He was the first man I ever loved...well, not really. But he was the first Tinder dude I hit the heart button for. His profile picture was of him standing on a beach, smiling, with the sun setting in the background. Plus, he lives in the beaches, so it's a GIVEN he likes long walks on the beach, right?!
When I tap the heart button, a message pops up.
"It's a Match!"
(I'm not italicizing out of my own creativity. It really is written like that on Tinder.) Then it says,
You and ___________ have liked each other.
Send a Message
Or
Keep Playing
Since this is my first time making a match, I don't know what to do. I decide to message him. I'm a progressive woman. Why should I wait for him to message me first? This isn't some old fashioned app, right? So, guess what I wrote? If you guessed,
"This is the first time I've hit the heart button on Tinder! Congrats!"
You guessed right. (I hate coming up with good openers. How are the frustrations of being a stand up comic now antagonizing my world of online dating?)
He asks what part of town I live in. I tell him the Annex, but I'm currently at Barhop on King West. (A great spot, just so you know.) He's in the beaches. Sometimes Tinder says you're within a mile of each other, but really, maybe that's just your souls...
He doesn't know where the bar is. I explain it's on King West, just east of the douchey part. Immediately, I worry I'm spelling "douchey" wrong. Is it "douchey" or "douchy." I can't ask him. He might think I'm calling him a douche, thus why I'm asking him for the correct spelling of his people.
Him: Are you staying out late?
Me: Probably not. But I say that all the time...
Him: Famous last words for me on a regular occasion too
(He forgot a period at the end of his sentence.)
Me: You're not one of those guys who clips your cell phone to your belt, are you? Cuz that's a deal breaker for me.
Him: What about having a pager?
Me: Yikes.
(But at least he remembered proper punctuation at the end of that line.)
Him: So tell me, what are your intentions with this tinder thing? Marriage? White picket fence? Haha
Me: I'm clearly here to ask you to be a part of a new business venture! Pyramid scheme here you come!
(My text flirting is totally dorky, isn't it?)
We exchange phone numbers so we don't have to continue to message through Tinder. (It's probably for the best, since while I wait for you to return a message on the app, I'm obviously still browsing for more dudes. How do you think yesterday's date swooped in and scored a date first?)
He sends me a topless selfie. Don't worry guys! He's NOT trying to show off his awesome, hairless pectoral muscles, he's JUST showing me his sunburn, which happens to be on his chest. (And for the record, I don't mind a guy with a little fur on a man. I don't wanna brag, but I once Naired a boyfriend's back.) I, myself, do NOT send topless selfies. If a guy really wants one, I just go on to Pornhub, find a suitably flat naked chick, take a screen shot, cut off the head, and send him that. I know how to beat the system.
We decide to meet on Sunday afternoon, because I'm "busy" Saturday night. (I had the date with the fish eater. Though while the fish eater wasn't looking, I was texting this guy. What? I AM single.) Even though I have these dates planned, I'm still actively searching through Tinder for more matches. It's addictive. As my friend Dom Tetro says, "Tinder is like a Pez dispenser for people."
We meet at the Renaissance Hotel. Not like that, you pervs. (Though in hindsight, maybe asking a Tinder to meet you at a hotel is a little suggestive. Whoops.) The hotel bar over looks the Blue Jays field. I think it's one of Toronto's best kept secrets. You can have dinner and drinks (at a reasonable price too!) and watch the game, without the cost of a ticket.
I'm sitting with a couple of friends, waiting for him to arrive. I feel like Meg Ryan in You've Got Mail, when she's sitting in the café waiting for Tom Hanks to show up, constantly perking up when anyone walks in the door. Is that him? Is that him? Only I'm sitting with a 50 year old dude and my friend with fake tits. He walks in the door. Fewf! I'm two for two with my Tinders looking like their photos. I'm pretty sure I look like all my profile pictures too, only my mouth is closed more in real life.
