Crescent Moon

Online dating apps and I have a tumultuous relationship. I am still recovering from my experience on Bumble BFF, which is the version of the dating app meant to help you find friends rather than romantic interests. I had been reluctant to the idea, but after a phone call with my best friend in which he yell-told me that I am “getting in my own way” and that I need to take my social life “into my own hands”, I tentatively re-downloaded the Bumble app and switched it into BFF mode. Because I was searching for friends rather than a romantic partner, I swiped right on every picture I saw, figuring I might as well give myself options. There were only 37 photos total, so I quickly finished looking through them all. Then I waited. 48-hours later I remained 0 for 37.

Being fully rejected on Bumble BFF is a very particular experience I wish upon no one. I deleted the app immediately after.

A few months later, curiosity spawned by the momentary lull between midterms and finals led me to download the app again, this time in search of a potential romantic interest. I tend to lean towards Bumble instead of the other apps because I know I have to be the one to reach out to the men first, which is definitely some heteronormative bullshit, but at least I won’t be bombarded by unsolicited dick pics, which ranks as one of my top ten fears. I don’t feel like sharing the full details of my profile, but it does include the words “car-dancing”, “ogling”, and “eating” in it. My primary profile picture is one my friend took of me wearing a white dress standing in a field near a large tree. This is the only time I have ever been in a white dress near a large tree with my hair brushed, and yet, it is how I have posited myself for the Bumble-microcosm of Tucson to see.

I begin swiping. Let me tell you, swiping while being an academic fucks shit up. Every profile is vulnerable to an in-depth critical analysis. On the outside, I’m looking at their photos. On the inside, I’m thinking: ugh toxic masculinity, ugh toxic masculinity, ugh dog, ugh baby, UGH DOG AND BABY. Do they really think women are just vessels of overflowing maternal desire and nothing more? Why does no one post a selfie with their volumes of queer theory? Or eating their favorite bowl of pasta? Or holding a sign denouncing the white supremacist capitalist cisgendered heteropatriarchy?

I digress.

Typically, after an hour of swiping, I settle on one person who may be sort of okay. Then, the following ensues: read said person’s profile like 10 more times trying to think of something witty to say, draft multiple responses, revise final response, send revised response, FREAK OUT, receive no response, FREAK OUT, delete app for several more months, complain about “being single”, continue to do nothing about it, make playlist of songs about being an Independent Woman, realize I am whole and worthy all on my own, spend increasing amounts of time in my bed with my I’m Not Alone I’m Independent body pillow, notice the cactus in my room is probably dead, think too much about what killing a cactus signifies about my personality, listen to inspirational songs about “personal growth”, decide I need to take my life into my own hands, open the App Store on my phone, search for “Bumble”. Repeat.

This cycle has happened three times total over the last few years. To contextualize this cycle, I have provided some of my opening Bumble lines below (I do want to note that all of these were in direct response to something I read in the person’s profile):

1.     “How high are your tennis playing standards? (i.e. would you scoff at someone who once tripped and fell in front of her entire family during a suburban high school JV tennis match … asking for a friend).”

2.     “So, what is your ideal spelling of ‘Wednesday’? I’d personally root for ‘Wendsday’, but perhaps that’s too bold.”

3.     “Does your love of burritos include breakfast burritos?! I have been on a quest to discover the best breakfast burrito in Tucson and would love any and all insight.”

o   THIS PERSON RESPONDED. I have attached an annotated version of his response with the thoughts I had when reading his response interjected in blue:

o   His response: “Breakfast burritos are absolutely included. They’re an important food group by themselves [I’M SORRY, DID HE JUST REFER TO BREAKFAST BURRITOS AS THEIR OWN FOOD GROUP, *LOSES BREATH]. I’ve had a few terrible ones and one really great one, I’d be happy to share my experience [I WILL NEED EXACT LATITUDE AND LONGITUDE COORDINATES, PHOTOGRAPHS, AND A MULTI-LAYERED ACCOUNT]. How long have you been on this quest? [MY WHOLE LIFE, MY FRIEND. MY WHOLE LIFE]”

o   My response to that response: “Tell me everything- the tale of a great breakfast burrito is always worth hearing. I moved to Tucson in August for school and have been on the quest ever since!”

