Hot Girl Pickleball Summer
The trials and tribulations of online dating, and embracing ourselves for who we are: messed up humans swiping our way through a sea of insecure, hopeful hearts.
This was me last week when I did something I haven’t done in 2+ years:
GO ON A FIRST DATE. 🥴
That’s right. Ya girl is back online, and in case you were wondering: online dating still sucks. One of few things that hasn’t changed in this pandemic. But, in the words of our savior Glennon Doyle, we can do hard things, so here I am. Swiping and sending roses (very Bachelor of you, Hinge) and finding every insecurity I’ve ever felt triggered back to life with the irate fervor of a white lady who’s just been asked to move her yoga mat six inches to accommodate others.
Having spent years in therapy and “doing the work,” I feel like I should have exterminated these feelings of not enough-ness by now. And yet, as I got ready for the date, the all-too-familiar refrains returned: My nose is too big. My clothes aren’t right. My jokes aren’t funny. I’m not funny. I probably won’t even like him anyways <a classic case of pre-judging him before he could do the same to me>.
I hate that I’m hating on myself, but there’s something about dating that seems to quickly unravel the existential “Am I enough?!?” thread. Summarizing yourself into a few basic stats and Q&As is impossible, and yet we’re asked to do this daily.
We’re all projecting some sort of crafted image to the world, whether we realize it or not: through online dating or adoption profiles, the parenting choices we make (or don’t make), the clothes we wear, every job application we submit, curating what we share online, curating what we share with friends, family, and co-workers… These choices have never seemed to define our enough-ness more.
I sometimes wonder if I could just put it all out there and own every single fact, weird eccentricity, and belief of mine. For me, an honest dating profile might look like this:
Holly, 37
5’7” with the body age of a 70-year-old (ailments: glaucoma & a dying wrist bone)
Weight: Fluctuates, get used to it.
Drinks: Occasionally (warning: is emotionally drunk after two drinks).
Enjoys: Loose-fitting linen clothing, wearing no make-up, trashy TV (Real Housewives and Drag Race watching *will* occur), and a 10pm bedtime.
Hobbies: Getting overly competitive about anything, pickleball, and filling all awkward silences with meaningless chatter.
While I write some of this in jest, I know there would be freedom in giving myself permission to be honest and refusing to feel bad or shameful if the swipes, likes, and hearts on my profile don’t come. Because maybe—just maybe—giving myself that permission might also give someone else permission to do the same.
After the first date (which was actually very enjoyable, though no love match occurred), my friend Cassy texted me: “We’re all just a bunch of insecure, hopeful hearts swiping our way through a sea of insecure, hopeful hearts. Sometimes I find it helps me to search for the solidarity in it all…almost feeling compassion for anyone inside this shared experience because girl, it’s not easy…”
As my first act of solidarity for anyone who has ever felt even a shred of not enough-ness, I’m declaring it HOT GIRL PICKLEBALL SUMMER.
You don’t have to be hot (temperature or other-wise), a girl, or like pickleball to participate. All you need is a willingness to commit yourself to the daily practices of self-acceptance and self-compassion. Because as much as I wish that I had a magic wand to bippity-boppity-boo the pesky insecurities away, the reality is that living our true, messed-up selves is a practice. Some days we’ll have it (self-acceptance!), and some days we won’t (self-compassion!).
And on those days when neither option seems feasible, all I can offer is the gentle reminder that you are most certainly not alone.
In March, I visited my friend Liz in D.C. and we shared a spiritual moment at the cherry blossoms.
Baking: This Chamomile Tea Cake with Strawberry Frosting.
Binging: Starstruck, season 2. Rose Matafeo is the best: “You truly do not hear men described as quirky or kooky. It's done with such a tinge of condescension or derision with women. Often people who are described as quirky or kooky, when you actually look at them, they're just interesting women who are into something that's perhaps unexpected.”
Eating: Pretty chocolate bars from Zora, which is woman-led, -run and -operated! The Ginger Sesame was my fave.
Listening: To Johan Hari talk about his book “Stolen Focus.” A must-listen for those feeling powerless to distraction, which is literally everyone I know.
Reading: All My Millenial Friends Are Rethinking Their Lives. Maybe I Should Too. “At 36 years old, the disconnect between who I feel I am and how I’m living has become more glaring for me, too. As an extrovert who thrives on community and social engagement—yet who works from home every day in a city his friends are increasingly fleeing—it feels as if something is withering inside of me that I cannot water fast enough.”
Reading, pt. 2: Our Food System Isn’t Ready for the Climate Crisis.
Reminding: EVERYONE IT’S CHAMPAGNE MANGO SZN AKA THE MOST UNDERRATED FRUIT SEASON OF THE YEAR!!!
LOLZ: Despite going off the socials, I’m lucky to have friends who understand the importance of sending me a good meme:
Thank you for reading. Wishing you all a chonky, delicious week! xo, Holly
I want to put every word of this newsletter into my fanny pack and carry them everywhere.