I'm at work convincing another server she should close tonight. I don't even really have plans, but I know I can open up Tinder and meet someone in the next few hours. I have a bunch of guys' phone numbers. I made all their last names "Tinder" in my phone. I tell all the guys they should save me under "Christinder." It's catchy, in a Bollywood sort of way. I like it. And I've got so many dates! I'm like the Fonz.
I work downtown, in the financial district. Earlier in the day, I was chatting with another bartender in the area, telling her about my lunch with the coke head yesterday. She wasn't surprised at all.
Oh ya. The coke guys love chicken fingers. They order them all the time.
So there you have it folks. In addition to a grinding jaw, lack of appetite and dilated pupils, you can add, "loves chicken fingers" to your list of coke head stereotypes. I'm learning so much from Tinder. I'm also encouraging every single person I know to download the app. The good thing about it is, it points you in the direction of the single people in the city. There's nothing worse than meeting someone, having a great conversation with him, then later discovering he has a girlfriend. (Although I do know some unavailable people with the app, who claim, "No, I just think it's funny." Tsk Tsk. Get out of our way!)
My co-worker Lindsey agrees to close. Sweet. I can be off by 9:00 p.m. I should be able to grab a drink with a Tinder for sure. Then she asks:
But what about that guy from the beaches you went out with? He was so cute!
I tell her the truth.
Oh, he's too young. You can have him if you want.
As I say this, she's looking at her Tinder box, and I see him. They've matched with each other as well.
There he is! That's him. Send him a message. Tell him, "Christina says you're a good kisser."
I'm now treating Tinders like hockey cards. Collect them all. Trade them with your friends. I tell her I'm serious, and she sends the message. I text another dude in my box for drinks around 9:30 p.m. My first choice was the 38-year-old I was messaging yesterday, but he's heading to California in the morning. We had a nice banter about how great Trader Joe's is. I even sent him a picture of my favourite box of Crackers I get there, that aren't available in Canada (Ak-Mak), to which he responds,
You're cute
Can you imagine if some guy I haven't even met yet, imported a box of crackers for me? I'd be a FACKING LEGEND! Too powerful. Still, he's unavailable for drinks tonight, so I move on. I find another dude, and we agree to meet tonight at the Firkin on King. He lives in Liberty Village. Not that I'm trying to meet at places close to a dude's house, because I'm not planning on putting out tonight. (Am I ruining Tinder?) Then a text from Beaches dude pops up.
Hi!
Uh-oh. He probably got the message from Lindsey and thinks this is some sort of a trick. I message him back.
Hey! Did you get Lindsey's message? You should go out with her! She thinks you're cute.
I don't know to tell him I think he's a little too young for me. (Even though I went through a long phase of dating younger men, or as I refer to them, "Kinder-brides.") I also don't know how to tell him I'm addicted to Tinder, and am not ready for any second dates yet. He texts back.
Ya, I figured i was either being pawned off, tested, or set up for a threesome hahah
(I'm obviously not editing his text. You should know by now how I feel about punctuation.) I assure him it's not a test, and she's even cuter than me. Oh and threesome? Bahahahaha! Whoops. Didn't mean to plant that seed.
I head to my date. I warn him I look like a dirtbag. Pink Jack Daniel's shirt, jeans and Toms. I'm wearing a padded bra, so boobs are not to scale. (Told you this will be the hack line of my Tinder dates.) I'm making my curfew midnight tonight. It's not as though my padded bra turns into a cummerbund, and my Toms turn into flippers when the clock strikes midnight. I just like to write in my diary before bedtime, kind of like Mr. Belvedere, or Doogie Howser. He's sitting at the bar when I walk in. Thank God. I don't like sitting at a table unless I'm with more than three people. I prefer to be a barfly.
He says he sells real estate for a living. I think about asking what kind, and making connections to his industry like, "Oh, my sister used to work in commercial real estate." But I can already tell I'm probably not going on a second date with him, so there's no point in getting to know him. I decide to talk about beer instead. We have a great conversation about Coors Light, and how bars that have the Sub Zero taps are the best. (My friend Laura and I hunt it down after a bike ride.) I admit to him that there is some shame in loving Coors Light, since there are SO many better beers out there -- Mad Tom IPA, Tankhouse, Barking Squirrel, etc. But sometimes, you should NOT be drinking, and that's when you drink Coors Light. It's like not drinking. Plus it's way better than Bud Light.
I notice he's getting texts from a phone number that doesn't have a contact name. They seem to be coming in quite rapidly. I call it out.
Haha! You're getting messages from another Tinder, aren't you?
I'm not naïve to the fact I'm currently swimming in a players pond. He responds with:
No, no...
I'm not buying it. And I really don't care, so I don't know why he won't just admit it.
Seriously, you can tell me. I have other Tinders messaging me too. Plus I already told you, I want to be home by midnight, so I totally understand if you want to meet someone else.
(You can tell I'm not attracted to him, can't you?)
No, for real... it's not a girl. It's sort of my boss. I owe him money and he kind of wants it now.
That's weird. I have my boss's name under "Greg." You'd think the phone number of your employer would actually be saved in your phone, and not just a random ten-digit number. This seems odd. Then he says:
Hey, I have to run down the street to Pizza Pizza and drop off some money. Do you want to wait here, and I'll come right back so we can keep drinking?
It's almost midnight on a Tuesday night. These are not normal banking hours. No way. I ask for the bill. He grabs it,
I got this... actually, do you have a five?
I'm a server. I need my fives! I'd rather go dutch and throw down a twenty than waste float worthy money. I give him a five, he throws it in on the bill, and we say good-bye. He hugs me and runs off to Pizza Pizza. I sit at the bar, alone, enjoying the last few sips of my Granville Island Pale Ale. Before the bartender takes the billfold, I open it up. Just as I suspected...
He was a bad tipper too.
Keep Calm, and Tinder On,
Walkinsauce.
P.S. Don't worry. I put more money in the bill fold.