Expat Dating Mom

This highly binary type exists on the same spectrum as Odysseus, but he represents the version where the victorious party did not yet get totally lost. Again I refer to Nolan’s Odyssey and not to Homer’s poem. With the problematic flattening of female characters, as I perceived the movie.

Do not get too complicated or opinionated—he is here to bask in your “feminine energy.” Even if you can assemble a decathlon bike using six hex keys and an electric screwdriver, he will stand over your shoulder mansplaining how to unlock the bike chain and which way to pull it out on the street. Don’t dare offer even a nervous “I know,” or you risk spinning him into the abyss at the far end of his perfectionist, hyper-organized spectrum.

He divides women into three strict buckets: the Penelopes waiting to be called to center stage (regardless of their intelligence or power); the ugly Circes (even though Circe was sharp enough to see through the bullshit, recognize Odysseus’s horde for the pigs they were, and kick him out after a year); and the seductresses like Calypso. It’s the classic saint/whore complex, plus the old witch sidelined from mating consideration.

Then he arrives in a car that barely fits the parking space. Just to see what happens, try walking up to a completely different black car after dinner and saying, “Wait, didn’t you drive a Saab?” Watch the puzzled expression ripple across his face as the abyss looms: She isn’t impressed by my car.

But there he stands, leaning against the hood: white collar, dark glasses, chinos, soaked in cologne. You might as well pour formalin over yourself on the spot. This type still exists—though perhaps he is more common in the 50+ dating pool. The younger equivalent might be a tech bro in a Patagonia vest with a more “woke” vehicle, but my Victor is strictly old school. Everything and everyone he touches is permanently disinfected by a Dior Oud alcohol preservative.

He reminds me of my dad, and my stomach turns.

The younger equivalent is the Tech Bro—Victor’s spirit wrapped in performance-fabric athleisure. Where Victor uses a gas-guzzling sedan and Dior Oud to signal dominance, the Tech Bro uses a Rivian or an upgraded Tesla, a Oura ring to track his sleep efficiency, and a subtle scent of cedar and cold-pressed matcha.

He doesn’t mansplain bike repair; he mansplains macro-nutrients, cold plunges, and why your morning routine is ruining your cortisol levels. He doesn’t demand “feminine energy” explicitly—instead, he looks for a co-founder for his lifestyle, someone who fits seamlessly into his bio-optimized existence without disrupting his calendar invites.

Try walking up to the wrong sleek, matte-grey EV after dinner and asking, “Wait, didn’t you drive a Prius?” The core fragility is identical: the same brief short-circuit in his eyes as he realizes his carefully curated flex didn’t register. Beneath the Patagonia fleece vest and the performance-minded vocabulary lies the same ancient impulse—an Odysseus who traded his wooden ship for an algorithm, still convinced every woman in his orbit exists merely as a background character in his epic journey.