Like every other single gal in New York City, I am totally over dating. It’s like every guy has a fatal flaw: Tom was cute, but he was allergic to pumpkin spice lattes. Richard had a great beard, but his yoga practice was years behind mine. Henry was super smart, had a stable job, laughed at my jokes, always made time for me, encouraged me to pursue my goals, shared my values, and wanted to start a family, but he used the free version of Spotify. Carrie Bradshaw probably said something about letting one thing pass leading to a slippery slope, so all of these guys just had to go.
And there I was: 24 and alone.
So, with my BFF Sarah and two bottles of pinot grig’, I finally did the unthinkable: I signed up for Tinder. I tried to put up enough photos of me with large groups of female friends to show that I’m social but not a slut. And even one at a wedding to prove I have no shame in being a bridesmaid! Natch.
Then, I fell down the rabbit hole and started swiping. Dude screaming into a bloody microphone? No way. Swipe Left. Middle-aged dude holding his three-year-old daughter? No way. Swipe Left. Dude in khakis and a button up shirt? God, I’m not a republican. Swipe Left.
After a soul-crushing 15 minutes of swiping, I realized that Tinder was just as hopeless as every other dating site. I was afraid that I would have to start taking up a new hobby and having to have actual, non-alcohol-fueled conversations with strangers. I started to panic. Then I remembered the promise I made to myself when I move to NYC: “I will never, ever play kickball.” I took a deep breath, had another glass of pinot g’ and opened Tinder again.
It was more of the same! A fat guy named Joe from New Jersey with a soul patch. Swipe Left. A skinny bearded tattooed boy in a hoodie from Williamsburg. Swipe Left. No! A weak-jawed skinny loser in his mom’s living room. No, no, no! I began swiping left as fast as possible to tell the universe “I will not date another Kyle! I just won’t!” when a handsome blur flew past my thumb toward my bigger boob. By the time I realized what happened and stopped myself, I was looking down at Toby, 48 from New Rochelle.
OMFuckingG! What did I do? I was swiping so fast I nearly spilled my glass of p’grig’. I wasn’t thinking clearly. His name was James. He was holding what I know must have been an artisanal beer. He totally would have gone to yoga classes and sipped pumpkin spice lattes with me in a cafe that played Arcade Fire with no commercial breaks.
It all happened so fast. I had just Swiped Left the man of my dreams.
Don’t let this happen to you. James and I could have been posing for tasteful sepia-toned engagement photos on an old train track by now, but I guess I’ll never know. Until then, I’ll continue swiping left until maybe, just maybe, I see another James. But I don’t know if I’ll ever run into another skinny, bearded, tattooed, hoodie-wearing, bespectacled boy from Williamsburg again. Until then, I’ll just keep on slowly Swiping Left.