We order some beverages. I ask him how he likes Tinder so far. He says,
"It's pretty interesting."
Immediately I have to come clean, and tell him I went on a Tinder date last night too.
"But the dude was way too shy," I say. To which my friend Gordo chirps in,
"Ya, but everybody's shy compared to you, Christina." True. And what if this guy's shy too? No, wait! He can't be! He sent me a topless selfie.
The four of us chat. The conversation is flowing naturally. When he finally has to break the seal, the three of us convene while he's in the bathroom, like a bunch of sorority girls during rush week.
"He's nice!"
Yes, he's nice and normal. I decide it's time to leave the group date, and take my Tinder on a one-on-one date. (You can tell I watch The Bachelorette, eh?) I ask for separate bills, since the guilt of last night's free Lobster Gnocchi is still looming. We head down to the Harbourfront, for a walk along the water. (See! I knew he liked long walks on the beach!) We stop in for a drink at the Watermark.
"Shit! I'm supposed to be at a BBQ right now!" I blurt out. Oops. I'm notorious for double booking myself. "Do you wanna come?"
"Sure. I'm up for whatever."
Perfect! (I'll tell him in the cab it's with all my gay guy friends.) We hit the LCBO 10 minutes before it closes. Damn you, Ontario liquor laws, stressing us out like that. He picks up the tab for the six pack we will share. (You thought I was going to buy more, didn't you?) Then we cab it up to the Bloor and Ossington area. (I pay for the cab. That's my move.)
The BBQ goes great. When he breaks the seal here, these friends approve of the guy too. Shit. I can't score the perfect guy on date #2! I still have 45 guys in my Tinder Box! (You know I've been enjoying the cheap laughs I get from saying that.) When our beers are gone, we hit the road, and stroll along Bloor St. By the time we hit Christie St, the topic of age comes up.
"We're the same age, aren't we? You're 27?" He says.
UH-OH!
"Um... no, actually...I think I'm a little older," I spit out, along with a laugh that sounds like I might be choking.
"Really? How old are you?"
"Well, I'm actually 34, but my profile says I'm 29." (Tinder takes your Facebook info for your profile.) "I swear, I'm NOT into lying about my age, but when I signed up for Facebook six years ago, I didn't know it was going to take over the world, so I said I was born in 1983."
"Well, you don't look it." Fewf. But all of a sudden, I'm feeling a little cougary. So I suggest a place that's good to take a younger man.
"Wanna go to the Maddy?"
"What's the Maddy??" he asks.
"You're 27 and you've NEVER been to the Madison!? K, we're going." You can imagine how many points I'm accumulating on Foursquare today. One beer in, I get a serious case of the yawns. Now I look 34.
"Oh my God. I'm so sorry. I'm getting tired."
"No! Don't. Let's have one more."
OK. One more beer. Tough sell, eh? He's starting to touch my right knee. I wonder if it's hairy...I forget what my legs feel like right now. He's still touching it, so I guess he didn't get prickled. We settle the bill. (He pays, but the beers were only $4 each, so I don't feel guilty.) He offers to walk me home, which is fine, because I don't live far. At the door, we kiss. I don't invite him up, nor does he ask to come up. I already told him I have Bloody Kitty* earlier in the date. I have no filter. And everybody knows a girl's time of the month is even more powerful of a cock blocker than your fat friend.
When I get into my apartment, I open Tinder and immediately start shopping for 35 year olds. While my date today was great, I was a slight fraud in the age department. Sometimes with online dating, you will get the weirdo, and sometimes, you will BE the weirdo. I think I was the weirdo today.
Stay tuned for tomorrow, when I have lunch in Yorkville with a King West guy. He talks too much and barely touches his food. I think you know where this is going...
Keep calm, and Tinder on,
Walkinsauce
*Bloody Kitty is what I call my period. I actually call it B.K. for short, and now my friends can't eat at Burger King.
