The Fitness Tinder

Date Stats

My Outfit: Fitted, short grey tweed dress, purple cardigan and black boots

His Outfit:  A suit

Day: Tuesday

Time: 7-9pm

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.


The New Years Eve Tinder

Date Stats

My Outfit: A short blue silk dress, black cardigan, ankle boots

His Outfit:  Jeans and a shirt

Day: Wednesday

Time: 2-4am

Overall Rating: 7/10

Happy News Years! If any UK readers feel so inclined to read more of me, I’ve written some New Years Resolutions for this week’s Grazia… and there is just no way to shamelessly promote without sounding like a prat. Sorry.

New Years Eve is a sorry state of affairs at the best of times, but lord only knows why I chose this year to try my hand at ‘cool’ and go to a Brooklyn warehouse rave.

I’d been offered a free VIP ticket, which conjured visions of sitting on velvet sofas with friends and maybe a few celebrities, overlooking the sorry ravers from a high balcony and sipping on champagne flutes. As it happens, the VIP section was essentially a cage in the middle of the warehouse that was less ‘overlooking’ the sorry ravers and more ‘pinned in next to many’ sorry ravers. I did get free Cava in a plastic cup though.

The last time I took an ecstasy pill was many years ago in college while visiting a friend in San Fransisco when she took me to a strange outdoor hippy party called ‘LoveFest’. The whole experience was regrettable and I spent most of the day panicking about using portaloos and asking hippies for Purell.

As such, I had had no intention of repeating such an ordeal but this was the sort of place that screamed in your face with rave lights ‘DO DRUGS OR GO HOME’. One woman in a tutu accosted me with neon face paint, to give you an idea.

After half-heartedly asking a few strangers dressed like flowers if they had any spare drugs, I realized that I had reached the lowest point of 2014, if not my life.

I rang in the New Year with my plastic cup of cava and melancholy. During Auld Lang Syne somebody threw their cup of vodka into the air with drug-addled joy and it landed on my head.

I said hasty goodbyes to my friends, and left immediately.

Once outside the warehouse, I considered joining a party in Manhattan but I was wearing my best attempt at a rave outfit (flats, a black dress and a bright yellow sweater with a loud necklace)… and facepaint.

I looked at my phone and saw a text from New Years Eve Tinder. We had matched that morning and had been talking all day.

Happy New Year! How’s the rave?

His texts all day had been hilarious and we had a great ‘textistry’ (I made it up, roll with it). However, if I have learned anything as Tinderella, it is that textistry does not usually a real-life connection make… but he seemed pretty awesome so I replied:

Just left. Awful. Want to meet me at The Westside Tavern in Chelsea?

I KNOW, I KNOW, never ask men out for dates EVER but especially not on New Year’s Eve when you are drunk from Cava in plastic cups and have vodka in your hair… but I had just been surrounded by loony people in neon at a warehouse rave in Brooklyn and I needed to not think about that for a while.

Because The Westside Tavern (you may remember it from other last minute dates held late at night) is right opposite where I live, I had time to run home, take off my face paint and change clothes. I also aggressively Purelled myself… and my iPhone, which was sticky with unidentifiable rave fluid.

By the time we met it was 2am. In case you are unsure, this is a terrible time to start a date.

Here’s the really sad part… this guy was great. He was super cute, really smart, funny and interesting (I think anyway… everything was so dark and loud and drunk that there was a lot of smiling and nodding into the WT abyss). He was also pretty sober, himself having not been at a Brooklyn rave with free Cava in plastic cups. His NYE prior to meeting me had been civilized and respectable with modest amounts of fine wine and (I imagine) cultured conversation.

Our ‘date’ is hazy but I remember talking a lot about having vodka in my hair.

I woke up with a really bad feeling. It’s the same feeling I woke up with in college one day, when I couldn’t remember what had happened the night before but I knew it was bad and it turned out I had asked my friend to buy me a sandwich and had started yelling and crying when he wouldn’t.

So… lord only knows what happened at The Westside Tavern after my twelfth (?) glass of champagne and ‘hazy memories’ become ‘no memories, just feelings of regret’.

I do remember that he did not try to kiss me goodbye when he deposited me outside my building at 4am.

In a last ditch attempt to right things, I texted him the next morning saying:

Thanks for the drinks. Perhaps not my most inspired idea to meet at 2am…

He replied:

Haha. I had fun.

