THE BLOG

My Tinder Bender Date #14: The Atheist

11/07/2013 04:47 EST | Updated 01/23/2014 06:58 EST

His tagline is facking hilarious:

Toronto's most illegible bachelor.

Good one, dude. It looks like he's at the top of Runyon Canyon in his profile pic, but he's wearing a long-sleeved plaid shirt. I hope he didn't hike in that. Nothing weirder than a dude that exercises in non-sporty clothes. (But now that I look at the picture sober, I realize that might not be Runyon Canyon. It might be Hamilton.)

I should also mention how lame my tagline is. Tinder grabs your "About You" info from Facebook for your profile. When I first joined Facebook in 2007, I didn't know it was going to surpass Catholicism's power. I was too lazy to write anything about myself, so I just wrote,

It's all on Myspace.

At the time, it really was all on Myspace. I didn't want to write everything again. Now, despite my best efforts to change it, that's my Tinder tagline. I get many icebreaker lines from dudes mocking my outdated social media reference, which is fine. I don't mind a good ICQ joke.

I get off work, and we start messaging. (Well, maybe I was messaging him a bit during work, but my boss reads my blog, so let's pretend I already punched out.) I send him an enlightening message.

Just had my first beer of the day! Delish!

He writes back.

Nice. I will have to crash out soon. Whatcha drinking?

Yikes. I probably shouldn't tell him the truth. I'm drinking Bud Light, but ONLY because this bar doesn't sell Coors Light. It's stupid beer politics. If you sell Molson, you can't sell Labatt. Just like you never see Coke and Pepsi being sold in the same place. And I do veer towards light beer on nights I don't want to get drunk. (Or if I'm on a cleanse.) So I'm drinking a Bud Light. Unfortunately, I'm a terrible liar. Even when the stakes are low, and I don't technically know the person. So how do I respond?

I can't tell you. It's too embarrassing...

Then I write again, a minute later.

Okay! I'm drinking Bud Light! But only cuz I have to work again in the morning, so I can't really drink!

He finally responds.

I had a Coors Light on the weekend. It was free. Still not worth it.

Sweet. I might have a craft beer nerd on my hands. Totally my type. He writes again.

But you said it was "delish!" Something doesn't check out here...

Shit. He's probably going to block me now. I don't blame him. I tell him I'm actually obsessed with hoppy beers, and he finally forgives me for drinking "that beer flavoured soda." (His words, not mine. But obviously I'm turned on.)

I manage to secure a date with him, despite my embarrassing beer choice confessional. (It must be my picture with Liza Fromer in my profile that makes guys so forgiving.) We decide to meet at C'est What, a great basement bar near the St. Lawrence Market that specializes in craft beers.

My hair is in a French braid. Probably not the sexiest look on a first date. When I was a teenager, bored during many nights of babysitting, I figured out how to French braid my own hair. Once in a while, as an adult, I like to see if I can still do it. (I can.) Unfortunately, when you pull out your French braid, you can leave your hair in a series of disorganized waves, that cannot be erased until you shower. NOT that you should change your hair in the middle of a date. That shows you're either fidgety, or insecure you look better with your hair down. (I do it all the time.)

I tell him I'm wearing a jean skirt and a Brooklyn tank top. He lets me know he will be the guy in the fly blue button up and hooks for hands.

I get to C'est What first, and take a seat at the bar. The bartender is a babe. FACK! This is going to be distracting... Maybe I should sit at a table. But the bar has those little hooks underneath, for your purse. I love that. Think about the days when women weren't welcome in Taverns. (How did we live?) And now bars install hooks underneath the bar for our purses! We've come a long way, people. (Though if my date really does have hooks for hands, I guess I don't have to worry about that.)

I feel a tap on my shoulder. (From a real finger.) It's him. I get up to give him a hug, but also to pull down my jean skirt, which is short and keeps riding up. Don't want to accidentally flash my bing bang on the first date. He leans against the bar, without showing signs of wanting to sit down. This makes me nervous. I've heard some Tinder dates last as little as 10 minutes. I finally ask,

"Um... are you gonna sit down?"

