I went on my very first Tinder date last week. I know, I know. Huge deal. Please hold your applause.
I’ve been in New York for nearly four and a half months. I have no idea how time has flown by so quickly. I’m happily settled into my internship, I’ve made several A+ friends and even joined a gym. So now that I’m settled, happy and have free time, I decided why the heck not start taking Tinder seriously.
Now, if you live under a rock, Tinder is a dating app. I’ve had one on and off for the past couple years, but never took it seriously. I conversed here and there, but as soon as someone asked me to meet in person, my fight or flight mode kicks in and I assume they’re probably a serial killer and Houdini my way outta there. (Honestly, I still think they’re all serial killers.)
But at the ripe age of 22 in a new, HUGE city, I’ve been warned that Tinder is the number one source for dating. It’s hard not to see it as a “hook-up” app, as that’s how it’s often portrayed. However, I know a surprising number of people who have found amazing relationships via this swiping method. So here I am. Swipin’ away.
I don’t really know the stats for my fellow Tinderers (?), but I probably swipe right (meaning I like dem) once every 30 guys. (MAYBE.) I don’t consider myself picky. I just have high standards (and I’m trying to eliminate as many killers as possible).
So a few weeks ago, I matched this guy. He was cute, had a funny profile and worked for a cool company. Other than his name and age, that’s all I knew about this guy. However, being the ~hilarious, girl-next-door type~ (lol jkjkjjkjk), I asked a corny joke about a drunk egg and that seemed to do the trick. A natural conversation followed and ultimately ended in him asking me out.
Now, if you’ve read literally any of my other Single Girl Diaries, you know that I don’t date much. (Not that I can’t. Folks, I’m a great date.) I just had overprotective brothers/dad, small town pool of guys to choose from growing up and I’m hellaaa awkward. So I was nervous to say the least.
For you fans of irony out there, my date mentioned in text format that he was like Christian Bales’s character from American Psycho (MURDERER). Then suggested we meet for drinks at a place called what? FRESH. KILLS. I can’t make this up, you guys. I said yes to all of this.
Good news, he didn’t murder me. As for the actual date, it went really well. The bar was also cool. No dead people involved. My date was cute, charming, bought me drinks, was a complete gentlemen and hilarious. I had an AMAZING time. Who am I, right?
After about three hours (it was a Tuesday at 11:30), we called it quits and I walked him to the CitiBike station. (Don’t ask if you don’t know.) As we parted ways, we went for a hug. At least I did. As he pulled back, he said he’d wanted to kiss me.
NOTE TO LITERALLY EVERYONE: Consent is AMAZING. But by him saying this, I felt obligated to finish the night with a HORRENDOUSLY awkward kiss. Please don’t get me wrong. It was sweet. He was sweet. I make it sound worse than it was because I’m shy and weird. After, he told me I was “so midwest” which like, yeah. I am. He kissed me on the cheek and biked into the night.
The next day, I texted him stating that’d he’d convinced me he wasn’t a serial killer. (This is where it gets really good.) He responded, “Well that’s where you’re mistaken because I definitely AM.” That was the last I heard from Tinder date. I honestly have no idea who ghosted whom in this situation.
While it didn’t turn into anything, going on a date was actually really fun. I met a cool new person in a cool new city. I stepped out of my comfort zone. I felt good about myself. I know not all Tinder dates end this way, but honestly, having a fun night out and a confidence boost has done wonders for me. I don’t know if I’ll be doing it again anytime soon, but I have #noregrats.