Chapter 18: Post-trauma, combat shock and life after the "Law of Immunity"

Beloved friends, partners in fate and simply sympathizers,

Remember the "immunity" episode? That moment of grace in which I decided to be the Mother Teresa of menopause and grant the male sex a sweeping amnesty for past sins? Well, it turns out that this immunity has side effects that don't appear in the consumer leaflet. The main one: motor paralysis in the index finger.

Ever since I hit "publish" on that episode, I find myself standing in front of my smartphone, staring at the Tinder/Bumble/OKCupid/Alpha icon (delete the unnecessary, they're all the same lady in a desperate disguise), and my body just says, "No." It's not just aversion, it's a severe allergic reaction. The thought of another swipe right, another "Hey, what are you looking for?", another picture of a dead fish or a cute grandchild makes me want to enter a monastery in the Himalayas.

I came to the conclusion that apps are not just "Sodom and Gomorrah," they are a social experiment that has gotten out of control.

All kinds of images come to my mind... hmm... for example:

They're just like an order from Ali Express. In the pictures, everything looks like luxury haute couture on a Swedish model, but when it gets home you discover that it's made of rustling nylon and smells like a plastic factory in China. And the worst part? There's no one to talk to about a refund, and you're left with the damaged goods and a feeling of international fraud.

Or for example: You could also liken them to a breakfast buffet at a three-star hotel in Eilat, ten minutes before the dining room closes. All that's left on the trays is cold scrambled eggs, yellow cheese that's starting to sweat at the edges, and rolls that someone has already touched, dried, and decided to return.

Or for example: they're a used car lot where every car has been 'totally lost' and refinished with masking tape. The seller swears to you that the car belonged to a doctor, first-hand and jealously maintained, but as soon as you start it you discover that the engine makes noises like a broken washing machine, the chassis is bent, and there's a suspicious smell of mothballs and disappointments from the back seat.

And it's not just me saying this, science is with me!

I recently read a study that claims that prolonged use of dating apps makes a woman's psyche look like the cartilage of a knee after a marathon without shoes. Researchers at Why-I-Live University found that cumulative exposure to words like "flowing," "not built for a relationship," and "recently broken up" causes accelerated aging of optimism and wrinkles in the soul that no amount of Botox can smooth out. It turns out that every swipe left burns out a vital brain cell responsible for hope, leaving in its place only pure cynicism and a strong desire to adopt a dog.

And between us? The timing is worse than ever. The world has decided to finally go crazy. These days, as I sit and wait to see what missile Khamenei decided to launch at us this morning, or what chaotic tweet Trump unleashed on the world, my crazy brain is getting extra hours of anxiety anyway. And alone, friends, this anxiety is taking up double the volume. My imagination is already building horror scenarios in which I get stuck in a shelter and alone.

So where is he? Where is this man who will save me from waiting for missiles? I'm not looking for a knight on a white horse, I'm looking for a man with a spacious command center, a calming ability, and the ability to fill me with "cautious optimism," or at least someone who will tell me "it'll be okay" and who I will believe, even if the world outside is going up in flames.

So there you have it. I've retired from apps, but I need someone for emergencies (and for relaxation, and just a weekday). I've hung up the finger, but my heart (that stupid, anxious one) still wants it. I turn to you, my female oracle: Where, for God's sake, do 60-70 year old men meet in the real world before the apocalypse?

I sat down and tried to map out the analog options available to us. Here are the findings, and I warn you in advance: it's getting worse:

The fruit and vegetable department in the supermarket:

The tactic: stand next to the avocado and sensually touch it.

Reality: The only man who will approach you will be the one who asks if "it's on sale." If you find someone checking out a watermelon, chances are he'll knock on it, listen, and say "that's not it." A metaphor for our lives? Absolutely.

Appointment at the health insurance company:

The advantage: You know your health status in advance. An appointment with a cardiologist? You have a heart (weak, but you do). An orthopedist? Probably an athlete (or just broke down). A urologist? Next.

The downside: The first date will be in Assuta's cafeteria and the flirting will involve comparing prescriptions and cholesterol levels. A romance of clogged arteries.

Dog park:

The tactic: Ask my daughter for her beautiful, passionate dog, come to the garden, and hope she sniffs the right man's dog.

The risk: You'll end up breaking up a fight between a poodle and a husky while the potential owner yells, "Rexy, leave the lady alone!" There's also a good chance you'll fall in love with the dog rather than the owner.

Enrichment classes and workshops:

The idea: a creative writing workshop, a ceramics class, a silent retreat and yoga.

The sad truth: The men there are usually one of two things: either the woman sent them out of the house because she was tired of them, or they are there to "connect with their feminine side."

Demonstrations in Kaplan (or any other protest):

The location: Saturday night, flags, zambora. The place where the testosterone of the 60s meets the rage of their lost youth.

The method: Stand with a sign that says "Looking for democracy and someone to sleep with spoons." The adrenaline of protest simulates falling in love (scientifically!).

The problem: The first date will be a scream of "Shame! Shame!" and he might turn out to be more loyal to the Constitution than to you. But hey, at least he's getting out of the house.

So girls, I'm desperate. I need your wisdom before I report to Kaplan.

Do you know of any quality groups (emphasis on quality, not "single, single, and having fun" groups where you send GIFs of sparkling flowers in the morning) around the web? Are there any secret hiding places in Tel Aviv where men who are equal, intelligent, smell good, and don't have a mother complex gather?

Give me the details. Recommendations, warnings, treasure maps. Just don't tell me to go back to the app. My finger is on unpaid sick leave.

Oh, wait, stop everything. What's wrong with you? Tell me, are you living in social isolation? Are your husbands wandering around in an empty space? Isn't there some friend from the reserves/from labor/from parliament in a cafe? Isn't there a handsome neighbor who asked for sugar? What happened to the good old matchmaking institution? Come on, do a mitzvah.

Yours with great love, Yael (Tinderland survivor)

Chapter 18: Post-trauma, combat shock and life after the "Law of Immunity"