He takes a seat. FEWF! You never know. The day is probably coming where a guy meets me and is NOT impressed with what he sees. I hope I at least make it to the 12-minute mark.

I already have a hoppy beer on the go. He asks the babe -- I mean, bartender -- about their cask beer selection. Wow. I'm impressed. I'm a beer nerd, but I don't often venture into the cask beer world. I need to get out more.

He has an Ethan Hawke in Reality Bites quality about him, which is appropriate because I'm starting to feel like Janeane Garofalo's character, when she's trying to remember the names of all the guys she's been with. I'm 14 dates in, and have 200 guys in my Tinder box. I'm starting to forget the names of these guys, even as I'm out with them.

I'm starving, but he's not hungry. I have to make that bold move of eating in front of someone who's not eating. I decide to be considerate, and ask him if he has a nut allergy, or any sort of allergy for that matter. Nut allergies seem so common these days. Can you kill a dude from smooching him after you eat something he's allergic to? I don't want to risk it. He tells me he's allergic to cats. Perfect. I'm definitely not eating those anytime soon. I order falafel.

"You like falafel? I'm half Israeli. I was raised Jewish, but I'm an atheist now,"

he informs me. I do love Jewish dudes, as mentioned on Date #5. Hopefully he still acts like Woody Allen a little bit. He tells me his mom is Polish.

"My best friend growing up was Polish, so I know the Polish word for grandma is "Babcia,"

I pipe in. (It's pronounced "Bapcha," in case you're wondering. I also know the Polish word for fart, but I keep it to myself.) I'm pretty good at making random connections with people, eh? We talk about Tinder.

"This is the future..." he says. He goes on to explain the days of working up the courage to approach a girl from across a room are over. Now you open an app, pick a face, and send a message. He's interesting, and I like the way he sways his head a little as he talks. He's so pensive, you guys!

I ask him when his last serious relationship was.

"Depends what you mean... The term 'serious relationship' varies from person to person... you mean that L word shit?"

I burst out laughing. Sure. Let's all call love, "That L word shit" from now on. I don't even feel like he's trying to be cynical, or play devil's advocate to my naturally optimistic ways. He's just being honest. Honest with the direction some relationships go in, his and other peoples. I like this conversation. It's philosophical, but without the really big words. I obviously have to ask his sign. Well, I never out right ask a dude's sign. I subtly get him to reveal when his birthday is, then I figure it out in my head. His birthday is a few days after mine. A Sagittarius, just like me! Although he shows a little more tact than me, because I notice when he burps, he covers his mouth and silently lets it out into his hand, whereas if I had to burp, I'd belt it out, like a Mariah high note.

I'm still sticking to my Tinderella midnight curfew, so we get the bill around 11:30 p.m. He tries to pick it up, but I refuse. I ate a meal, he didn't. That wouldn't be fair at all. At this point, I've pulled my French braid out, leaving my hair in a wavy, dreadlock mess, making me look like a hobo. However, I'm not actually a hobo. I'm still responsible for my own chick peas and Dead Elephant Ales.

He walks me to Union Station. There's that awkward moment. Did we bond enough to make out? Did we like each other, or did we just like drinking together? It's not clear. I'm really not sure to expect a kiss here. But still, I get a kiss. (I'm telling you. That Liza Fromer picture is my secret weapon.) And you know what? He's a gooooooooooooood kisser. Hopefully it's a Sagittarius thing.

As I ride the subway home, I realize I've turned into a bit of a kissing bandit. Just one of the many perks of being single...

Stay tuned for my next Tinder date. It's a real doozy. All I can tell you is a guy from my past "pops up" on the date...

Keep calm, and Tinder on,

Walkinsauce

P.S. C'est What has an awesome comedy night, hosted by my friend Julien Dionne. Check it out this Wednesday, at 9 p.m., or follow him on Twitter, @juliendionne

P.P.S. How many chicks are going to C'est What to check out the cute bartender now?