Chapter 6: The Collection of "Almost", "Near" and "Blah Blah Blah"

There comes a moment in every Tinder user's life when they realize that the rules they've made up for themselves are nothing more than a non-binding recommendation. The first rule that was broken was the "radius rule." I started with 3 km. Why? Because I'm lazy, and because I was hoping that Prince Charming happened to live on the same street. But I quickly realized that within a 3 km radius I would mostly find the neighbor's ex-husband, my book, and maybe Walt's delivery man.

So I expanded. From the radius of a neighborhood supermarket to the radius of a football stadium, and from there to the radius of "well, let him go."

This chapter is dedicated to those who went beyond the radius, and especially exceeded expectations. Those who ended with a single (and usually culinary) encounter, or even less than that. The people of "the Lid."

Moti from Tel Mond: Sane, balanced and boring missiles

Let's start with Moti. Tel Mond is already overseas for me, but his biography... oh, the biography was a real promise. He described himself the way you describe probiotic yogurt: healthy, stable and good for the stomach.

Here is the original text, word for word, that made me swipe right:

"Sane, balanced and curious - tall, handsome, well-groomed, feels comfortable in jeans, sandals and a T-shirt or in evening clothes. To continue doing the things I love and that interest me, to expand the circle of people who bring out the best in me and to make the most of life as much as possible. For me, this is the last incarnation."

And what is he looking for?

"Solid and pleasing to the eye - well-maintained physique, interested, attentive, independent, pleasant to talk to, not rigid and not captive to rigid patterns of thinking or behavior or habits, curious and loving life."

Sounds dreamy, right? A man who knows what he wants, who talks about a "last incarnation" in a kind of spirituality for a shekel and a half. Well, the phone call shattered the fantasy faster than a plate that is dropped immediately shaking. I met (vocally) a dry man. Boring. Old-fashioned. "Curious? You made me laugh. The man was mainly interested in himself and the weather. When he said "sane and balanced," he meant "pulseless." I realized that the distance between the marketing text on Tinder and reality is like the distance between the picture of the hamburger on the menu and the crushed patty you actually get.

Status: Over before it started.

Conclusion: Those who claim to be "sane" are usually hiding the greatest boredom in the universe.

Roni Mishras: My beloved Italy (and the mythical ex)

Then Roni arrived. A moshavnik. The salt of the earth meets the olive oil of Tuscany. Roni was abroad when we started talking. Italy. He claimed he had business there and visited every three weeks. My eyes sparkled. Italy! Pasta, wine, steaks, a great man of the world who lives on the line. This is my chance to team up with someone who knows how to live well.

We made an appointment for the same gourmet restaurant where I met Kobi (yes, I recycle locations, they sued me). The evening was... cute. There were laughs. The food was excellent. Ronnie was large, paid for everything and insisted on the gentlemanliness reserved for men of the past.

But there was one small problem: Ronnie was in love. Ronnie. For two hours he talked about himself. About the business in Italy, about the moshav, about the steaks he ate, about the wines he drank. Me? I was a nodding backdrop. I tried to slip in a word, to say that I edit videos, that I have a dog, that I breathe - but there was no room. He filled the space to the brim.

We kissed goodbye (because he asked). I drove home with a mixed feeling of culinary satiety and emotional hunger.

The next day? Silence. The man who kissed me and talked about Italy disappeared.

A brief investigation revealed the findings: Roni is a "serial receiver." While he was drilling my head about the pasta in Rome, he was in contact with someone else. Apparently the one who "didn't go so well" at first suddenly decided she wanted it. And Roni? Roni did a quick calculation for the Moshavniks: Better a bird in the hand (who already knows) than a sparrow on a tree (which requires listening).

Conclusion: A man who doesn't ask you a single question for an entire evening won't be interested in you the next morning either.

Status:

A full Udi no matter where it comes from: dry like the Negev, "Menchat" like...

Then came Udi. Udi, who was full of life. I fell into the "good guy" trap again. Our romance began, of course, with a deep and romantic conversation about... the flu. Yes, yes. Two elderly people swapping recipes for ginger, honey, and onion. Passion was in the air (or was it the virus).

Here's a glimpse of the thrilling dialogue:

Udi:

Yael:

Udi: 5-6

The conversation flowed like cough syrup. We talked about the kids (he showed grandchildren, I showed Shira and the dog). He lives abroad somewhere, a business consultant. On paper? The American dream no matter where.

But then, from the pile of tissue and silence, this strange message emerged:

Udi:

I held my breath. One minute we're talking about grandchildren and Louisa tea, and the next he's offering "Kirbulim" and sushi in the same breath? I responded like a lioness defending her dignity (and personal space):

Yael:

Udi was startled. He turned around and apologized profusely.

I decided to forgive. Still, he sounded lonely, and so did I. And he showed interest in AI. Yes, we found a common ground! We both use artificial intelligence. I showed him the wonders of Elon Musk's Grok, and he was as excited as a child discovering a new toy. We arranged to meet.

We met in a cute town in Sharon. He arrived. A gentleman. Generous. Paid for everything. But... dry. Dry as the Negev. Dry as a sinkhole in the Dead Sea. Dry as an accountant's joke. I sat across from him, a nice man, "salt of the earth," and I felt nothing. No vibe, no spark. Just polite conversation about business, about America, and... yes, about ChatGPT.

After the meeting he wrote:

Status: A man, but not in school.

Conclusion: AI can explain what a good person is, but it cannot produce chemistry.

Uri, the sculptor from Herzliya: The artist's reverse

And finally, the bitter dessert. Uri. Sculptor. Artist. Blue eyes, looks young and sporty. A fascinating life story. Here, I thought, there is potential. After all, I am artistic, I create, I appreciate beauty. The conversation on WhatsApp was very visual. He sent pictures of his sculptures (impressive, it must be said), I sent video works of mine. Peacocks spread their tails digitally. I felt like I was moving up a league. Finally, someone who would see the depth, the creativity.

I asked to switch to a phone conversation. Within minutes, an interesting conversation developed. Long and promising good things. We ended the night with an exciting and full confidence (mine, but who else?) that we will talk again tomorrow and that there is a future for this despite the mileage.

The next day, instead of "Good Morning," I received the most artistic dismissal notice I've ever received:

Status: Unfinished work. Conclusion: Sometimes, when they say they are artists, they mean they are artists of disappearance.

And so ends another chapter in Tinderland. A collection of men who were "almost." Almost interesting, almost suitable, almost human. I'm left with my Grok, with my aging dog, and with the understanding that the radius is not the problem. The problem is what's inside it.

Next.

Chapter 6: The Collection of "Almost", "Near" and "Blah Blah Blah"