No mention of meeting again. Boy speak for, ‘Bye’.

Well… ok.

That morning, I made a resolution to commit to a dry January.

This resolution went out the window on January 2nd (a Friday, admittedly).

It is perhaps for the best that I will likely never hear from New Years Eve Tinder again, as he had previously dated a girl who is good friends with some of my friends… but it is still sad. What if he was ‘The One’ and I blew it?

2015 is off to a mediocre start…

The Christmas Tinder

Date Stats

My Outfit: A white skirt, grey cashmere turtleneck, pink flats, (fake) fur coat

His Outfit:  A suit

Day: Thursday

Time: 6-7.30pm

Overall Rating: 1/10

Note: This title may be misleading. Nothing was remotely jolly about this date.

One of my favourite date stories ever is when a friend of mine’s date said to her, ‘whenever I walk through Times Square I just think, “God I love this city.”’ In that moment, she knew it wouldn’t work out.

When Christmas Tinder suggested that we meet at a bar in Times Square, I should have realized that he was not The One. I didn’t know much about him, except that he worked at the same bank as Cheating Tinder, which incidentally is conveniently located across the street from the bar he wanted to meet at.

Although he had seemingly put zero effort into planning this date and was potentially a business pal of Cheating Tinder (‘Hey Cheating Tinder, wanna go count our money on the company yacht?’ VOM) he had some cute photos and he seemed intelligent and I’d just watched Love Actually so was perhaps feeling overly optimistic about being just a gal, meetin’ up with a Tinder boy, fallin’ in love in Times Square.

Walking through Times Square at Christmas is a bit like being burned with multiple candles shaped like Justin Beiber’s head. As I pushed through tourists, muggers and meth heads alike I finally arrived at my destination (The Glass House in case you are interested although obviously you are not – it’s Times Square) only to see a text on my phone saying:

Glass House was too crowded so I’m at Brazil Grill around the corner.

‘Around the corner’ meant walking back on myself 5 minutes on the route I had just taken. I arrived at the Brazil Grill (oh by the way, never go – it’s even worse than the name/location suggests) ready to kick a small child.

Sometimes, you just walk into a date and know that the likelihood of you marrying that date is about as high as that of you pitching a tent in the middle of Times Square and just sitting there for fun.

I can’t quite put my finger on which components made up our instant lack of chemistry. Perhaps because he was already one stiff cocktail down in the five minutes he’d been waiting? Perhaps because he had his work blackberry in his hand the entire date like an ominous blinking stock market? Perhaps because in the first five minutes of meeting he said (haughtily), ‘I don’t follow pop culture’? So many turn offs, so little time…

I ordered a glass of wine and he ordered (another) cocktail. He told me that he was big into politics. When I asked whether he’d considered becoming a politician he said, ‘I don’t really think that the North East would vote for me in this current climate. People in this area are pretty liberal… if you know what I mean.’ Then he threw his head back and cackled evilly (this last part may be imagined…).

OH FUN, a Republican.

Shortly after ordering my second drink (and his fourth) we had exhausted all areas of small talk. So much talk about the weather, so little interest.

After a lengthy finance lecture (EVERY TIME! WHAT ABOUT ME SAYS ‘PLEASE TELL ME THINGS ABOUT STOCKS AND BONDS’? I’D GENUINELY LIKE TO KNOW) the conversation swerved dangerously to politics. Despite our best efforts to move away from the subject, it kept heading back there until finally we gave up and had a full-on blazing row at the bar.

Christmas Tinder was a homophobe… but he didn’t really ‘identify’ as one since he had a gay friend. In his strange, prejudiced little mind, this disqualified any actual homophobia from his valiant efforts to strip gay people of all of their rights. Usually nitwittery of this degree evokes the ‘just smile and nod politely while backing away slowly’ response but Times Square gives me rage.

At this point we both had empty glasses – he had had five drinks to my two and I’ll admit I was mildly impressed.

On any other date we would have just got the check and bolted, accidentally-on-purpose kicking each other on the way out, but we were at the aforementioned Brazil Grill – where meth heads pop in for a quick grilled Brazil (food, anyway) and service is a pipe dream.

We sat with empty glasses and not a waiter in sight. Once it became clear that we would be sitting indefinitely, he casually asked what my views were on abortion.

Whatever your views on abortion, can we all agree that it is a human’s right to never be asked your views about it on a first date?

