Nomadic Nurse Diaries

Dear Hinge Gods of the Evergreen State,

What cruel trick are you playing on me? Was I a serial swiper in a past life, leaving a trail of broken matches and unreturned texts? Because, seriously, Washington’s dating apps are where all hope goes to die.

Okay, maybe that’s dramatic—but only slightly. Let me take you on a journey through the wild, weird, and woefully disappointing world of Washington’s dating scene, where I recently found myself friendzoned by a short king who’s maybe a 6 on a good day. Yes, you read that right. I got friendzoned… by a short king. And today, my friends, I’m out for blood. Or at least a really stiff drink.

Swipe Right and Prepare for Disappointment

Let’s start with the basics. Dating apps in Washington are bad. I mean, really bad. I’m talking “I’d rather spend a weekend cleaning my van’s roof in the pouring rain” bad. The people here are… how do I put this delicately? Stand-offish. Like, would-rather-talk-to-a-tree-than-actually-engage-in-a-conversation stand-offish. I’m not sure if it’s the endless drizzle or just a general state of Pacific Northwest aloofness, but trying to connect with someone here is like trying to get my cat to fetch. Not impossible, but definitely not happening on the first try.

But let’s focus on my most recent dating debacle: the short king. Oh, the short king. It started innocently enough—a few messages back and forth, some harmless flirting, and then… the love bombing. You know the type—over-the-top compliments, constant messages, emojis everywhere. And I’m thinking, “Okay, this could be fun.” I mean, I’m a 30-year-old nomadic nurse with a life that’s far from ordinary. I’ve got stories for days, I’m fluent in several languages, and I’ve seen more of the world than most people ever will. I’m not saying I’m a catch, but… I’m a catch. So, when someone starts showing interest, I’m all ears.

The Plot Twist: Height Matters?

But then, dear reader, the plot thickens. Mid-conversation, after days of intense love bombing, he finally takes the time to read my entire bio. You know, the one that clearly states my height. And then, like a record scratch in a romantic comedy, everything changes. “Oh shit,” he says, “you’re taller.”

And just like that, he goes full Toy Story on me. “You’ve got a friend in me,” he says, as if I’m supposed to be thrilled about this sudden pivot. Breh, what the fuck! I don’t want your friendship. I don’t need your friendship. I don’t want to be the Woody to your Buzz Lightyear. I’d rather be off fighting Zurg alone than be dragged into a friendship I didn’t ask for.

Listen, I hate leaving my van as it is. The van life suits me because it allows me to hermit in peace, with my dog and cat as my primary sources of social interaction. I don’t need an involuntarily imposed friendship to complicate my life. I was here for the potential romance, not a buddy-buddy pat on the back. Nah. I’m good.

What’s Next?

So here I am, still navigating the murky waters of Washington’s dating pool, which is starting to feel more like a swamp. The whole experience has me questioning if there’s anyone out there who isn’t intimidated by a tall, independent woman who knows what she wants. Maybe I’m asking too much? Or maybe the right person just hasn’t shown up yet.

Until then, I think I’ll stick to the open road, my books, and the freedom of not having to deal with short kings who can’t handle a woman with a few extra inches on them. Because, honestly, I’d rather be alone in my van than stuck in the friend zone with someone who can’t see past the numbers on a measuring tape.

So, Hinge Gods, swipe left on these lame matches and send me someone who’s ready to step up—or at least someone who can appreciate my height for what it is: an asset, not a dealbreaker.

Until next time,
Your Friend-Zoned but Still Fabulous Nomadic Nurse