Summary

The author humorously recounts their accidental qualification as a private investigator through interactions on a dating app, despite no prior interest in the profession.

Abstract

The article titled "I Got My P.I. Qualifications From A Dating App" is a humorous take on the author's unexpected journey into the realm of private investigation. The author, who never aspired to be a detective, finds themselves inadvertently performing detective work in response to messages on match.com. Strangers on the dating site assume the author knows specific individuals from their hometown, leading to absurd requests for personal investigations. The author reflects on the absurdity of these expectations, likening them to the stereotypical assumption that all Canadians know each other. Despite the lack of interest in actual detective work, the author receives a certificate from match.com, acknowledging their sleuthing efforts. The piece concludes with the author accepting their new role as a middle-aged Nancy Drew, ready to offer their investigative services for a fee.

Opinions

The author finds the idea of being a private investigator unappealing, despite a family connection to the profession.
They express frustration with the assumption that they must know every individual from their hometown, highlighting the absurdity of such expectations.
The author perceives the dating app interactions as akin to unpaid private detective work.
There is a sense of irony in the author's receipt of a certificate for their accidental detective work.
The author is amused by the turn of events that led to their newfound investigative role.
They sarcastically appreciate the dating app for providing them with an unexpected career path.

I Got My P.I. Qualifications From A Dating App

Why go to college when you can just visit match.com

I’ve never really wanted to be a private investigator. Even with an honest-to-goodness cousin who used her detective skills to out her own sister’s Hell’s Angels connections. And even if I did hoot my way through Janet Evanovich’s tales, knowing how amusing it might be to tag along with Stephanie Plum. Staring through binoculars at folks scrambling eggs into oblivion or while they’re on the john just doesn’t appeal to me.

And yet here I am, the ink on my certificate from match.com still puddling into the corners of the vomit-colored wood pulp.

My screen blinked that a dating site message had come through for me. It surprised me. In the tenuous chunk of terrain I inhabit in the Match.com World my odd situation garners very little interaction.

“Do you know Kaye?” asked a grumpy-looking redhead. Eye-yey-yey, I groaned, rubbing my temples. Just because I only pay taxes alongside 3,999 other folks doesn’t mean I know every single one of them — even if I was raised in the area.

“I know of one Kaye. I’m sure there is more than one,” I responded for shits and giggles – but mainly to make a point.

“She drives a BMW. Do you know her now?” The point flew above his head like a ready-to-poop pigeon at the seashore.

“How do you know her?” I asked and then regretted it. A whole, curse-word-wrapped message arrived about how it was my duty to find this crazy and give her the what-for about the freaky things she did to this dude. Wtf? I rubbed my temples harder.

Before the tirade, though, I felt exactly like I had while backpacking the scuzzy post-Communist side of Eastern Europe. Just as I had when I fastened flippers before stepping butt-first into the Coral Sea and introducing myself to Humpheads bigger than my car. And precisely as I did zooming about treacherous serpentine roads in Bali in a bus that was literally duct-taped together.

In all of these locations, a fellow traveler sweating beside me had demanded a question so ridiculous I wanted to wrap my retractable clothesline tightly around their larynx. And pull until their eyeballs and passport tumbled into my sarong.

“Oh, you’re Canadian! You must know Bob (or insert Charles or Laura, etc.), right?”

Well, of course, I know Bob/Charles/Laura, I refrained from shouting. I am in the DMs of every single one of the 37.59 million Canadians. We hit up Bieber concerts together when we aren’t helping one another reinforce our igloos. Our land comprises almost 10 million square kilometers, which means we can fit forty UKs into our Canadian Shield belly. So, of course, I’m pals with Bob/Charles/Laura.

The incident involving Kaye and her Beamer wasn’t even the first time that this had occurred on the dating app. One dude saw my hometown location and inquired, without even a pleasant howdy, if I knew what had happened to Shelly, her slightly older, abusive boyfriend, and their ankle-biter.

When he mentioned her surname I’d dutifully gotten out my yearbook and found both her and baby daddy. Between the dusty covers, I stared at her white-blonde bangs taller than the gym ceiling and tried to recall who she was. Although there were only 400 people in our high school I couldn’t think of any memories involving her even skirting the periphery. Weird.

Match.com man, after insinuating that perhaps I really didn’t spend my youth here if I didn’t know the Shell-ster, left me alone. Thankfully.

No one seemed overly interested in actually discovering my jewel of a personality. Or even chatting about long weekend plans. I should’ve read the fine print and realized that match.com is actually a euphemism for Private Detective Services Gratis.

I was pleasantly surprised when my certificate — completely unexpected — popped its head out of my post box. Apparently, match.com was impressed with the research-y way I rifle through yearbooks and scour side streets for BMWs owned by Kaye.

Need someone found? I’m your middle-aged Nancy Drew. At least now I won’t be stalking anyone for free. I thank the dating app Goddess above and head out to stare at you wiping your arse, my certificate neatly folded into my wallet.

And you don’t even want to hear about the dude who helped me earn my online therapy degree!

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