Grammar, Opening Lines, and Southern Charm
JUNE 2026
Grammar matters. Punctuation matters.
Well, they matter to me.
Especially when you’re on a dating site and what you’re writing about yourself is ostensibly meant to entice me into initiating a conversation and potentially matching with you. I’m not a judgmental person in general, but when it comes to grammar and writing, I am admittedly quite judgy. This is not a timed test. There is no deadline. You don’t have an editor, but you do have time to craft a profile with care, to tweak it, and to put your best self out there. It’s your calling card. Your first impression. And it matters.
If a profile has grammatical errors, typos, or misplaced punctuation, I’m moving on. Why? Because the person didn’t put in the effort. Hinge even helps you; it makes suggestions on how to improve what you’ve written. Spell check exists, as do Grammarly and AI. You could even ask a friend to look over your profile. The bottom line is that there are resources. And I find resourcefulness and good grammar sexy.
Opening lines are also fundamental, and especially effective when they reference something in my profile. If a man grabs my attention with something good, intelligent, humorous, or out of the ordinary, I will take a closer look at his profile. If he’s only written the bare minimum: “ciao” or “nice smile”, I’m moving on. When I reach out to men—which is not happening frequently of late— I take time. I study their profile. I show that I care. I read and comment thoughtfully on what they’ve written.
In case you haven’t guessed, I’m back on Hinge. Don’t ask me how it happened; I couldn’t tell you. One day, I tried, and it miraculously worked. The bottom line is I’m back, and there is an interesting development.
When I managed to get back on, while I took the time to craft my profile and choose my photos, I must have missed two important things: age and distance dealbreakers. Hinge has a setting that allows you to establish age and distance parameters. Mine are currently 40-63 years old and a maximum distance of 59 kilometers. What that means is that if you don’t fall within those ranges, I won’t even see your profile, and you won’t see mine. But I was so surprised that I was able to get back on the app that while I set the ranges, I didn’t specify that they were dealbreakers. I couldn’t understand why I was getting so many messages. From so many far younger men and from men all over the boot! But that’s a story for next time. I quickly corrected my error, but one very interesting gentleman slipped through.
Initially, I thought he was one of the many residents of Florence that hails from another region in Italy, but I soon discovered that that was not the case. Not at all. He lives far away. Really far away. Over nine hours by train, eight hours by car. And yet, I was intrigued. And then I thought, perhaps that would be an ideal situation. I don’t need someone here on the daily. I started imagining romantic weekends in Rome and Naples or whatever locale is somewhere in the middle. I reasoned that having a long-distance relationship at this point in our lives is not a bad thing. Not at all. I reluctantly admit that we’re not that far away from retirement, so who knows what my life might look like 10-12 years from now? Yes. I think about things like this.
He’s from the South. Not too far from where a big chunk of my family history played out. He’s successful, cultured, present, and charming. So very charming. When we matched, he immediately suggested we speak on the phone. I acquiesced, and we talked for an hour. About everything. And I liked it and him. Later that night, he sent me a beguiling message. I liked that too.
He’s written every day since. Sometimes that bothers me; it can feel intrusive, but with him, it feels sweet. He’s quite romantic and a little too enthusiastic. I’m cautious, perhaps overly so, but I have been burned too many times not to be apprehensive.
Years ago, I briefly dated a Florence-based Southern man, and I see some similarities. That man was also sweet and overly enthusiastic. He was forward-thinking but somewhat old-fashioned. He never let me pay for anything and never showed up empty-handed. There were romantic dinners, chocolates, champagne, flowers, syrupy love notes, and extreme praise that made me feel all at once embarrassed and flattered.
He promised me the moon and the stars. But he was a swinger, something he was open about from the get-go, and that’s just not my scene. And so, we parted ways. But that, too, is a story for another day.
Let’s get back to this Southern sweet talker in my current orbit. I hadn’t heard from him in a few days, and it was entirely my fault. I’m still so not convinced that I have room in my heart and my life for love right now. I’m not sure that I’m ready. We were meant to have a video call, but in the end, I didn’t really want to do it and ended up postponing it. Then life got busy, and I eventually realized he was no longer texting me every morning. So, I texted him last night just to check in and apologize for being AWOL. His reply was immediate, and his excitement burst through the seven messages he sent in quick succession:
[28/05/2026, 20:28:20] A: Ciao buonasera
[28/05/2026, 20:28:35] A: I’ve missed you!
[28/05/2026, 20:29:05] A: I thought you didn’t want to talk to me anymore
[28/05/2026, 20:30:32] A: I’m heading home from work
[28/05/2026, 20:30:46] A: We can talk after dinner if that works
[28/05/2026, 20:31:28] A: I’d like to come to Florence for a couple of days next week.
Come to Florence?
Next week?
For a couple of days?
I didn’t write any of that. I calmly suggested a video call over the weekend to discuss things, said that I’d like to take it slow, get to know each other better, and see what happens.
I have a past. I’ve been hurt. I need time.
I didn’t write those last three lines either, but perhaps I should have.