I still remember the day my first love played me the song "All My Life" by K-Ci & JoJo. We were 11 years old, and after spending the day riding bikes around Bayshore, we stopped at his grandma's house for bologna sandwiches. After feasting on the front porch, he pulled out his Walkman, which he had skillfully cued up to the beginning of the song. I know some of you young readers can't appreciate the effort it used to take to find your favorite song on a cassette player, but let me tell you, it was no small feat. As we leaned in close to share one headphone, I thought, "So, this is it. This is love."
Two months later, summer ended, and my first love and I went on to different middle schools. He found a new love in a curly-haired, girly-girl and broke up with me over the phone. I was devastated but resolute. Surely, I would find my person soon. I did it once, and I could definitely do it again.
Fast-forward 25 years, and here I am, still single, still searching for love. That's not to say that there weren't detours on my journey. The was a fiancé. Well, two, actually.
The first was a jovial Irish boy I met in college. He was handsome and loved me fiercely, but we were still young and figuring out who we were. Neither of us had much dating experience, and it showed. After six months, we broke each other's hearts in a pretty brutal fashion. He married a lovely woman who gave him two kids. He is still happily living the life I thought I would have by now. The second fiancé was the dreaded relationship built on the desperation that comes when you see all of your Facebook friends getting married. As you could have guessed, that relationship ended up being a massive dumpster fire, the likes of which I hope I never experience again.
Yet, despite my complete failure to walk down the aisle, I have remained hopeful that the love of my life is out there—somewhere. Though at this point, I have considered applying to be on shows like "Married at First Sight" and "Married by Mom and Dad." But before relegating myself to reality TV infamy, I decided to give Tinder a try. According to DatingAdvice.com, over 17% of marriages now start with online dating. Suffice to say, the statistics seemed encouraging. However, after two years on Tinder—with a few breaks here and there—I have concluded that those blissfully married couples were not on Alaskan Tinder.
At this point, I have gone on well over 100 dates, and while some were perfectly pleasant, many were the dating version of hell. So, to kick off this new monthly column, I thought I'd start with one such disaster.
I met, let's call him Chuck, in the summer of 2019. He was rugged, handsome, athletic, and bonus knew what punctuation was. Trust me, that is a rare combo these days. After a week of exchanging flirty messages, I suggested we meet for a First Friday event. I was so excited to meet Chuck that I got my hair done, got a pedicure and manicure, and even bought a brand-new dress. I was going to all in because I was convinced that this would be the date that would have a movie ending. You know, the kind where you say "I love you" way too soon.
When Chuck and I met at the Museum, I was pleasantly surprised to see that he looked exactly like his photos. To say that I was attracted to him would be a major understatement. I was nervous but did my best impression of a confident person as I walked through the exhibits with him. The conversation felt natural, and he was laughing—a lot. As my confidence increased, I "accidentally" brushed my hand against his. In turn, he put his arm around me while we pretended to care about the art on the walls.
After an hour of playful banter and tentative physical contact, we decided to jet across town to watch The Jephries play a show at The Carousel Lounge. Before getting in his car, he surprised me with a passionate kiss. He then suggested we skip the show and go to my place. Admittedly, I was tempted. But c'mon, I was not going to miss a Jephries' show for what already seemed like a guaranteed thing.
A savvier dater would have seen what happened next coming from 10 miles away. Sadly, I did not.
When we got to the Carousel, he placed his phone facedown on the bar and insisted we sit in the back to "get away from the crowd." While I was falling deeper in love, his phone kept buzzing—nonstop.
"Maybe you should get that," I suggested to him.
He nodded in agreement, and as he turned the phone over, I got a glimpse of several text messages from "Karen," who asked him to bring home milk for the kids' cereal. He had never mentioned kids, but I wasn't overly worried about that. I mean, I wouldn't let someone I just met know too much about my family. However, this mysterious Karen had me worried.
"So, who's Karen? She's not your wife, right?" I asked facetiously.
"Oh, no, it's my mom," he responded.
"You have your mom saved under her first name?"
"Yeah, we don't have a great relationship. It's a long story," he explained before excusing himself to go the bathroom.
For the next 30 minutes, I sat at the bar waiting for his return. By the time I had shredded the entire label off of my Angry Orchard, it occurred to me that something wasn't right.
I sent an employee to the bathroom to check on him. When he came out, he let me know there was no one in there. So, I thought maybe he was outside getting some air. I circled the building twice before realizing his car was gone. It was my first "Irish goodbye." If you've never heard of the term, you're not alone. Before that night, I had never heard of it either.
I tried calling him to at least get a ride back to the car. In response, he blocked my number.
Humiliated, I called an Uber and waited outside, so no one inside would see me crying. When the Uber showed up, the driver immediately commented on my running mascara.
"What happened to you," he asked in a thick Nigerian accent.
"Bad Tinder date," I replied curtly, not wanting to recount the whole sad affair.
"It's Friday night! A girl like you should be out having fun. Tell you what, how about you let me take you out?" he asked.
Stunned, I explained that I was not in the mood to be around people. So we sat in silence for the next 20mins until we got to my car.
"Please, you should let me take you out," he said as I exited the car.
"I'm good. Thanks, though," I yelled back, fumbling to get my door unlocked.
"Seriously, let me show you a good time," he responded. "You've heard about the stereotypes. You know I can show you a good time."
Luckily, I had parked my car next to my office, and my giant dog started barking frantically when he saw the shadows in the window. It was enough to stifle his unwanted advances. That night, I deleted Tinder and hugged my pup hard.
Together my dog and I swore off human men. Well, for at least a week, that is. Sometimes I really wish my damn optimism would just fuck off.
