“Should I stay or should I go now?
The Clash
If I go there will be trouble,
And if I stay it will be double…”
Pieces of Crab and Crap
Three months of swiping, scrolling, squinting at pixelated smiles — all I got were little pieces of crap. Everyone wants to “travel the world,” “love long walks,” or dream of “a slow morning.” Half are holding a suspiciously large fish, one posed with a moose, and the rest? Lift-mirror selfies, gym flexes, staged drinks, or something boasting too many horsepowers.
And then there’s me — trying to catch something, but sideways as always. Weird, different, crabby by design. My profile probably smells just as fishy, with a picture that once got five stars from Bond-movie enthusiasts. Yes, apparently I’ve got my very own Pussy Galore moment.
It’s really no surprise my dating life isn’t moving anywhere. I’m trying to emerge from my protective shell, hoping to hear the soothing rhythm of ocean waves… maybe even a distant shark fin slicing through the water. Instead, my mind is stuck on the absurd: one date didn’t know there are elephants in India, another had never heard of Sherlock Holmes, and yet another pronounced Händel exactly as written — HÄN-del. I dated that guy for seven years, which probably says more about me than him. Apparently, I can be flexible.
“Should I stay or should I go now?
If I go there will be trouble,
And if I stay it will be double…”
It’s no wonder crabs follow me everywhere — even into the classroom.
Crap, Crab, and Grabby Advice
As the head of little heads, I sometimes hear words I’m not sure I’m supposed to hear. One student called another a “piece of crap.” I wanted to make sure he understood the meaning.
“Do you mean an animal,” I asked, “or something else that makes someone feel bad?”
He thought for a moment and replied, “Something that makes someone feel bad.” Confirmation received. Just to push it further, I asked, “And what’s the magic word you could use to fix things if you’ve made someone feel bad?”
Without missing a beat, he answered: “Abracadabra.”
For a second, I wondered if he really meant crap after all.
That’s it. Life is just one long confusion between crap and crab.
After surviving the parade of sideways-crabby facts in my own dating life, I had a rare moment of self-pity.
“This indecision’s bugging me…
If you don’t want me, set me free…”
I shared my indecision with my daughter. She finally cut in with her verdict:
“You’ll find someone eventually, but no offence maybe update your make-up routine.”
I replied with all the drama of a person refusing to surrender to gravity:
“I want to meet someone while I’m still young and gravity hasn’t killed it. I want to do passionate things with a bush that looks young, not grey as a crab washed up on the beach.”
That’s when she sighed, dropped her invisible notebook, and closed the session with:
“Mum, I don’t want to hear more about your thoughts. They’re way too grabby.”
Grabby. Like a crab pinching unexpectedly. Like a piece of crap you didn’t ask for but somehow got anyway.
The Supermarket of Love
Before fully closing that chapter, I discussed dating apps with a colleague.
“It’s like going to the supermarket,” I said. “You need to be careful which aisle you wander into. High-quality Stockmann Herkku, Citymarket, or Prisma? Or Pirkka brand, Rainbow, or Coop? Maybe even a specialty shop with rare ingredients?”
We laughed, because that’s exactly how it feels. Each swipe is a shopping trip, each profile a product on the shelf — some clearly expired, some mislabelled, some exotic and promising, some just… crab. Or crap. Either way, it smells funny once it’s been sitting out too long.
And just like fish at the counter, men should probably come with labels too: best before date, where they were caught, and who did the catching. At least then I’d know if I’m dealing with a fresh fillet, something “frozen at sea,” or worse — a clearance-bin special with a big red discount sticker slapped on it.
“One day it’s fine and next it’s black,
So if you want me off your back…”
And if I were behind that glass counter? My label might read:
Product: Human, female
Origin: Locally farmed, free-range sarcasm
Best before: Pending, approach with caution
Handling instructions: May contain sharp edges, sideways movements, and unexpected claws
Allergens: Traces of crab, carp, crap, and drama
And since supermarkets love variety, here’s the “premium” edition, too:
Product: Deep-Sea Mystery Crab™
Origin: Bottom of the ocean — exact depth classified
Grade: Looks intriguing under dim light, questionable under daylight
Best before: Unknown, possibly eternal
Serving suggestion: Pair with awkward silences and too much red wine
Warning: Shell may be harder than expected, contents may bite back
Not exactly Stockmann Herkku material — more like one of those rare deep-sea creatures that occasionally surfaces by accident. Fascinating in its own way, but confusing to most shoppers who just came in for salmon fillets.
“Darlin’, you got to let me know…”
Even my Händel partner once pointed out that Finland is full of food ads. That was his grand insight into Finnish culture. Clever, right? Very smart. Almost crab-level smart. But maybe that’s all dating profiles are anyway: fake food ads. Glossy, perfectly lit promises of freshness that dissolve the moment you take a bite.
Partner, Lover, and the Bottom of the Ocean
After all that supermarket shopping, I started wondering: is it even possible to find a partner and a lover in the same package? Or, at this stage of life, should I admit those rare creatures are like pearls in a mussel — hidden, hard to reach, and mostly found by accident?
Maybe my role in the ocean isn’t pearl-hunting at all. Maybe I’m the crab, scuttling sideways at the bottom, eating scraps and keeping the seabed tidy. Not glamorous, not celebrated — but undeniably necessary. Luckily, at the bottom of the sea I don’t need updated make-up — darkness is the ultimate filter, and it never runs out.
“Exactly who’m I supposed to be?”
I even tried to search for a lover, something that might look like this at the counter:
Product: Wild-Caught Premium Lover™
Grade: Marketed as “extra hot,” reality varies
Origin: Deep waters, details conveniently vague
Best before: Expired yesterday, but still on the shelf
Serving suggestion: With candlelight, red wine, and the inevitable disappointment
Warning: May cause false hope, awkward silences, and a sudden urge to re-download the app.
But it didn’t go further, because under the shell, behind the sarcasm, there’s still a heart that insists love is out there — probably mislabelled and hiding behind the crab sticks.
The Ultimate Piece of Crab: Rapujuhla
Of course, after all this crap, I will still end up with crab. That’s how life works for me. My brothers suddenly decided that the perfect plan is to host a traditional rapujuhla at my place. None of us have ever celebrated one before, but that won’t matter. There will be silly hats, endless songs nobody knows the words to, drinks flowing faster than common sense, and a table covered in crayfish staring at us with dead eyes.
Absurd? Absolutely. Ridiculous? Without question. Perfect? Against all logic, yes.
We will tie on the paper bibs, pour the snaps, and butcher the crayfish with grab scissors like surgeons who lost their licences. I’ll use the scissors the same way I use them in life: to crack through hard shells so the fun can leak out — even if everything around it is crap. We’ll suck the crab meat straight from the claws, sideways and messy, and somehow it will make sense. Just like the supermarket tins, the pearls I never find, and the lover-labels that always expire — it all comes together in the absurd ritual of chewing on something tougher than it should be.
And not like in MasterChef, where everything stops when a judge finds a piece of shell on the plate. No, in the plain menu of life, I just call it texture.
Which means at this party, I won’t just be the host — I’ll be on the menu too.
Product: Deep-Sea Mystery Crab™
Serving suggestion: With silly hats, bad singing, and way too much snaps.
Warning: May bite back.
And if anyone starts feeling bad about it? No need for “sorry.” Just raise a glass, say abracadabra — and like magic, the crap turns into crab again.
P.S. Answer to the question: I will stay on the dating app. The crab season hasn’t ended yet.
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