Dating in portland? ew.

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Let’s talk about the tragic comedy that is dating in Portland, Oregon… while being a full-time single mom in her 30s… who still doesn’t fully understand how to swipe on Hinge without accidentally matching with a guy who looks like he vapes essential oils and wears toe shoes to pick up his organic kale from a neighbor of his named “Autumn Rain.”

First of all, the weather.

You want to make plans? That’s cute. Let me just check the forecast—oh wait, it says “partly sunny with a 97% chance of emotional disappointment.” Let’s summarize a normal day of weather here…”Yesterday it hailed, snowed, and then got up to 65 degrees like the sky was going through a midlife crisis.” I show up on a date in a puffer coat and rain boots, and this dude’s in Tevas, a beanie, and a tank top like he’s going paddleboarding after happy hour. Portland weather has zero respect for your blowout or your barely-worn brunch outfit.

Then there’s Hinge.

Ah yes, Hinge: where bios are either long-winded monologues about being “emotionally available” (red flag), or one-word responses like “Ask.” Sir, I just did. By clicking on your face. Hinge in Portland is 90% dudes holding fish (my sister and I spent a day literally counting fish as a main profile photo as a fun drinking game idea), climbing rocks, or wearing Carhartt ironically. The other 10% are “poly, plant-based, pansexual, part-time DJs, possibly houseless and need a place to “crash” but want to evolve with you…,” who “ ALSO – don’t believe in labels” but do believe in splitting the bill—even though they invited me.

And let’s not forget the guy who said his love language was “mutual ghosting.” Honestly? At least he was honest. Honesty goes a long way with me and let’s be real, he was the most relatable person I had met at that point thus far.

Now add in: being a single mom.

Dating as a single mom is like trying to sneak out of a hostage situation—you’re doing it for your own good, but it’s complicated. I have to schedule dates like I’m booking a root canal:

“Hey, I can meet up Friday night… if my son’s babysitter shows up on time, if bedtime doesn’t turn into a 2-hour episode of Bluey-induced negotiations, and if I don’t pass out from exhaustion with one sock still on while my son is eating cheerios while sitting on my back.”

By the time I actually get to the date, I’m like a raccoon in a leather jacket—confused, tired, slightly feral, and overly excited about the idea of an adult beverage (which is now a different scenario because I no longer drink).

Also: the babysitter costs more than the meal.

So if I’m sitting across from you, sipping a lukewarm cider and trying to pretend like I’m not worried about whether my toddler flushed something down the toilet—I need you to at least pretend like you’ve showered in the last 48 hours.

In summary:

Dating in Portland as a 30-something full-time mom is a chaotic mix of soggy socks, ghosted messages, and emotionally unavailable men who say they “aren’t ready for something serious” but have a “deep connection with their crystals,” who want you to change their entire life for the better within 20 minutes of meeting them, and act like they havent seen a woman in their entire life and treat you more like a BRO, than someone they asked out on a date.

But hey—every now and then, you get a decent convo, a hot plate of sustainably sourced, gluten free, vegan nachos, and a reminder that even if the date sucked… you still got out of the house. And honestly? That’s a win at this point in my life,