My Outfit: Fitted, short grey tweed dress, purple cardigan and black boots
His Outfit: A suit
Overall Rating: 5/10
With no word from New Years Eve Tinder, I diligently Tindered on.
Fitness Tinder was not my usual type; blonde, sporting topless photos, highly chiseled abs… but he had kind eyes. Yes, that’s a thing.
I swiped right without giving it much thought, and he immediately started to say lovely things to me.
I wanted this match.
You are beautiful.
Can I take you out?
I think you may, kind (shirtless) man who says nice things to me.
He suggested Maya on 64th and 1st (uptown… weird) but I was meeting a friend at Booker & Dax for a quick early drink beforehand so asked if we could meet in the East Village instead. He chose Belfry on 14th & 2nd, a bar that neither of us had been to… always a little risky for a Tinder date.
About 20 minutes before we were due to meet, he sent me the most disturbing text that I have yet received on this Tinder adventure:
I’ll be wearing my spandex from yoga.
I legitimately dropped my phone in horror.
I replied: You are joking. Right?
He said: Nope.
It was too late to cancel, he was already on his way downtown and I’m not quite enough of a jerk to stand someone up (although this is as close to it as I’ve ever come…).
I replied: I won’t be able to stay long as I have to meet friends for a late dinner.
Always have an escape plan for a man in spandex.
I arrived at Belfry (pretty cute cocktail bar, as it turns out) and Fitness Tinder was already there, sitting at a cozy table and waving me over. He was not wearing spandex… it was all just a bizarre lie.
We ordered cocktails and when the waitress asked if he wanted to keep the tab open he said, ‘No, you can close it.’
Umm… rude. Nobody closes a tab on Tinderella. #TotesRejected
Once our fancy cocktails arrived, he started telling me about his well-paid job in Finance (snooze), his Crossfit workout routine (douche) and his fancy apartment furniture (die).
Perhaps sensing my disinterest in his utterly shameless bragging, he got all humble on me and started telling me about his Italian upbringing in The Bronx. I proceeded to call him Jenny From The Block for the duration of the evening.
He then said, ‘Hey you want another drink?’
We ordered another round of cocktails and he asked the waitress to close the tab, again. This time I called him out.
He looked surprised, then said, ‘I always close out a tab.’
There was no further discussion on the subject.
Fitness Tinder took a sip of his drink and then said, ‘Woooah I’m feeling tipsy. This is going to set me over the edge HAHA!’
I was alarmed. One cocktail = Warm up.
It dawned on me that this would be a downside to dating a 30-year-old who does Crossfit and has chiseled abs. I prefer the ‘I’ll go to yoga once my hangover subsides’ approach to life.
While we were getting CRAZY on our second cocktails, a pub quiz started going. We took part, because I am British and pub quizzes are like… the best.
Unfortunately, in the heat of the moment I had momentarily forgotten that I am incredibly competitive and take pub quizzes more seriously than I should, and hence should never participate in them on dates.
I’d really rather not rehash the quiz, but for you, I will. It went something like this:
Fitness Tinder lost us a point.
I hit Fitness Tinder.
I won us a point.
I screamed, ‘Bring it bitches’, to the tables around us.
We lost a point.
I slammed my fist on the table in frustration.
Our drinks spilled.
My fist hurt.
Fitness Tinder ordered us another round.
Despite this, he kept saying how much fun he was having and how he couldn’t believe how much he was drinking (three cocktails dude… CALM DOWN).
I glanced at my phone and he said, ‘Oh my god it’s that late already?! Wow, I must be having a good time with you…’
It was 8.30pm.
He then started getting a little flirty (I think he was like… really drunk) and he said the worst thing that’s ever been said on a date.
‘Hey you know why I wanted to meet you so badly? Those hips… I just had to see those hips’.
I, um, would prefer not to think of myself as ‘hip-y’.
It occurred to me that perhaps Crossfitters might not be used to the concept of a ‘hip’.
I then said, ‘Oh right… thanks? Not a hip fan, myself. Guess I should start… side-planking?’
He replied with feigned ignorance, ‘What’s a plank?’ then laughed maniacally at his (dubiously) hilarious joke.
Sensing it might be time to call in my fake dinner plans, I said I had to run (no need to wait around for the bill because he’d settled up the tab as soon as the drinks arrived, naturally).
After we said goodbye (no kiss – I cheek-ed him), he sent me a slew of texts that read something along the lines of:
Daaamn sexy girl why didn’t you come back with me? That body. Those hips…
He had mentioned earlier in the night that drinking brought out his Italian/Bronx side.
Oh well… I suppose it’s gratifying to know that I have been right all along. Shirtless men on Tinder are not the ones for me.Follow @TinderellaNYC