"You’re Unmatchable"—And Other Lies I Told Myself
Online dating wasn’t supposed to scare me. I mean, I grew up riding my bike through the Boise foothills without a helmet like some kind of pioneer child. I could handle a Bumble profile, right? Wrong.
When I first dipped a tentative toe into the world of online dating, I was paralyzed by the thought of how to present myself. What images, words, or quippy one-liners could communicate “I’m fun, smart, kind, and yes, package all that with a little Idaho dust for flavor” without trying too hard? It felt like attempting to sum up the vastness of the Boise River in a mason jar. Impossible.
But there was one particular moment—hiding in a coffee shop, my laptop glowing with the cruel, mocking judgment of my blank bio—that changed everything I thought I knew about dating… and about myself.
The Panic of the Blank Bio
Let’s start with where this all began. Years ago, after a particularly disastrous rendezvous involving a man who used the phrase “alpha male” about himself unironically, my well-meaning friend Melissa grabbed my phone, opened up Tinder, and said, “Leslie, welcome to 2016.”
I stared at the blinking cursor in the empty bio box, absolutely frozen. Here’s an actual transcript of my internal monologue:
“Okay, Leslie. Be charming, but not desperate. Be funny, but please don’t write a stand-up routine. And for the love of all things holy, don’t say you like long walks on the beach. You’ve only been to the beach, like, twice.”
After spiraling into this existential identity crisis, my first attempt at a bio read like an out-of-office message: “Writer from Boise. Lover of hikes, indie music, and craft beer.” Somewhere in a server, a Tinder algorithm chortled. It was technically true but inspired absolutely no one—not even me.
And the photos? A mix of awkward selfies and one picture where I was clearly cropped out of a group shot with my cousin’s Pomeranian. Killer stuff.
I sent it live anyway.
Love Me Like You Love Your Kombucha
Predictably, things didn’t go well. My matches were sparse and bizarre. (Shoutout to the guy whose first message was just a crying-laughing emoji, though I still don’t know if he was laughing at me or with me.) One date enthusiastically compared brewery tours to Vegas strip clubs, which was… a metaphor I did not need. Another wore socks with sandals and said he couldn’t “in good conscience” date a feminist.
I was ready to throw in the towel when my best friend—not-so-subtly—reminded me of some life advice she’d once thrown my way: “Leslie, people care about kombucha, not for what it pretends to be, but because it’s unapologetically weird and a little fizzy. Be kombucha.”
She wasn’t wrong. I’d been acting like I was marketing Leslie Inc.™, not showing up as myself. Instead of owning my quirks—the dry humor, the constant Boise references, the 12-minute filibuster I launch into every time someone asks, “Is The Shins technically a Boise band?”—I’d been trying to somehow appeal to everyone. And in doing so, I’d appealed to no one.
The Pivot: Authenticity at All Costs
It was a Tuesday afternoon when I logged back into Tinder with a bold new mission: craft the profile I wished I’d matched with six months earlier. The goal wasn’t pomp or polish. It was to simply be me—foothills dust and all.
Here’s what I came up with:
- Photos:
- A photo of me at Camel’s Back Park. (Not exactly Vogue editorial, but it was a real slice of Saturday Leslie.)
- A picture holding a disgustingly oversized Idaho potato at the state fair. (Relatable, right?)
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Lastly, the kicker: a shot of me making an impressively melancholy face holding the vinyl of Elliott Smith’s “XO,” because that’s peak mid-thirties indie kid energy.
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Bio:
Writer, potato enthusiast, and brewery dweller. Probably in sneakers. Am a walking playlist of bands assuredly cooler when you first heard them. Would love to discuss the highs and lows of 90s rom-coms or any winding Boise Greenbelt trails. Swipe right if you believe snacks > meals.
Little did I know, this overhaul would be a game-changer. My matches didn’t just increase; the quality skyrocketed. People actually read the bio and referenced it in their messages (bless the person who DM’d me with “Elliott Smith is a vibe”). A few compliments about my potato pic even led to some clever banter about Idaho’s finest export. Suddenly, dating felt… fun.
Lessons from the Coffee Shop Moment
Looking back, that quiet moment in the coffee shop—the one where I decided to stop cringing at myself and start leaning in—taught me more about dating (and life) than I expected. The takeaway? Whether you’re Tinder-ing, Bumble-ing, or just meeting someone at a brewery trivia night, you’ll get farther by being unapologetically yourself.
If you need a little nudge, here are some quick tips I’ve picked up:
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Start with Real Photos:
The potato rule worked for me: pick at least one photo where you're doing something you ACTUALLY enjoy. This isn’t LinkedIn; no one’s hiring you. They’re just trying to see if you’re the kind of person they’d want to split curly fries with on a Thursday night. -
Write Like You Speak:
Your bio should sound like something you’d say out loud, not a résumé submission to the Hallmark Channel. Got an oddball quirk or hobby? Mention it! You’re fishing for someone who thinks that quirk is adorable. -
Don’t Sweater Commercial Yourself:
Picture this: you’re at a holiday party, stuck talking to someone who says all the right things but gives zero personality. That’s a sweater commercial—nice, in theory, but forgettable. Don’t be them. Show a little edge, mess, or delightfully nerdy obsession. -
Embrace the Boise Energy (or Your Version of It):
You don’t have to be a greenbelt local like me, but lean into what makes your life colorful and unique. Love Renaissance fairs or birdwatching at sunrise? Add that energy to your profile. You’ll draw people who actually get it—and get you.
Swipe Right on Yourself
Online dating didn’t magically line up my happily-ever-after as soon as I redid my profile, but it did feel… easier. Like the world wasn’t so full of “alpha males” and strangers with emoji-only communication skills.
And the big surprise? Being clear about what I wanted weeded out the maybes and no-thank-yous, leaving more room for the yesses. Funny how honesty works like that.
So, here’s the thing: eight years ago, I thought I was just revamping a dating profile. What I didn’t realize was that I was practicing something much bigger: giving myself permission to be seen as I am, imperfections and all. And that, friends, deserves more than just a swipe. It deserves a standing ovation—preferably while holding a state fair potato.
