Oh, yeah, I did the online dating thing. I did Nerve, I did

In the scroll of modern courtship, a comic oracle speaks with sharp mercy: “Oh, yeah, I did the online dating thing. I did Nerve, I did Match. On Nerve there was this one guy who, when I asked him what he did for a living, said he 'used to be in a band.' I was like, 'That is not an occupation.'” Beneath the laughter is a stern, old law: when two travelers meet at the crossroads of desire, they must trade not costumes but provisions. The question “What do you do?” is less about prestige than about witness—How do you stand in the weather? What weight do your hands agree to carry each day? The punchline cuts because it unveils a dodge: nostalgia offered where accountability was asked.

The ancients would have nodded. In the marketplaces of Athens and the forums of Rome, identity was proven by present labor—potter, scribe, sailor—not by yesterday’s glow. To say “I used to be” when asked how you live now is to hang yesterday’s banner over today’s empty stall. Love, however, is a craft that begins in truth: two artisans showing their tools. Occupation here does not mean the tyranny of paycheck over soul; it means a faithful rhythm—some steadiness of purpose—that signals you can keep a promise when poetry wears thin.

Mark the setting: online dating, the bazaar of profiles where words do the first lifting. Platforms like Nerve and Match are only lanterns; they do not furnish the room. The light they cast reveals character by how we fill the silence. A claim like “used to be in a band” evokes romance without responsibility, charisma without calendar. It is an incense that smells of art while offering no bread. The comedian’s retort—“That is not an occupation”—is the village bell calling us back from dream to deed.

Consider a parable older than algorithms: the Ant and the Grasshopper. The grasshopper “used to” sing; the ant, meanwhile, labored. Winter arrived, indifferent to playlists. The fable is not an assault on music—song is holy—but a reminder that beauty needs ballast. Many artists have both: they rehearse and remit rent; they tour and tally invoices; their song stands on legs of habit. When art is offered as a memory rather than a discipline, courtship hears a hollow reed. Partnership seeks the musician at practice, not the myth of a show long ended.

History offers another mirror: the rōnin, masterless samurai. Some wore their past like armor and drifted; others turned skill into present service—teachers, guards, gardeners of meticulous grace. The title “used to be samurai” did not feed the household; the work they embraced now did. So too in love’s interview: what you were may be honorable, but what you are doing is the bridge another must trust to cross into a shared life.

Let us gather the teaching. Humor has revealed a covenant: present-tense truth is the dowry of any meeting of hearts. Name what you are building now—however humble, however in progress. If you are between employments, say so and show the scaffolding: coursework, applications, gigs, dawn alarms. A partner can bear uncertainty; what corrodes trust is fog. The joke’s sting becomes a blessing when it prods us to put today on the table, not only yesterday’s applause.

Rites for the road: (1) Write your profile—and your introductions—in the present tense: “I teach,” “I code,” “I bartend nights while I study,” “I compose three mornings a week.” (2) Ask present-tense questions in return: “What does Tuesday look like for you?” “What deadlines shape your month?” (3) Trade proofs of rhythm—calendars, rituals, the small liturgy of your work—so romance has rails. (4) Honor art by naming its discipline, not its echo: “I gig twice a month and practice daily,” rather than “I used to be in a band.” Thus will your words carry weight, your laughter carry light, and your search be guided by the oldest wisdom: that love begins where honesty keeps the door open and occupation—the work of your hands today—sets the table for two.