From timid to Tinder

A tale of two modern day romances. They may not be long, nor lasting, but they matter.

For anyone who is not familiar with the wild frontier of online dating, it’s much akin to taking Melotonin. If you’ve ever taken the nighttime sleep aid, you’ve experienced waking up at three in the morning, unable to discern left from right as you stumble around to get to the bathroom, hoping you’re not just lucidly dreaming and are about to wet the bed. That’s what dating online is like. I started out in the dating world innocently enough as a well-meaning sociopath, which quickly forayed into full on psychopathy.

Don’t you dare ask how this conversation arose, but I was discussing the subtle nuances between Psychopaths and Sociopaths with a fellow Tinderite. I, erroneously, said most Psychopaths were incredibly adept in social situations and Sociopaths tended to be more recluse and keep to themselves, yet both were void of all things bearing a resemblance to empathy. This was when my Chipotle guzzling post-deflated erection date jokingly said, “So you meet Psychopaths in bars and Sociopaths on Tinder?” Later, I read that Sociopaths had a semblance of empathy and were somewhat angry when caught red-handed while psychopaths could care less. Psychopaths are, however, more adept socially. That part is still true.So then I ask, are we all a bit psychopathic? We hear stories about four Tinder dates a night, men using the app to add notches to their bedposts, women using it to get a free meal or two. Is it true? Do we care so little about the state of our romantic partner’s emotions because they’re so easy to come by? Use them for food, sex, or just to pass the time? Just because someone is accessible through the click of a button or the swipe of a finger, doesn’t make them any less human.

So then I ask, are we all a bit psychopathic? We hear stories about four Tinder dates a night, men using the app to add notches to their bedposts, women using it to get a free meal or two. Is it true? Do we care so little about the state of our romantic partner’s emotions because they’re so easy to come by? Use them for food, sex, or just to pass the time? Just because someone is accessible through the click of a button or the swipe of a finger, doesn’t make them any less human.I’ll come out straight with it, though. Online dating apps and websites are a godsend for people like me. On a scale of one to ten, I’m a seven, a hard eight when I get all dolled up. Depending upon location, I can fluctuate from a six in

I’ll come out straight with it, though. Online dating apps and websites are a godsend for people like me. On a scale of one to ten, I’m a seven, a hard eight when I get all dolled up. Depending upon location, I can fluctuate from a six in Miami, to a ten in my current location in hillbilly hell – also known as the Virginia backwoods. However, I’m pretty quiet and when I go out I tend to keep to myself. Coupled with the fact that I have resting face, I fade to the background among the buxom blondes and leggy redheads.

February of 2016 was when I downloaded Tinder. I’d just broken up with my mentally (and in some ways spiritually) abusive boyfriend. I was attempting to find myself, or so I claimed. I was really just looking for a good time. I’d endured months of Mike and Molly, baseball games, and sobriety. I deserved a damn reward. The caveat comes hours before the first date itself. I’d spent three hours in an electronic store waiting on customer service with said ex-boyfriend because he was the only person I knew could give me a ride. That, and it was my little private revenge on him.When he dropped me off at my dorm, I put on my cutest dress, and

When he dropped me off at my dorm, I put on my cutest dress, and ubered downtown to meet him. We were going to meet at seven and I settled in just outside the restaurant. Sitting on the porch of the gourmet hipster joint, I watched the orange sun disappear behind the Tampa skyline. A rather lanky man with large glasses and a side cut who’s genes seemed to arrange themselves in just the right way to give him a particular eternal boyish charm approached the restaurant. He was funny, intelligent, artsy, and respectful. Our first date was filled with awkward but fun conversation. I never felt the need to be someone I wasn’t.A week later we met up for drinks. We stopped at Cask & Ale, had a few drinks, and then hopped over to a rooftop club full of Gen Xers relishing in our youth. We met a married couple after he had egged me into another shot of tequila, drunkenly nodding along to their boring stories. Internally we were praying neither one of us would end up like them: married, middle-aged, and hating the person they were with. The man was bragging about his new sports car, and his ability to set off its sensor from hundreds of feet away. To prove a point, he demonstrated, gesturing to the red Audi across the highway in the parking garage as its lights

A week later we met up for drinks. We stopped at Cask & Ale, had a few drinks, and then hopped over to a rooftop club full of Gen Xers relishing in our youth. We met a married couple after he had egged me into another shot of tequila, drunkenly nodding along to their boring stories. Internally we were praying neither one of us would end up like them: married, middle-aged, and hating the person they were with. The man was bragging about his new sports car, and his ability to set off its sensor from hundreds of feet away. To prove a point, he demonstrated, gesturing to the red Audi across the highway in the parking garage as its lights flashed. The woman, who I can only remember as a woman with bad highlights and an even worse sense of fashion, jumped on the chance to comment on my date’s trip to Disney World the following day. She expertly explained how to sneak alcohol into Epcot. Just in case you’re wondering – get a large bag and hide tiny bottles of liquor (with plastic caps) in the side pockets.I don’t remember crossing the bridge back into Tampa, the walk back to the car is fuzzy and I can grasp at certain parts of our conversation. But what I do remember is

I don’t remember crossing the bridge back into Tampa, the walk back to the car is fuzzy and I can grasp at certain parts of our conversation. But what I do remember is the mind-blowing… candle lighting. I’ll leave it at that in case my mother ever reads this, and because he actually did light a candle and take off his adorable glasses. The next morning I wake up and stumble out to the bathroom, only to run into his chain-smoking hippie of a dad. Not too embarrassing. And that my friends, is where this one ends. He really didn’t text me much and I was okay with that post-breakup.