It’s as though he used the five minutes before I arrived to sit and concoct an evil scheme to make our date as bad as possible. I suppose this might be what Republicans do in their spare time?

Realizing that no waiter was going to rescue me, I excused myself to the loo (despite having gone about ten minutes before) and when I came back, he was signing the check. I am at least thankful that he paid for my three dollar wine (yes, did I mention it was happy hour? FALSE ADVERTISING, BRAZIL GRILL).

As we walked out of the bar, I realized that we were headed in the same direction so I invented important ‘business’ downtown to avoid a discussion about the merits of capital punishment.

When we said goodbye we did not bother with feigned desire to do it again sometime but instead brusquely wished each other luck in the future and went about our business (yes yes mine was invented – I Netflixed).

That will be my last Tinder date of 2014… as they say, end on a low.

It can only get better in the New Year?

The Cheating Tinder

Date Stats

My Outfit: Various dresses

His Outfit: Various suits (no really, I only ever saw him in a suit)

Overall Rating: 2/10

So remember the aforementioned Finance scumbag from my previous post? Well, I decided to write about him after all, primarily as a warning to nitwits like myself  who see little red flags dotted all over the place and think, ‘CUTE’.

The irony (of course) is that at the beginning of this whole thing I wasn’t even into him. His Tinder profile was not my type at all – he was bald, short and a guitar player. Bald and short could be a bit of an ‘adventure’ but the guitar… in my book there is nothing more cringe worthy than a man with a guitar. He might… croon.

However, my brother was a mutual Facebook friend (it turned out they were in a fraternity together) so I gave him a courtesy right swipe.

He asked me for a drink and I was unsure so I consulted my brother, who insisted I go. Cheating Tinder, apparently, was a ‘gentleman’. In retrospect, they were in a particularly fratty fraternity, so perhaps the ‘gentleman’ bar was set quite low…

Our first date was at Gallow Green at the McKitterick Hotel, way back when it was summer and cocktails on rooftops were a thing. The hotel also hosts Sleep No More, so there is a rather theatrical and ‘atmospheric’ elevator ride up to the rooftop, where an elevator boy (/out-of-work actor) says dramatic things about haunted hotels, and occasionally tries to engage the elevator in his ‘show’. It’s all a bit embarrassing, and quite an awkward ordeal within the first five minutes of a Tinder date.

When we finally made it to the bar, it was absolutely heaving with loud, drunk people having fun (…dicks). I said I’d find us a seat while he went to the bar. About an hour later he came to our table with two cocktails… I’ve honestly never been on a date where someone took that long to get drinks so either he totally had another date at the bar or bald prejudice is actually a thing.

Once we were both settled, I was able to get a good look at him. OK he was no tall, head-of-haired Benedict Cumberbatch (PS CAN WE ALL PLEASE FIND AND STERNLY TALK TO HIS FIANCÉE HE’S MINE) but he was really cute in a ‘awww’ sort of way, and he did have the most adorable nose. Is that a weird thing to be attracted to? It was one of those noses you just sort of want to reach out and poke…

Despite his Tinder profile giving off a distinct ‘musician’ vibe, he worked in Finance as an i-banker for one of the big banks. The guitar was all a rouse! Just a bit of fun on the side! A ‘stick it to the man I can be fun when I’m not in the office’ sort of thing!

Of course, he did still OWN the guitar so there was still a tiny amount of potential watch-and-smile-politely-while-someone-pours-their-soul-out-through-the-medium-of-song-gazing-longingly-and-expectantly-at-you-and-it’s-just-the-two-of-you-so-you-have-to-mainatin-awkward-eye-contact-and-try-not-to-laugh-because-you-are-so-uncomfortable jeopardy, but I supposed that this also suggested there was probably a soul somewhere beneath his corporate suit. Maybe he wasn’t a Finance scumbag?

Oh but keep reading… beware the soulful little men with guitars…

The date was pleasant, and he was very funny but I still wasn’t particularly attracted to him. When we said goodbye, he kissed me. I hadn’t been expecting this, but I somewhat enjoyed it.

Our next date was at Raines Law Room, a ‘speak-easy’ (in NYC this just means any venue with overpriced cocktails, dim lighting and an aggressive security guard at the front, whose job is to shame tourists), then the following week we graduated to dinner at Buvette.

