My Mother is a Catfish

As of now, I have a profile on a dating site that I cannot control, or respond to. It is not linked to my email. It is full of pictures of me—real pictures of real me—and a healthy paragraph about me and my hobbies and interests (“I am a longtime vegan into fitness, the outdoors, and hiking.”) None of it was written by me, and none of the dating app is even accessible to me—I don’t even know which app it is. It isn’t even on my phone. It’s on my mother’s phone.

Don’t get the wrong idea—my mother is happily married to her 2nd husband with no plan for a 3rd (I mean, I don’t think there are any thirds…?). The dating profile is not for her to find dates for herself, or to look at what she’s missing, as a married woman in her early 60’s (because it ain’t much) but for her to do what I clearly can’t on my own: find me a boyfriend.

“Look,” She has said in the past, “You’re in great shape, you have a lot of friends, you’re outgoing, and you love children. Who wouldn’t love that?”

That was then, this is now.

”You need to give more people a chance. There are lots of men who might not be best looking of the bunch, but they are NICE and they would make EXCELLENT fathers. Maybe they’re bald! Maybe they’re not your type! Do you think a tall, bald dentist from Orange County was my type when I was single? But look at me now! I have a loving marriage with a man who is a giver—he’s a giver, honey, and a real mensh.”

I tried, in vain, to explain app dating culture to her: the lazy messaging, the one dimensionality, the liking your profile but never writing or responding, the overwhelming exclamation! Point! Comments! On! Your! Looks! The “lol nah how about u” and all the awful disheartening soul-sucking spirit of having a dating profile people can thumb through like a never-ending PG-13 Porno mag. Its like being a calendar girl for a calendar that began with the crucifixion, and feels like it.

Well, no problem there. She’ll take care of it. All of it. I won’t have to do any of the work. I won’t even need to look at it. What a deal! She can make sure he’s a nice guy, send me a picture of him, and set up a time that works for both of us to meet for coffee. Painless! Simple! Streamlined!

Yeah, okay, I can tell you’re on her side like my friend Lauren, but here’s the thing: She doesn’t write the profile as my mother, she writes it as me, and even though I don’t really flaunt being a millennial, imagine reading a version of you as seen through the eyes of someone 30 years older than you that never even went though a Bright Eyes stage. BUT I CAN’T EVEN READ IT. Also lets be real the pictures she picked of me, which she showed me, were thirst traps and pictures of me smiling like I’m 12. Regardless, when a man did “like” this mystery profile, my mom was like “Okay when can I tell him to meet?”

I could have been kinder to my mother, I know, who is just trying to help. It’s really my fault for not having any boundaries and now, after all her typing, swiping, and tears, retroactively assert a boundary that was a broken screen door to begin with. I had to do it though. I had to voice my truth.

”Mom! You have to tell him that you’re my mother and you wrote the profile! If you don’t it’s—we’re—CATFISHING.”

My mother thinks catfish schmatfish, let’s just pick a day for coffee. It’s just coffee! I give him your number or you get his?

So now I have this random man’s number in my phone and I am completely beholden to make text small talk and find a time to get coffee or else my mother will have a TERRIBLE Mother’s Day.