We’ve all heard it before – “You’ll find Mr. Right!” – “Be patient!” – “Your time will come!” – “Don’t worry about it!” Blad-dee-fucking-dah… I’m over hearing how ‘easy’ it’s gonna be for me, and I will tell you, in grave detail, exactly why it’s not.
It’s 2017 – I’m 26, athletic build, prettier-than-normal face, charismatic, adventurous, and down-to-earth. Why is it that I can’t seem to find THE ONE? Did I miss something growing up? What about me doesn’t have the right spark that attracts the guy that I actually want to date? Was Beyonce right? Does pretty really hurt?
Let’s start this little journey off with my most recent Tinder date. By this time, I have broken up with two boyfriends over the past two years. I have done this Tinder thing many times before, but this was the inspiration for staying bitterly optimistic.
Ivan and I matched on Tinder a mere 60 hours ago – light conversation turned into him asking me to meet up. Perfect timing – my first day off after working 19 days in a row was gonna be tomorrow! Great! So I had a wonderful day off in the sunshine (and if you know Seattle, you know that everyone and their dead grandmother goes out when the sun comes out). We settle for El Chupacabra for margarita Monday action, and they have a cute little patio with unkept planter pots that just adds to the charm of the whole place.
I wear a cute sundress, denim vest, wash my hair for the first time in 6 days and my eyeliner is so sharp that it will fucking cut you. I grab a table right on time – 6:55pm (we were supposed to meet at 7pm).
I get a text – “Hey, I’ll probably be there around 7:30. Photo shoot is running a bit long. I’m almost done, though.” At least he had the decency to text me. Never mind that it’s fucking minutes before we are supposed to meet. But decency nonetheless.
He arrives. Doesn’t event try to hide the fact that we didn’t know each other prior – is talking loud, and shakes my hand as he approaches the table. “Nice to finally meet you, in person” he says. Yes, thanks. You too.
We make small talk, he orders a margarita, I’m still working on my chips & salsa that I ordered while waiting for him – he doesn’t order anything else & continues to eat my chips. We’re talking more and all of the sudden – red flags start popping up everywhere.
“I can’t hold down a job… I mean… Managers just don’t like me” (uhm… ok this happened to me ONCE when I was a shithead teenager, and never again since) Strike one.
“The longest I worked was in retail and only lasted a year.” Strike two.
“[insert sob story about living with dad his entire life and after college couldn’t afford the housing market in Seattle] I live with my dad, hope that’s not an issue.” Strike three.
Well… It’s not an issue, I guess, but when you pair it with your previous statements, it kinda looks really bad, hun.
I’m in debt, I do the photography thing… I GET IT. But… You’re 29. Find some roommates.
This is all pretty tolerable, between the refusing to make eye contact, awkward bragging, and boring questions like “what kind of music do you listen to?”
The golden question comes.
“I have to post something on Instagram really quick, do you mind?”
Well, why don’t I just go over there and fuck myself then?
“Uh, yeah sure, I have to go to the bathroom anyways.”
I get up and of course the bartender is super hot, I give him the ‘help me’ eyes and go to the bathroom to scream. “WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED?” Seriously. I don’t know what to make of it. I am the social media manager at my job – I fully understand needing to post things at certain times. But on a date?! For a 29 year old that can’t keep a job and lives in his dads basement – it’s really not a good look. There’s an app for that, honey.
So at this point, I am now disassociating – single word responses, trying to just end the date. It comes time to pay, I already have my card out because I don’t want to owe this guy anything (not that I need to), and this poor boy hesitates to give the server his card as if he was unsure what was going on. At least he was nice enough to split it with me – my two margaritas and chips.
We took a walk around the block, didn’t talk about much else. He stopped to pet some cats (meh, another strike) and asked me if I had a Facebook – well you already made me follow you on Instagram and you have my phone number, why do you need more?
I got in my car and drove off faster than the click of his Nikon 750.
He’s still in purgatory and I haven’t heard from him. A blessing in disguise.