He never responded.

~

Because nothing has come to fruition, I tend to hang out in my imagination instead. Right now, I am walking home from campus; my book bag droops my shoulder, and the warm air causes me to take a deep breath and smile. “Beggin’ For Thread” by Banks comes on, and I am feeling myself. I start dance-walking-- sliding down the street, grooving around my mail box. The beat accelerates, so I run into my house because I have to dance full out to this song right now. I just feel it.

I swing open the door and make a hard right turn down the hallway to my bedroom. I am now dance-running, and in my excitement, my glasses fly off onto the floor. The event takes me by surprise. I start laughing, and the mixture of the music and my dancing reminds me of a Dumb Decision (capitalization intentional) I made during my senior year of college.

Have you ever made out with someone just to have A Story to convince yourself that you lead an Exciting Life and that you are not in fact A Mess (again, capitalization intentional)? I have. My best friend and I were out one night at a beer festival dressed in all black (never a good sign). Riding the high of too many beers, we decide that we are not ready to cut the night short, so we make our way to some sports-themed bar where women can drink unlimited for $5. I was Del for the evening. Del is my fake bar name slash alter ego. She is suave, sophisticated, and does not have two differently sized feet that cause her to fall often. Del does wear glasses, but she wears them ironically in an “I just want to keep up with the latest fad” kind of way, not an “I cannot see without them” kind of way. Del does not go on loud, public rants about the mechanisms of the heteronormative patriarchy that facilitate the $5 Girls Drink Unlimited deal that got us in the door nor does she problematize the assumption that $5 warrants unrestricted sexualization of women’s bodies (*Aly is digressing so hard right now btw). Nah, Del is totally calm and mysterious. Her first sentence upon meeting someone would never include the words “sweaty”, “tripping”, and/or “eating a whole pint of ice cream in one sitting”.

Through some turn of events, I end up with my back against a pole on the dance floor with some guy’s tongue down my throat. My eyes are open because I can’t even pretend that this means anything to me. With my eyes open, I can see it happening: my glasses are slowly sliding down my nose and off my head. My hands are caught too tightly behind my back to reach for them, and my sweat is accelerating the slide. I attempt to sway to move my arms and adjust my glasses, but the guy interprets this as dancing so he grabs my arms and sways with me as my glasses continue their descent. Del is still making out with this guy, but Aly is praying they don’t fall. Please don’t fall, please don’t fall, please don’t fall…

The glasses fall. The clatter doesn’t make a dent in the beat of the bass, but I am terrified we will step on them and break them, so I yell, “Umm, excuse me? Sir? … Sir? .. Um, SIR?” He jolts back and with the best I am Suave and Collected Del stare I can muster, I utter, “Please excuse me while I retrieve my glasses.” I put one finger up to indicate, “one moment please”, bend down, grab my glasses, and stand up. Before I am even fully upright, he has placed his lips back on mine. This makes me acutely aware that it doesn’t matter at all if I am Del or Aly. I’m just a body.

My glasses fall off two more times. Each time, I repeat the “sir”/“one moment please” bend and snap. After the third time, he finally breaks enough to pause the make out and wear a deeply annoyed expression. Sensing my moment to leave, I feel a wave of anger that frustration was the emotion that forced him to see me as human.

~

Back in my room, however, Del and Aly have merged into one badass lady. I am thriving and totally bringing it. I have my headphones’ volume button fed between my thumb and forefinger, and I am still blasting “Beggin’ for Thread” by Banks. In real life, my whole outfit is wrinkled and smells like BO. My lips are so dry they look cavernous. A giant zit centers itself on my chest bone. In my head, I am still me, but I instead wear a slinky dress with a deep cutout on the back; it hugs against the ass I sometimes have. I dawn large blue earrings, and my hair dissolves in waves around the frames of my glasses. Oh, and I’m wearing fucking stilettos. I stop dancing for a moment to make sure stilettos are part of my vision…Yeah, definitely wearing stilettos.