Up until dinner I was still trying to figure out whether we had any real chemistry, but as I was really enjoying his company I wondered if maybe I could trick him into just being a really great gal pal. We were halfway there anyway… at Raines Law Room we had discussed UTI’s for like…ages.

Buvette is a French restaurant in the West Village with little plates, so as Cheating Tinder was a self-proclaimed foodie (I know, the worst) I told him to do the ordering. He was working his way through our food order, ordering all sorts of fancy things and then he requested the ‘coca veen’. The waiter was confused, as was I, and asked him to repeat the order. He said it about 5 more times before finally pointing to the Coq au Vin on the menu. Our waiter gave me a what a le idiote look, then replied, ‘Ah, you would like the Coq au Vin’. He said, ‘Yes, that’s right’ and accidentally mispronounced it again. I honestly thought this was the most hilarious and adorable thing that has ever happened…ever. I was giggling for about 10 solid minutes and he took this remarkably well. Just as my laughter had died down, the waiter came back and asked him to repeat our order to make sure he had it right (some serious Coq au Vin pronunciation shaming goes down at Buvette)… I died.

When the cheese came he was lavishly describing each one for me, in that foodie way, until I had a bite of one and realized he had absolutely no idea what he was talking about… mistaking camembert for goats cheese (le idiote). I could not stop laughing and suddenly I was completely enamoured of this little bald man.

We went on dates for two months and the more time I spent with him, the more I liked him. Like, really liked him. I actually started wanting him to sing and play the guitar for me…

What I couldn’t understand was why we hadn’t had the ‘exclusive’ chat. I knew that he liked me and he knew that things would not be progressing beyond goodnight kisses unless we were official.

So… four cocktails deep from drinks with friends at La Bottega (the type of friends who say, ‘GO FOR IT, TELL HIM WHAT YOU WANT GIRL’ with such conviction that you forget that this would obviously be the worst idea in the world), I met him at Pastai down the road and decided to bring it up.

(I also decided to poke his nose repeatedly and it was every bit as enjoyable as I had hoped.)

As to the matter of exclusivity, he became evasive. He did assure me that he was not dating anyone else, but fuelled by alcohol and sexual frustration I icily told him that we would have to end things if he didn’t want to be my boyfriend. After he left I changed his name to ‘Maintain Dignity’ in my phone to remind myself not to text him the following day.

The following day, I texted him.

We made plans for the next weekend and I was really excited about them but before I had the chance to plan the perfect ‘be my boyfriend’ outfit, he cancelled with some lame excuse and I was furious. I deleted his number and tried to move on.

Moving on was difficult for a number of reasons… one, because I really fell for this little dude (I think it was the threat of the guitar – it just made everything so… dangerous). Two, because moving on is just so tediously difficult. Three… wait for it… NUMBER THREE… BECAUSE I FOUND OUT FROM A GOOD FRIEND OF HIS THAT HE HAD A GIRLFRIEND. THE WHOLE TIME.

It’s times like these that I wish I was from the Jersey Shore so that I could say, ‘What a jerk off’, with conviction, but I will settle for ‘cheating Finance cliché scumbag’.

So my fellow New York Tinderellas, if you come across a little bald investment banker from Virginia with a cute nose and a guitar… run for the hills.

And if you are his girlfriend… I totally made out with your boyfriend loads of times sorry.

The Dog Tinder

Date Stats

My Outfit: Black jeans, black silk shirt, grey flats

His Outfit: Stripey T-shirt, jeans

Day: Wednesday

Time: 9pm-10pm

Overall Rating: 1/10

Apologies for my silence, and thanks for all your messages. Unfortunately, I did not meet the one… just another Finance scumbag. More on that later, maybe, if I can ever bring myself to write about it. Scumbags to the left, I’m Tindering on… 

Oh lord, where to begin? With the exception of WPOT who, let’s face it, is always going to be the worst person on Tinder/the world, the Dog Tinder has got to be one of the most disappointing dates I’ve had in this whole experience.

Perhaps I was a fool to be disappointed by Dog Tinder, given our Tinder beginnings… shortly after matching, he asked for my number and then texted me asking if I wanted to meet at Jeffrey’s Grocery in the West Village for a drink that evening. By evening, I mean 11pm. By Jeffrey’s Grocery, I mean a venue conveniently close to his apartment where he would inevitably try to lure me back to after one seedy drink.

I declined.

