Experiments in Offline Dating

Chapter 1 An Experiment in Going Offline （and Possibly Talking Less About Cat Colons）

Maya: Hello and thanks for joining us, out there in podcast land.

I’m your host, Maya Davis, and you’re listening to A Spinster’s Guide to Online Dating.

This is my cohost and producer extraordinaire, Simone de Souza, without whose technological savvy and dazzling wit this podcast would not be possible, and I would just be babbling to my cats alone in an empty room. Say hello, Simone.

Simone: Hello.

Maya: Nicely done. So, where to begin? In case we have any new listeners tuning in for the very first time, welcome to Season Two.

Don’t worry, you’re very welcome to start the show here and listen to the utter shipwreck that is my love life without having joined us for the horrors of Season One. What do we need to tell them, Simone?

Simone: Umm . . . we’re sorry?

Maya: Yes. We are sorry. That’s very true. If you’re squeamish, or not a fan of sarcasm, or your doctor has advised you that cringing could be hazardous to your health, please tune out now. We’ll wait . . . Still there? Very brave indeed.

Simone: Or dense.

Maya: We warned them. So, here’s how this works. This is a show in which I conduct an ongoing experiment exploring the tumultuous, befuddling world of love and dating, in a tireless search to bring answers to the scientific world at large. And also for listener entertainment.

Simone: And damn, has it been entertaining!

Maya: I remember on Episode Thirteen, “Axe Throwing with Aggro Andie,” you laughed so hard that turmeric chai came out of your nose.

Simone: Ha! Oh yeah! Don’t get me started again!

Maya: Quiet, you. So, in Season One, A Spinster’s Guide to Online Dating, I braved the grueling, dog-eat-dog jungle of online dating for an entire year. And did I find one, just one man on the planet, who wanted to be my boyfriend? No, I did not.

Simone: It’s really not as easy as it should be.

Maya: It’s not. Which is exactly why we called in the cavalry—dating coaches, neuropsychologists, celebrity stylists, sociologists, couples therapists, singles therapists, chakra healers, astronomers, you name it. There was even that one Vegas chapel Elvis impersonator.

Simone: Oh, Arnie was great!

Maya: Such insight! So, each expert was given a list of men to choose from in my ten, that’s right, ten dating apps.

Simone: And a few women. We can’t forget about Tammy the Gym Instructor.

Maya: Oh, poor Tammy. If you’re out there, Tammy, I can’t apologize enough for the body paint. Actually, let’s send her an Edible Arrangement, shall we?

Simone: No, we can’t. She said if you ever contacted her again, she would get a restraining order.

Maya: Oh, that’s right. Well, sorry about your curtains, Tammy. So anyway, for each episode, an expert was asked to choose a person from the apps and plan an activity for us, anything goes, then coach me very carefully and/or make me over, or whatever, in preparation for the big date.

Simone: Oh God, those hair extensions! That whole outfit!

Maya: I looked like Cher got a job at Hooters.

Anyway, I would then attempt to follow their instructions to the letter, in the hope of getting it right, and then afterward we would all reconvene for the second half of the episode to dissect and discuss, in lurid detail, where it all invariably went horribly, horribly wrong.

Simone: It really is almost impossible to imagine how bad she is at this.

Maya: Last year I went on fifty-two dates, thirty of which are recorded here. You can also see the charts and stats on our website.

Simone: We should probably mention ethics.

Maya: We should. You can read my dating protocols and experiment methodology online. Every participant we discuss on this show has agreed to be part of our experiment and topic of conversation, both before and after the date, and names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Simone: Not all of them are willing. Some get annoyed and change their minds. That’s why she’s had fifty-two dates and we only have thirty episodes.

Maya: Yeah. Shame. ’Cause I’ve had some doozies!

Simone: So, for our skeptics out there, Maya, why don’t you explain how dating could possibly be this hard for you. And in case you think it’s a looks issue—it’s not. I mean, her clothes are kinda tragic, but she’s not hideous.

Maya: Aww, Simone. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.

Simone: Keep your shirt on. I’m just saying that the woman gets more than her fair share of creepy fan letters.

Maya: I do. Creep fest!

Simone: And she gets a lot of matches. So it’s not looks. It’s definitely her dating behavior.

Maya: It’s just the whole dating thing makes me so damn awkward. And sweaty. I overthink it. And I find myself saying the absolute stupidest shit. I don’t know what to do with my hands or my face. I get hyper-aware of my body language, which makes me flustered and weird.