Fast-forward nine months to my final semester in college. I’m running late to a Tinder date I’m pretty sure won’t work out, but stopped by the CVS bathroom to preen one more time – just in case. And it pays off. On the app he particularly impressed me by not mentioning a sports-related or climbing the success latter book as his favorite. Anyone who knows Space Odyssey 2001 and likes Dalton Trumbo? The most infamous of the Hollywood Nine? Well that man can have my panties. When I arrived, I found him to be a little shorter than I expected but he was still pretty damn cute. We walk into the pizza joint and make small talk about how it had recently expanded since I’d last been there. I’ll admit I wasn’t sure how we got from walking through downtown traffic to paddle boating on the bay an hour later, but I was seduced by his awkward charm. Apparently, I have a type. We went down Bayshore Boulevard, rowing and paddling with the wind slowly whipping my hair. On the walk back we wandered through the park and ran smack dab into a “wall of dreams.” It was a giant chalkboard filled with people’s names and a prompt, “Before I die I want to…” and you fill in the rest. We both wrote something for a good laugh. Before we took off back into town he glanced over at me and said, “Before I die, I want to kiss Melissa.” Of course we had to kiss, because while I’m not a romantic, I am a sucker for good delivery. The next day he invited me to the beach. It was cold, not being from Florida he’d assumed it’s always warm out there, it’s not. I spent the majority of the time after our hiking trip burying myself burrito-style in a beach blanket. At one point he stripped down to his underwear and jumped into the water for a hot second. Nice view and good impression in my book.

The following weekend was Thanksgiving weekend – probably the best Thanksgiving I’ve ever had. Around 6 or so Thanksgiving night he picked me up, we go back to the place he’d rented in Oldsmar. He told me a few jokes I particularly remember as funny. At one point, he began singing “Shut Up and Dance” as “Shut up and have sex with me.” For some reason I laughed a little harder than I normally would’ve. We had dinner, watched Hellraiser and cuddled for a while. He proclaimed himself a genuine horror fan, but had never seen the movie. I had to educate him through Netflix and Chill. Chill came not long after.

The next morning was fun, even if we had to hide out from the renters, an older Christian couple that would not have approved of sleepovers. He attempted to teach me to meditate, during which I failed miserably, but managed to get in touch with my chi enough to chi one more time before he drove me back to my dorm. That Friday morning I sat in the passenger side seat of the car, just talking, keeping my mind off the inevitable. Finally, we pulled in along the side of my building. I remember feeling overwhelmed in the back of my mind, my conscious – the thoughts I allowed myself to think, blank. I glanced across at him. He offered me a smile and thanked me for spending Thanksgiving with him. He says we’ll be able to get together one more time at least. It’s a lie. But I nodded, agreeing, commenting on how I liked the song playing on the radio before I open the door and slowly walked back to my dorm. Before I made it back to my room, even to the gate, tears sting the corners of my eyes, a sharp pain bites at my nose as I attempt to not cry. I recite the lyrics of the song in my head all the way back to my room, “Take me down to the Paradise City where the grass is green and the girls are pretty…”

I was hurt by both separations. I wasn’t sad because I liked them. Sure, I did. They were nice guys. Cute. Funny. Good at sex. But that’s not why I miss either one of them. It’s not why when I’m an 80-year-old woman lying on her deathbed, I’ll tell my grandchildren about one or the other. It’s because they were kind decent human beings who treated me with respect. I felt like I mattered. No sexist microaggressions, no disgusting overtures, no feeling gross or awkward about my scars or freckles. I remember specific details about other dates that stood out to me, yet they seem to blend in with the rest as time marches on. One trait morphs into another, each detail disappearing into a stock card character of the Tinder Date. The slightly immature Pokemon GO obsessor who’s dream it was to open a healthy fast food alternative to the corpulent of America. The Greek dentist who seemed like a total creep but just didn’t have command of the English language well enough to hit on women.

It seems like, in the end, we’re all just stumbling around like drunk toddlers. Looking for a semblance of what our grandparents called romance. It’s a sad day for romance, even just simple dating, when basic human connection is something we’re all so starved for that when we find it, we’re scared to let it go. Even when we know it’s not the real thing. Out of 20 some odd dates, two, (yes, two) are the ones that’ll stay with me for the rest of my life. So I guess this just means I’ll have to go on twenty more dates and keep those two interesting ones interested long enough to become Mr. Right.