He had a strong jaw with an athletic build. He seemed endearing and kind, but with a bit of an edge to him also. We were members of corporate America and walked the same streets of the city. I liked what I saw, so I swiped right. It was a match! It wasn’t until afterwards that I realized I probably should’ve swiped left.
We chatted and sent normal people messages, an idea so foreign in the Tinder realm. He would be the first guy I might actually meet from this new-aged matchmaker, and I had hope for what could be a “normal” encounter, especially since it would be my first. My vivacious friend from Miami was visiting and she was the ideal candidate for my wing woman.
Just by chance, we ended up going to the same baseball game – and what a perfect, no-pressure situation. He told me he would buy me a hot dog (I had it in writing), even my friend read it, so it I knew I would at least get food out it. But alas, he was nice, but the spark was missing or a flame was just never lit. He also never bought me the Fenway Frank he promised [in writing]. Even my friend made it a point to say she was getting a hot dog, and still, nothing.
Perhaps it was nerves, it was my first time too. Maybe we could find matches to start a fire between us, or at least light a candle to bring us together. We both rolled with our squad to a near by watering hole after the game, both with hopes that the night could end better than it started. At least, that was the hope I held in my slightly intoxicated imagination; however, there was nothing but empty conversation and exchanged hand shakes with his equally awkward friends.
I eventually had my friends rescue me from the handsome, yet dull gentlemen. Luckily, my friend visiting played the loud, hammered, basic bitch so well, they didn’t have time to react. We saw him and his crew looking for me in the other part of the bar, but I was too busy rapping to the hits blaring through the speakers to entertain a suitor. He sent me a text saying, “I guess you’re over it.” I replied, “It was nice to meet you, but I don’t see this going anywhere.” He was very nice, but the vibes were off, and I never did get my hot dog.
Fast forward to a sunny, but cold winter Monday. My hair unwashed from the previous day’s activities of a long walk with an incline and hip-hop yoga- yes, I woke up like that. I walked out of the GNC near my office (I’m attempting a health kick) with my head down, only to look up at a strong jawed, well-dressed member of corporate America. After the second glance and initial shock wore off, I immediately landed back in Fenway Park ravenous for a Fenway Frank.
It was him; my first and last Tinder date. He must have been going to lunch with his colleagues. Maybe he was buying them a hot dog… those lucky bastards. He caught my eye during my double take, and recognized me too- even with unwashed, slicked-back hair. The eye contact was even more awkward than our tryst at the bar. I didn’t even think that was possible. The fact that I had to practically hold my jaw from dropping probably did not help the situation.
Those 10 seconds (maybe it was an eternity) were easily the most uncomfortable passing moments of time I have ever experienced. During those 10 seconds and exchanged eye contact, we passed each other like two people caught in a modern-day, very unsuccessful love affair- like we never knew each other at all. I acknowledged the moment in my mind and my heart though. My hunger pangs, mind, and heart all agreed though- I should’ve swiped left.