Simone: We’ve had a few men mention that actually on-air. That one guy said you were like a Muppet on speed.

Maya: Yeah. I also do this horrible thing where, throughout the whole date, I can’t stop my eyes from drifting to their crotch.

Simone: Oh God. What?

Maya: I know! It’s not like I can see anything there. It’s not like I’d even want to! I only do it specifically because I keep telling myself not to do it! Like a nervous tic. Especially when eye contact becomes awkward.

Simone: I have no words.

Maya: There’s a causal correlation here.

I get nervous that I’m going to act like a weirdo, so I try to focus on not being a weirdo, and the stress of it makes me act like a weirdo.

Anyway, the point is that I try to be smooth and sexy and fascinating, but somehow I just always do .

. . whatever is the exact opposite of that.

I find it really hard to read people. But flirting is all about subtlety, and being mysterious, and playing it cool, and not saying what you mean, and perhaps not meaning what you say, or meaning more than what you say.

And I never, never feel like I know what the hell is going on.

I get in my own head about it, and it’s always just a shit show.

Simone: Well, thank God you’re such a fucking disaster artist, or I’d be out of a job, and hundreds of thousands of listeners would have a boring commute to work.

Maya: Happy to be of service.

Simone: And for those already typing out angry comments, why do you call yourself a spinster, Maya?

Maya: Well, dear listeners, I don’t do so lightly. Let’s review my personal qualifications, though for any proud spinsters listening at home, I urge you to make your own list of prerequisites, as we are all a special flavor of spinster.

Simone: Actually, that’s a great idea. Please send those in! We’d love to read them.

Maya: Ooo—yes, please. So, while you’re thinking of your list, here is mine.

Number one: I’m thirty-eight, never married, and I’ve never been in a genuine, serious relationship, and furthermore, I’ve never been in love. Frankly, I think the whole love thing is kinda strange and improbable.

Number two: I live with my parents. I know—I hear your collective groan—but rent in San Francisco is extortionate.

I moved back in after college, and just .

. . never left. And you know what? It’s actually pretty great.

It’s financially practical, we share cooking and cleaning duties, and there’s a lovely cleaner who comes twice a week (hi, Tim!).

The house is roomy, and we watch British murder mysteries together in the evenings.

It’s just . . . comfortable. And not complicated.

And I don’t see any reason why that should have to change. What else?

Simone: Cats.

Maya: Oh! Number three: cats.

Simone: Oh my God, way too many cats.

Maya: Never! Okay, yeah, maybe a little. Soooo . . . I may do a bit of fostering for my local shelter, and I maaayyy have had four foster fails.

Simone: Four. And that’s not counting the ones that you continue to foster. So sometimes you actually have more than four cats.

Maya: Correct.

Simone: How many do you have right now?

Maya: Six.

Simone: Six. In one house. Where they outnumber the humans two to one.

Maya: Okay, yeah. But there’s plenty of room, and they’re all such beautiful, fluffy, perfect little angels.

Simone: Last time I came over, one pissed in my purse.

Maya: Well, you shouldn’t have left it on the floor like that.

Simone: Oh yeah. Totally my fault.

Maya: Agreed. And lastly, number four: I just don’t think ‘spinster’ is an insult!

At least it shouldn’t be. I know that historically the word has been used to demean women and make them feel small.

Most people would say it’s anti-feminist. And there’s no real male equivalent.

But I’m here to say that there’s nothing wrong with being an unmarried woman!

I want to reclaim the word. Own that shit!

Okay, sure, if I miraculously found love after thirty-eight years on the planet, I’d consider making some changes.

But my life is really great as it is. I have everything I need.

I love my routine. I have zero drama. Life as a spinster is . . . kinda wonderful, actually.

Simone: But, to be clear, you would like to find someone, right? You are actually trying on these dates, and not just throwing the fight for comedic effect?

Maya: No, no, that would be bad science! I’d definitely like to try being in love. That’s why I started this whole experiment in the first place. I’m curious! I’d really love to see what all the fuss is about! I just don’t need love the way I think a lot of other people do.

Simone: What about sex?

Maya: Well, sure. I definitely need sex! But sex can be great with other people, or alone, and love is not needed for either of those activities.

Simone: At least now I know why you’re always too busy to pick up your phone.

Maya: I never pick up the phone because I know it’s you, and I’m so seldom in the mood to talk about your obsession with KFC copycat recipes.

Simone: Rude.

Maya: I mean . . . the real KFC is just not that expensive.