I was putting myself out there. I resolved to pass judgment on several hundred men per day, and to make an effort to message the few I matched with. To further complicate matters, it was estimated that fifty per cent of men on dating apps in the city were now blots.
But what choice did I have? Apps seemed to be the way everyone found each other these days. Years passed and nothing did happen, and I realized that without my intervention, my hand pushing the warm back of fate, it was possible nothing ever would.
In the end, it seemed to come down to never dating again or taking the chance of being blotted. Though I supposed there had always been risks.
The early blots had been easy to identify. They were too handsome, for one thing. Their skin was smooth and glowing, and they were uniformly tall and lean. Jawlines you could cut bread with. They looked like models, and they had no sense of humor.
I met one of them several years ago. At dinner, I sat next to a guy named Roger. He was solicitous, asking about my family, my work as a teacher, and my resentment toward the tech industry. Roger seemed eager to charm, but I was not charmed. I felt spotlighted by his attentiveness, his anticipation of what I might wantβanother helping of fava-bean salad, more water, an extra napkin after I dropped a chunk of braised pork on the lap of my skirt.
