Speed dating drove me to Tinder. Tinder drove me to depression.
Photo credit: ThoughtCatalog
The night I join, at 2 a.m., after the speed dating debacle, I tell myself I’ll give it a month. A month. I’ve got nothing to lose but time.
Two weeks in, it sucks. Hard.
But even when I realize how awful and lame it is – after phone calls with four or five guys, texted coffee invites but no actual dates – when a new guy I just gave my number to, a personal trainer, sends me a naked pic within minutes, I can’t shake the hope that there might be someone better around the next swipe. So I keep swiping.
Swiping vacillates between being appalling and addictive. My thumb’s getting calloused. After the unsolicited nude pic from the personal trainer (who oddly enough did not look to be in the best shape and was poorly endowed), I make it clear to guys when we start texting that I’m only interested in meeting if they’re looking for a relationship.
Typical responses include:
Hmmm I’m not into relationships at the mo
I’m not looking for a MRS but I’m open to something spontaneous and enticing
Finally, I go on an actual date. He picks a restaurant I’ve already mentioned I don’t like. A total dick move, straight out of The Game. I go anyway. Within the first 10 minutes, he says he knows I don’t like the restaurant and wanted to see what I’d do “in a
Then this conversation happens:
Him: Where do you live?
Me: [My intersection]
Him: You should never tell a guy where you live. Especially a guy from the Internet.
Me: Wow, thanks. That makes me feel comfortable.
Him: Don’t worry. If I wanted to track you, I have trackers in my car. I wouldn’t need to ask you where you live.
You’d think that would be my one and only Tinder date, that I would delete the app immediately following that alarming exchange.
But I don’t.
And somehow, it gets better.