“If we both joined Tinder, do you think we’d match with each other?”

“No.”

“Hey!  You answered too fast.  And what do you mean by that?”  I swat Bob on the butt.

We’re watching a Tinder drama play out in real-time while cooking dinner.  Saoirse is dressed and ready to leave on a date.  I’m making a vegetable beef and bean stew on the stove.  She’s eyeing it covetously.

Her date, who she met on Tinder, is suddenly not responding to her texts about where to meet.   He expected to pick her up.  She politely informed him that she doesn’t ride in cars with men she doesn’t know well.  She has offered to drive herself meet up and grab a bite to eat so they could talk further and get to know each other a little more.  

And that’s a seriously big move on Saoirse’s part.  There aren’t many restaurants in the area with menus she enjoys.  The girl likes her food, and she hates to eat anything off a Sysco truck.  She does NOT like to miss dinner at home. This guy has no idea what she’s giving up for him.

But he’s put out.  He cancels the date.  Saoirse gives a whoop, shoves her phone to the end of the kitchen counter, grabs a bowl, and digs in.  

Happy to have my daughter home for supper, I return to my bigger concern, that my husband apparently wouldn’t swipe right on my fictional Tinder profile.

“That’s really hurtful, Bob!”

“What?”  He’s playing stupid.  I’m not falling for it. 

“So you think you’d swipe on someone else instead?”

“I think you wouldn’t even show up in my feed,” he’s brilliant at sweeping up the ashes of his incendiary quips.

“He’s right, Mom.”  Saoirse cuts herself a hunk of cheddar to pair with her stew.  “You probably wouldn’t even get shown to each other.  You’d probably need Tinder Platinum to find each other.  And you’d most likely need to fill out your questionnaires together so you’d get matched.”

“So, like, prostate cancer survivor seeks long-in-the tooth haggard homeschooling mom?”

She shrugs.  

“How come you don’t pay for the platinum version?”

She rolls her eyes. 

“I think you should try the farmers only dating app.”

“No, Mom.”

“Or outdoor personals.”

“Forget it, Mom!”

“How about looking in a different region on Tinder?  How about Vermont? Maine?”

“Why?  Because you think guys up there are more likely to be able to lift a feed bucket?“

“Is that a crime?”

“What, are you the Babhdóir now?”(pronounced Bav-door).  “I’ll be sure to let my friends know that they can now sign up for the services of an Irish Matchmaker.”

I’m not a matchmaker.  Yes.  Saoirse’s too young for a serious match.  She’s having fun, learning a lot, and doesn’t take any of it too seriously.  I admire her attitude.  I’m just trying to wrap my head around her generation’s dating world.  

I met Bob when I walked into LLBean in Freeport, Maine, and he was working retail in the optics and watches department.  He was talking to a customer about paddling and birding.  I had recently broken up with  one of my poorer boyfriend decisions, a man who, among other issues, was dreadfully afraid of water.  In all the drama of trying to make that relationship work, I’d quite forgotten something about myself.  I loved paddling and camping and swimming.  And  dang, Bob, standing behind the counter talking about warblers and taking his canoe down the Presumpscot, was seriously easy on the eyes.  I melted.

I needed a point of connection, and fast..  I looked down at my watch with it’s frayed band, and took immediate action.  With one quick tug, I snapped it, then walked up to the counter.

“Can you help me find a replacement watch band?”  Then I started asking him about birding.  I’ll admit, I faked my interest at first.  He could tell I was full of it.  But he didn’t want to let on and lose the moment. 

Now, 27 years later,  we watch the birds together every morning, and keep tabs on each of them — the titmice, the chickadees, herons and eagles, the red bellied woodpecker, each of the warblers, the winter wrens, and the different sparrows.  We choose our morning walk based on which birds we long to visit.  The careful, and yes….I’lll say it…artful approach to our courtship bloomed into a lifelong love.  

I feel like Socrates bemoaning the potential forgetfulness of writing in place of verbal discourse, berating his student Plato for recording his dialogues.  “Kids these days and their crazy wax tablets and papyrus!”

I’m no stranger to the wonders of technology for managing my business, and Zoom cocktail hours with friends were definitely  a mainstay in our house for enduring the pandemic,  but the rituals and norms of modern digital courtship leave me confused.  In the time it took me to fix supper, Saoirse’s entire relationship had run it’s course.

And I know what you’re thinking.  It was a stew, right?  Stews take a long time to simmer.  But I’d gotten home late from the cafe, so I was using hamburger.  It was a fast meal.  I had the entire thing prepped in under twenty minutes.  

I want to be helpful and supportive to my daughters as they brave their dating years, but I’m increasingly finding myself clueless about what I’m supposed to do.  It was so much easier to teach them fractions.  I wax poetic about the good ol’ days of pick up lines and coquettish stares…Followed by a little light banter, which eases into casual chatter where prospective partners try to glean information about each other while pretending they aren’t trying to learn about each other.  

From my view, these subtleties (or, are they inefficiencies?) are gone.  Swipe right if you’re interested, left if you’re not.  At the same time, I can’t ignore the fact that Saoirse meets far more people than would likely otherwise be possible for a girl who helps run a farm and a cafe in an isolated mountain hamlet.  She never seems to want for companionship. 

The four of us sit down to watch iZombie together, bowls of stew in our laps, dogs at our feet, cats perched on the arms of the living room chairs.  I look over at Saoirse and can’t ignore the wide grin on her face.  She’s enjoying her evening, relishing the simple pleasures of being home with us on a Friday night.  And I recognize that It isn’t my job to help her navigate the dating world.  She is a smart young woman who knows how to operate within the norms of her generation, and she will navigate it without my help.  My job is to just be here when she comes home, a reminder that love feels like laughter and banter in the kitchen on a late spring evening; it looks like two partners able to see the beauty in each other beneath the scars of the years; and it tastes like a warm bowl of stew, filling your body with nourishment and joy….I don’t need to understand the apps.  I just need to let her know that, when we choose well, whether it’s by swiping right or breaking a watch band or chatting about birds, decades later, we know in our hearts we would do it over and over again.

 

Did you enjoy this? You can help make the magic happen for as little as $1/month by hopping over to Patreon and looking up Shannon Hayes.  Or, if it’s easier, you can also donate to support the podcast by sending a check to Shannon Hayes, ℅ Sap Bush Hollow Farm, 832 W. Fulton Rd, West Fulton, NY  12194.

And that’s a really important thing to do, because all of this— the podcast, the blog, the novels and books and the creative recharging that happens over fall and winter—   are a result of the support of my patrons on Patreon.  And this week I’d like to send a shout out to my patrons Karen Rogers & Karen McElmurry    .  Thank you, folks!  I couldn’t do it without you!