The next day he apologized and asked me for a drinks date later in the week at Jeffrey’s Grocery (again).

Because his Tinder photos all were a bit artsy, it was sort of hard to tell whether or not he was as attractive as his photos made him seem so I asked if he had any other photos.

He sent me a shirtless selfie, followed by the emoji with anime eyes and tongue sticking out… clearly, I should have ended it there.

But I listened to all your emails and comments advising me to keep an open mind and not be so harsh on my tinders, so I agreed to the date… on the condition that he never use that emoji or shirtless selfie again (those were actually my terms).

About 30 minutes before our date I received a text saying:

I’m stuck with a client, can we push back to 9.30pm or possibly 9.45pm?

I replied:

No sorry, that’s too late for me. Enjoy your evening.

(Translation: Die, shirtless-selfie-taking jerk, I already blow-dried my hair and planned my outfit.)

He sent a slew of apologies that I ignored and then the next day asked me out again, saying he’d make any other time work. I decided to give him one last chance as he was being so nice about it. Client dinners do run on… I suppose.

We arranged to meet for dinner the following Wednesday at 8.30pm at Amber in the West Village. At around 8.15pm he texted me.

I’m so sorry but I just got home and my dog has vomited everywhere can we push back by 15 minutes.

Even though I myself was running 10 minutes late, this was 5 minutes less than him so I assumed rightful haughtiness and said:

I will be waiting. Please be quick.

8.30pm rolled around and my phone started to ring. A smarmy voice greeted my ear with, ‘Hey, I’m really sorry but just as I was about to leave he started vomiting again. Have you heard of Jeffery’s Grocery? Can we meet there? It’s right by my place.’

Clearly, he did not remember suggesting Jeffrey’s Grocery twice before. Which was…weird.

I started to wonder if Jeffrey’s Grocery was where he lured all his tinder dates before murdering them. Intrigued, I headed over.

He was nowhere to be seen and I was told the wait for a table would be 30 minutes.

So, I stood alone at the front of a crowded restaurant, dividing my time between telling waiters I was waiting for someone and staring at the door in anticipation of a stranger. The Tinder nightmare.

Finally, Dog Tinder arrived. He had a beard, which he might have had the decency to mention beforehand as not even one of his pictures suggested this.

I told him that the wait would be 30 minutes and he flagged down someone in a jacket, loudly saying, ‘Hey! Jeffrey! Can we get a table.’ Ah great, a total tool.

Jeffrey told him that the wait would be 30 minutes. (Cringe).

Undeterred, Dog Tinder maneuvered me out of the door and into a nearby restaurant called Momo where finally we were seated.

It was now 9pm and I was angry, starving and tired of hearing about his vomiting dog, who a neighbour was now watching in case things got worse. Dog Tinder told me that if he heard from his neighbour, he would have to leave to take the dog to the vet. Normally, I would applaud someone on their excellent exit strategy, but he seemed so cut up about the dog that I think this was legit. Either way, I am not a huge animal person so I had little to contribute by way of ‘vet chat’.

Realizing we probably had nothing at all in common, I said, ‘Listen, if you’re going to need to leave to take your dog to the vet then let’s just call it quits now.’

He sighed and said, ‘You hate me.’

I did not contradict him, mainly because that is an incredibly awkward thing to say on a first date.

He insisted we order food and drinks as it was 60% likely his dog would be fine.

Putting the fate of my evening in the hands of a vomiting dog, I ordered a glass of wine and some bruschetta.

The ominous potential dog vomit hung between us like a failed tinder date.

I had also asked the waitress to bring us bread immediately, so the moment it arrived I proceeded to wolf it down. Eyeing Dog Tinder suspiciously, I asked why he wasn’t having any.

He said, ‘I’m on Paleo. I like to watch the carbs ya know.’ Then he patted his stomach.

This made me so annoyed that I ate another piece of bread. Glaringly.

He then proceeded to tell me about his job in financial sales, his car collection, and his time in Miami managing DJ’s and club promoting.

There is someone for everyone, but the type of guy who has a car collection, watches carbs and spends time in Miami managing DJ’s and club promoting is not the one for me.

By this point I’d eaten and I could see little point in prolonging my evening with a club promoter turned sales guy with a dog. Perhaps sensing my increasing disinterest he put the promoter moves on me and pitched… himself.

