Gather around lovelies, for I am in a storytelling mood. Edge closer to your clanging pre-war radiator, or crank the electrical one overhead up a few degrees. Grab the Talenti you forgot about in the fridge, or the Halo Top if you’re a freak. I have a story to tell, or perhaps a confession to make. A few months ago, during another bout of quarantine brain, I downloaded a dating app for farmers. And this is my story.
Before I moved back to New York, as most of you know, I was in Pennsylvania. I was not in Pittsburgh Pennsylvania or Philadelphia Pennsylvania. I was in the part of Pennsylvania where, when the local supermarket re-opens after a sizable expansion, the town celebrates with a carnival in the parking lot. Sometimes, inside that carnival is a petting zoo.
Anyway, what rural Pennsylvania lacks in pretty much everything it makes up for in farmland. And so, as I walked back from the gas station one day (my social outing of the week), wearing cheetah print JCrew slides and vintage Levi’s dad shorts, I thought to myself: what if I became a farmer.
It would be an adjustment in so many ways. Like most New Yorkers, I’m just so used to the idea of the countryside being Newark, New Jersey. And it took me years to get over my fear of sitting on raw, uncovered grass, even in man-made city parks. But if I got over my crippling fear of insects, my discomfort towards untreated, un-chlorinated waters, my disgust for naturally occurring substances like dirt, silt, manure, mold, men, igneous rock, bruised fruit, and animals, I could be quite successful.
Especially fashion wise: just imagine me, in denim overalls and a red paisley headband, standing over a field of organic acorn squash!
Anyway, to network with the local farming community I decided to download the dating app FarmersD (short for Farmers Dating Only). This is what the app looked like:
I was pleased; these were real farmers. Behind their Caucasian embrace, one can clearly envision a rolling American flag, a pair Golden Retrievers running across a great expanse, and James Aldean serenading blonde children with a guitar solo. Satisfied, I started to create my profile. I was confused when they asked me what kind of farming I did, but I did like a multiple choice exam and picked whatever thing was third.
Then I got to thinking: it would not be a bad idea to find love while I was looking for farming opportunities. It’s not like the city boys ever worked out for me, concerned as they were with pursuits like banking. And it would be nice to gaze out at the stars from the back of a tractor, or to square dance in a barn all night, or to fight a no-dancing law if it was that kind of town. Most importantly: no one would EVER accuse me of being trapped in “my liberal bubble” ever again.
I broke the news to my friend Sophie immediately. I would soon be wed to a farmer, with whom I would till the land, and together we would push the American frontier Westward1:
And then…
I started swiping.
Unfortunately, I had been under the impression that all white farmers looked like Channing Tatum. (And believe me, the app was all white farmers.) And I don’t want to insult these men, the agricultural backbone of this country (especially if labor elsewhere is ignored for a second), but many of them looked like they’d never seen a field. Or picked a single wheat out of the ground. That’s how far they were from resembling Sweet Tate. THESE were the men touching the blueberries I ate? Churning the very butter I spread over Ezekiel toast? Sprinkling the GMO’s into the milk I refused at local coffeeshops? I couldn’t believe it. I’d seen more authentic looking farmers in Bushwick.
So, like a harvest season ruined by a swarm of locusts, my love story came to an abrupt end, and I was turned off the idea of farming altogether. To be fair, being on dating apps in general is absolute trash, so that critique is not specific to the farming community of Pennsylvania. Only three living people at any given moment constitute My Type, and none of them are ever interested.
Also, I think the app gave me some sorta bug because my phone was acting wilddddd for a second there. I don’t recommend it, no matter how bad the quarantine brain gets.
One Tip
Like my writing? Have I made you, as Nicole Byer would say, tee hee hee? Feel bad that I have never enjoyed the joint income that is sometimes included in a loving monogamous relationship? Feel free to tip me through my Ko-fi account.
One Recommendation
Kill Some, HAWA