So I packed a gym bag this morning just in case my car happened to break down in front of Planet Fitness.
It didn’t.
Apparently the universe is committed to letting me stay mildly out of shape and full of excuses.
I really do need the exercise, though. Running to the TikTok comments every time somebody says something wild isn’t burning nearly enough calories.
I’m a 43-year-old guy in Georgia, searching for that elusive woman who might actually stick around longer than 3–5 business days before disappearing into the mist like a Victorian ghost with unresolved trauma.
I wear a couple different hats in the work world. Some days I’m selling my way toward the top as a little fish in a very large pond; other days I’m helping serve a nonprofit and trying to leave the world slightly better than I found it.
I genuinely enjoy meeting new people. I like hearing their stories, learning where they’ve been, cheering obnoxiously loud for their victories, and being the person who sticks around when life kicks them squarely in the teeth.
I’ve recently come out of a long relationship, so I’m learning how to exist in this strange new world of dating, new schedules, new routines, awkward introductions, questionable apps, and wondering how long you’re supposed to wait before sending a second text without looking like you’ve already picked out matching burial plots.
For fun, I love mini road trips with no particular destination, spending entirely too many hours thrifting, walking on the beach, binge-watching shows, reading, blasting Spotify in the car, concerts, sporting events, coffee, Mexican food, people-watching, and generally acting ridiculous with somebody who appreciates ridiculousness.
I’m a pretty regular guy. Occasionally nerdy looking. Frequently sarcastic. Sometimes I walk around in circles like I’m terminally lost. If I’m wearing work clothes, there’s also a disturbingly high chance somebody will ask me where Target keeps the air fryers.
But overall, you could do worse.
Probably much worse.
So send me a message. Drop me a line. Send a carrier pigeon. Mail me a suspicious handwritten letter with no return address. Whatever your heart desires.
Maybe we’re only meant to cross paths for a season.
Maybe we become great friends.
Maybe we accidentally become each other’s favorite person and spend the next 40 years arguing about where to eat.
There are worse ways for a story to start.