‘Hey, so, my dogs are like childeren. I take care of them. I think you’re beautiful and I know tonight hasn’t been ideal but if you go out with me, I’d take care of you too.’

I nearly vomited (Dog Tinder loves to induce a bit of vomit).

Luckily before I had time to answer to this, his dog-sitter-neighbour called to say the dog was getting worse.

Saved by the vomiting dog!

We got the bill and he kept apologizing and insisting on walking me home while I kept insisting he didn’t.

As we said goodbye, he lingered awkwardly clearly hoping for a kiss. I gave him the arm pat and said, ‘Hope your dog is OK’.

Dog lovers, I know that the only thing you’ve been thinking this entire post is, ‘BUT WHAT HAPPENED TO THE DOG?’

I’m sorry to tell you that I can’t answer that because Dog Tinder and I never spoke again, however my best guess is that the dog is fine and the vomiting was all part of his escape plan to flee his obnoxious, club-promoting owner.

I like to imagine that the dog is currently sitting on a beach in Mexico, drinking martinis out of a bone and eating dog-carbs.

The Med Student Tinder

Date Stats

My Outfit: Short black and pink cotton sundress, black flip flops

His Outfit: Jeans and a T-Shirt

Day: Wednesday

Time: 8.00pm-9.30pm

Overall Rating: 1/10

After a never-ending string of finance guys talking at me about stocks and mergers, I decided to shake it up. One of the Tinders I was chatting to was a medical student. He had a topless photo (in the least aggressive way possible… he was on a hike, takin’ it all in with a ‘gee getta loada this view’ sort of look on his face) and I noted that he had an amazing body. Also, he was enthusiastic about nature (a good thing I suppose…?)

In the build up to our date we were texting back and forth quite a bit and he was absolutely hilarious. He said really offbeat, weird things that made him seem funny and a little wild. I was really excited to meet him.

I was, however, mildly put off by his suggestion of meeting at Wood and Ales, a grim looking pub on 14th and 8th (a depressing dead zone that I struggle to call Chelsea) but I figured that he was on a med school budget and couldn’t afford to go anywhere nice… where are the finance guys when you need them?

Pointedly, I put on a ‘casual’ outfit and walked over. From outside it looked like a cheesy tourist venue that lures in customers with bright colours and false promise. The inside was dingy with fluorescent lighting, horrible Irish music playing disproportionately loudly to the three customers sitting dejectedly around the bar and there was beer all over the floor and tables.

Med Student was already there, sitting at a table with a beer. He was even more attractive in person but I was so annoyed by my surroundings that I only noticed this begrudgingly. We shared awkward hellos that I could barely hear over the Irish jigging and I sat down. He didn’t offer me a drink so after a stony silence I said, ‘Well, I’m just going to get myself a drink’. Perhaps remembering that he was on a date and not in the student halls he suddenly leapt up and took my order.

I told him I’d like a glass of wine then tried to ‘smile sweetly’ (but probably glared maliciously) and asked if he wouldn’t mind telling the bartender to turn the music down. He looked a bit taken aback, as though he hadn’t even noticed the loud and terrible Irish music (HOW?)

If I’m going to spend an evening sitting in puddles of old beer, I draw the line at concurrently becoming deaf at the hands of an Irish jig.

There was decided tension when he came back to the table with my wine. Clearly he was not the type of person who asks bartenders to turn the music down and clearly I was not the sort of person who enjoys sitting in puddles of beer. We had zero chemistry (despite his very nice biceps) and all I wanted to do was go back home and watch Netflix.

So began an arduous game of ‘who can small talk the longest’. I’m very competitive but it was hard to win with Med Student who was putting up a great fight, small-talking my ear off about his subway commute.

We both finished our drinks and it was clear that neither of us were enjoying each others company but a sense of dating-etiquette-awareness and a fear of social awkwardness lead us to order another drink.

With the second drink came a more blatant dislike for each other. He started to tell me a story that began, ‘So you know when you’re out and you start a dance circle with your buddies…?’

After staring at him for a moment I said, ‘No, I have literally never started a dance circle. I would be mortified.’

He glared at me and I glared at him and together we threw hate at each other with our minds.

He then said, ‘Yeah, well, my buddy is bad at talking to women so we start dance circles to help him hit on hot girls’.

I can’t even…

I downed my wine and said, ‘Shall we?’.

