True Confessions: Tinder Date #6+comment
Wow. Last night was close. He was pretty cool, but I just wasn’t ready to lose my Tinder virginity. I texted him today, and wrote:
Had an awesome time last night. Sorry I didn’t put out. Maybe next time.
Still haven’t heard back. Maybe leaving a chick’s place with blue balls is a dealbreaker for him. That or the fact I played Taylor Swift all night. (Just the Red album. I wanted to stick to her mature songs, obvi.)
Tonight’s date, I “matched” with the other morning. I was on a bus on the way to tape the Humble and Fred radio show. (Once in a while, my comedy career actually beckons.) He messaged me at 7:00am, so I know he either has a “real job,” or runs a really successful after hours. At first, he suggests we go to a Jay’s game. Seems like a cool idea, but that’s a LONG time to spend with someone you just met. I once got mad at a guy during an episode of 24, and that was only one hour. (NOBODY should talk during 24. NOBODY!) The baseball plan falls through, but since he lives in High Park and I’m going to be in that area later, I propose drinks. I have a gig in Mississauga, but the comic driving me (the hilarious Johnny Gardhouse), will be dropping me off at Runnymede Station. I tell him I can’t meet him until 10:30pm. A little suggestive for a Tinder date, but I’m a comedian. These are my hours of operation.
He’s a real dreamboat in his pictures. Blonde. Like Zack Morris blonde. I probably need to get my roots done before I’m allowed to shake hands with him. He picks a bar I’ve never been to before, which I appreciate. I’m at the point where I assume I’ve been to every bar in town, perhaps the continent. I pride myself on being a walking Zagat guide. I walk into the Kennedy Public House, and immediately like it. They’re playing “Girlfriend” by Pebbles. I like a DJ that plays some sweet throwbacks. I take a seat at the bar. I’m early, but I don’t care. I need a little time to play on my phone before I concentrate on an actual conversation.
There are two dudes sitting a few seats down from me. I can sense they’re looking at me, but I ignore them. I take my diary out of my purse, and start writing. I don’t know why I thought this would make them leave me alone. Obviously, I made it worse.
“What are you writing?” Dude #1 says. I roll my eyes, and say,
Fack! I’ve been going to bars by myself for years. I can usually maintain a low profile. I swear, something in my energy has changed since I’ve thrown myself into the dating world. Men are starting to look at me. This never happened before. I concentrate on writing in my diary (am I the only 34 year old that still keeps one?) Dude #1 walks up to me.
“I’m not trying to hit on you, I swear.”
“Well, now that you say that, I’m insulted you’re not.”
“Well I would, but it seems like you want to be left alone.”
“Yeah, I can’t really talk to you guys right now,” I say, looking around like an undercover spy. “I’m meeting a Tinder date. I don’t want him to walk in and see me talking to other dudes.”
“A Twitter date?”
“No! A Tinder date!” I look at my clock. It’s 10:30pm on the dot. “Look man, you gotta get away from me! No offense. I just don’t want him to walk in and see me talking to other dudes. He looks like Zack Morris. I’m sure you understand.”
The guy finally retreats back to his bottle of MGD. FEWF! I can breathe again. A minute later, my Tinder walks in. He looks exactly like his picture. Maybe better. He’s so pretty! Like porcelain. There’s no way this guy lets a girl fart in front of him. I’m screwed. He also has a Kevin Arnold smile. You know, those smiles with perfect teeth, but no upper lip.
He sells mortgages for a living. I guess we’ll never have to do business together. Pre-spellcheck, I didn’t even know how to spell mortgage. I ask him my usual question.
“How’s Tinder treating you?”
He shakes his head, and says,
“Not good. I only have seven matches, and most of them are prostitutes. How about you? How many matches do you have?”
Yikes. Should I tell him the truth? Does 135 sound like too much? Two of them are just friends I stumbled upon, and accepted cuz I wanted to say “Hi.” I answer as honestly as possible.
“Um… I’m not really sure…” (What? That’s not a total lie. It could be 136 by now. Who knows?)
I manage to steer the conversation away from how many dudes are in my Tinder box, and secure a conversation about hot sauces. I see a good hot sauce as one of the best things on earth. He sees a hot sauce as something you use on your friends, as a prank. Hmmmm… I hope he isn’t a mild wing guy.
A couple beers in, we’re both yawning. The conversation starts to dry up. We’re now talking the ceiling fixtures. Talking about lamps hanging from the ceiling is a sign we’re both starting to space out. I’m also getting tweets from my comedian guy friends who know I’m on a date. All of a sudden, I wish I was with them.
We agree we’re both tired and get the bill, which he picks up. Damn. Dating has been the best savings plan I’ve ever accidentally stumbled upon. Can’t wait to tell everybody at Scotiabank. We walk out onto Bloor St, and he flags me down a cab. He gives me a hug, and I briefly make contact with his Kevin Arnold lips. This guy was super nice. Totally normal. But just because you’re normal, doesn’t mean you’re right for me.
The second I’m out of my date’s eyesight, I text my guy buddy who’s been tweeting me. Ten minutes later, I’m sitting at Disgraceland, drinking pitchers with a bunch of comics. My comfort level resumes to normal, like I’ve just taken off a really tight pair of pants, and put on pajamas. (Even though I shouldn’t relax too much. Who knows how often this bar cleans their draught lines.) I debrief them on my dating excursions, like they’re one of the girls. And they keep filling my glass with beer, like I’m one of the boys.
I love my friends.
Tomorrow, things get creepy. The REAL creepy. (I tend to over use the word “creepy,” but this time, I mean it.)
Keep Calm, and Tinder On,