*PAUSE THE BLOG! STOP READING! Click on this link to engage in a multi-modal reading experience. Fast-forward to the time 2:49. Press play and resume reading for the full experience.*

My roommate isn’t home so I am belting the song. OMG THE BEST PART IS HERE. “Holding out, woooahhh, trying to hide it up in my tracks oohhh bettaaa”. I am waving my hands all up around, dropping it low, pumping my chest. I truly believe I am sexiest dancing alone, fully uninhibited. My hips sway, my facial expression says “come and get me”, and I reach out to grab an imaginary tie, pulling someone into me, as if I would ever be bold enough to do this in real life. I back myself up against my dresser, which is about a foot taller than me and grind like I have never grinded before. I’ve partnered the grinding with some epic shoulder shaking action. “Ohhhh bettaaaa”. I get to the floor, totally out of breath at this point. I rise and jump all around, eyes closed, completely in bliss.

The song eventually ends, and I take out my headphones. The silence is ringing, my breath is uneven, and the reprieve of my imagination has ended. I stand facing the stack of books I know I need to be reading. My hands are still holding my headphones. I slowly place them on my nightstand, change into my pajamas, and get into bed with my I’m Not Alone I’m Independent body pillow. I open one of the books to the marked page. In the quiet, I sigh, and my mind settles as I channel my imagination into academia for this moment. Inhale, inhale, inhale.

Exhale, exhale, exhale.

~

I spend much of my life in the imaginary, moments past, present, and future coming to me out of the blue. Do you know the feeling? Do you ever remember something all at once? I think I do it all the time. A song plays or the sky is that certain hue or the breeze feels just this way-- and all of sudden, I’m here with you.

We are in the middle of a conversation about nothing and everything. My hair is more copper, and my voice is less unsure of itself. Freckles adorn my arms. I rub them when you make me laugh. When I turn to talk to you, I adjust my glasses, which remain smudged with my fingerprints because they feel more honest that way. We are walking in some place beautiful, but the scenery is nothing more than a backdrop since my whole being is paying attention to you. You tell a story with your hands, and even as narrator, I can see you paying attention to me, too. I’ve come to know that paying attention is never a neutral or complacent behavior. In her moving elegy to her late partner, writer Mary Oliver tells us, “Attention without feeling … is only a report. An openness- an empathy- was necessary if the attention was to matter.” In this vein, we open. I am feeling everything. I notice your hair is more. Your eyes are more. Your smile is more, too. All of you is uninhibited. We pay attention to one another.

These are the versions of ourselves in which our outsides match our insides. We are saying everything we need to say and being everything we need to be, without reservation and in full knowledge that revealing ourselves- the ugly selves, the confused selves, the vulnerable selves, and the radiant selves- will only move us closer to each other. I align my shoulder next to yours, and you lean into me with charged humor cavorting in your eyes. You dare to say that we are wholly liberated in each other’s presence, like we are catalyzing one another. I look back at you with feeling. Searching you, I know there’s nothing left unsaid. Our usness is on full display. So, I tell you that I’ve never forgotten what your laugh sounds like.

In fact, your laugh is one of the things I know for certain.

With that, my daydream moves. Our moment was only a figment of the imagined, after all. A new song plays and the sky changes hue and the breeze dissipates into an undertone and this time, I am running. The pads of my index finger and thumb cradle the volume button on my headphones, turning it up, up, up. The only back and forth here is the swing of my ponytail, which dances coincidentally with the pace of my feet. I am alone, only accompanied by sweat falling in crescent moons amongst my skin and the border of nighttime cracking over mountain ridges far in front of me. I’m running with all the worlds I’ve imagined for myself: the ones that are real, the ones I’ve lost, the ones I’ve never had, the ones I’ll always have, and the ones I hope to someday lead. I am paying attention to myself, feeling everything. I step, step, step and exhale, exhale, exhale. And I still wonder, baby-

How many lives do we lead unspoken?