As we walked to the subway station he told me all about the various subways he planned to take home and then we stood awkwardly outside the station for a brief second before he tapped my arm and said, ‘Well… we should do this again sometime’.

The tap-arm-and-express-false-intentions-to-hangout-again is MY ‘see you never’ move, buddy.

I said, ‘Yeah definitely, that would be great’.

Finance guys, I’m sorry I doubted you.

The Young Tinder

Date Stats

My Outfit: Short white silk dress, oversized brown handbag, pink flats

His Outfit: A suit

Day: Wednesday

Time: 8.30pm-1am

Overall Rating: 6/10

I was genuinely quite excited when Young Tinder asked me for a drink because he looked entirely normal and was gorgeous. To put this in context, about one in every 3067 tinders fits both of these descriptions.

We had some mutual friends, one of whom had described him as a ‘Golden Boy’. I was a tad worried this might mean the date would be all friendly smiles and conservative sweaters, but I figured I could go along with it initially and then slowly corrupt him as time went on.

We met in the West Village at a wine bar called Lelabar. He was already there when I arrived and I was glad to see that he was extremely attractive – even better looking in person (NEVER HAPPENS).

After we ordered our wine, he launched into a lengthy explanation of his job in real estate private equity (or something with most of those words in it – I zoned out).

I’m starting to wonder if man-Tinder comes with instructions to spend at least 10 minutes on a first date talking about finance…?

Keen to avoid showing too much interest, lest he took this as encouragement to keep going, I looked around the room and took in the bar. This prompted a startling realization that I had in fact been here before, after a very boozy dinner party. Two of our group had been cut off by the barstaff and one had fallen into a plant outside. Unfortunately, this realization occurred out loud as well as in my mind.

I was nervous that Golden Boy would be horrified by my implied alcoholism but actually his spirits were notably raised.  It was like he’d been on his best behavior for me and was now throwing off the blazer in favour of a leather jacket (it probably would have been like that in the ‘50s anyway). As though a switch had been flipped, he ended the finance lecture, ordered more wine and started to flirt with me.

Things were going great until I asked him how he knew our mutual friends.

‘Oh they are friends of my older sister.’

Mental arithmetic prompted me to ask, ‘Older sister? I thought you were 26 like me?’

He said, ‘Yeah, we’re the same age, I just turned 26 this month. Feel so old.’ (Stupid annoying young people feeling old when they are younger than me).

I have a couple of weeks left before I hit 27, so I didn’t really classify us as ‘the same age’ and at this point it was Game Over for Young Tinder. I REFUSE TO THROW MY 50TH BIRTHDAY PARTY BEFORE MY HUSBAND.

This being said, Young Tinder was turning out to be a lot of fun, and decidedly not a Golden Boy. After finishing our wine he suggested we move on for cocktails at The Garrett. I’d never been there before and was enjoying eyeing his young flesh so decided what the hell?! Live a little! The kids are with the babysitter!

I’m kidding, I don’t have children.

The Garrett is a cocktail bar above a burger chain. It was full of NYU students and I felt old (also a bit like a cougar, which was fun).

After we ordered our cocktails, Young Tinder got a bit handsy and kept saying, ‘You’re hot’. Not exactly romance but I’ll take it.

I’m not a huge fan of PDA, but Young Tinder was so very attractive, and the college students around us were so very drunk and oblivious… I full on made out with him at the bar like a teenager for like fifteen minutes.

It’s a shame he will never turn 50 before me because he is a really, really good kisser with a really, really amazing body.

He told me he lived next door and asked if I would join him ‘for a glass of wine on the sofa’. I’ll be honest with you, I was tempted. But my nearly-27-year-old brain intervened (damn you, maturity) and I declined. He then started trying to convince me that I’d really love the sofa and I should come over just to at least check out the sofa, it was brown leather for Pete’s sake. Yes, it seems he really thought that would work. I continued to decline and he continued to talk about his sofa until we started making out again.

He convinced me to stay for another drink, which was a terrible idea (I’m practically 27!) and then insisted on taking the cab home with me to make sure I got home safely. Even though the whole cab ride was spent batting away his hands, it was a free ride so I’m not complaining. He tried his hardest to come upstairs but finally accepted defeated and kissed me goodbye.

I woke up to missed calls and texts from Young Tinder. What are the young, if not persistent?

Not a love match but it was sort of fun to be back in college for a night… Tinder, you keep me young.