex. Or at least not refer to her as a "psycho"—pro tip: if they call all their exes crazy, you should be the one running... preferably before dessert.

Shockingly, it was a great evening. He had banter! He has a life! His kids actually like him! I’m giving the date a 10—granted, my standards are low, but overall, very normal, very demur.

We’ve now had three dates—I honestly can’t remember the last time I made it that far without drafting my exit strategy. To be fair, I’ve done my share of ghosting too. But so far, not a single red flag, not even a little one peeking out from his collar like a clearance tag at TJ Maxx.

Should I be concerned? This isn’t MY normal, and so I have to practice and not overthink the exact moment when the red flag will emerge out of nowhere and take me out.

And honestly, maybe that’s the biggest red flag of all. Have I become so jaded and cynical that I don’t know how to deal with someone who isn't a nefarious energy vampire plotting to gaslight and love-bomb me like it’s emotional Hiroshima? Is this what healthy feels like, or am I just waiting for the villain reveal in this rom-com horror show?

Maybe I’m the red flag because I lack the skills to handle a normal dude just wanting to have fun. I keep waiting for the wind to pick up and hear the slap slap slap of that flag I’m so sure is lurking. It’s like the chicken and the egg—am I creating the red flag, or was it there all along, just hiding behind his charming banter?

I guess only time will tell. But for now, I’ve decided to let myself enjoy a “normal, not-a-psycho-killer” dude for a while. I mean, I deserve that much, right? Besides, maybe he’s out there squinting at me too, wondering if my red flags are just on backorder.