Tommer Dates Again: Entry 0.02


I rejoined Tinder on Friday, January 27, 2023. I swiped for probably 30 minutes, mostly left.

Anti-vaxxers, Trump lovers, religious nuts, couples looking for a third1, profiles where the age didn’t seem to match the face by at least 10 years, profiles espousing various non-religious, gym-based cults, profiles espousing actual cults, profiles with longer bios that only at the end tell you they’re only looking to make friends, and a lot of profiles whose bios read like coded (or not) messages asking men to be decent.

I swiped right on maybe four women. Once I hit the 30 minute mark, I started to wonder. Is this all that’s out there? Is this all the women in a 50 mile radius that would be potentially willing to date me? If so, what am I supposed to do?

I got one match out of it, Chantalle. We messaged. It was tedious, but I managed to find at least a few things to joke about and she started participating more actively. I asked if she wanted to meet for drinks over the weekend. We made plans to meet on Sunday, late afternoon, at a bar in her neighborhood. I scheduled my first date in almost five years.

I got there first. Chantalle walked in about 15 minutes after me.

Should I have stood up? Should I have proffered my elbow for a COVID-era-greeting? I couldn’t decide, so I just turned to face her, said hello, and told her she looked lovely. She smiled and ordered a glass of red wine. I ordered a mezcal cocktail.

I asked how her past week had been. I got a grunt in response.

I asked about her job, her hobbies, her friends, her cat, music she likes, places she’s traveled, movies she likes, TV she likes.

I asked her whatever questions I could think of that might open up a conversation. I was floundering. Then three patrons walked in and sat on the other side of Chantalle. One of whom, a man, I’ll call him Dick, probably in his 50s, looked at me and asked, boisterously, “Are you on a date?”

“Yes.”

“A first date?”

“Yes.”

“A Tinder date?”

“…”

“Well, how’s it going so far?”

I looked at Chantalle, she stared at her wine, and Dick said, “Not her, you answer first.”

“Meh.”

I did not mean to say it. It was reflexive.

I immediately apologized to Chantalle, said something about how it’s just my nerves, while Dick cackled.

Chantalle went to the bathroom. Dick leaned toward me and said, “It can’t be that bad, she’s still here, she must want to fuck. Just ask her to go back to your place.”

“It’s bad enough. And I don’t care if she wants to fuck, I don’t. I’m tapping out. Feel free to tap in.”

Dick did not want to tap in. But he did want to watch events unfold further.

Chantalle returned from the bathroom and ordered a second glass of wine. I was on my second cocktail. She noticed I’d gotten a different drink, one that was bourbon-based, and scolded me for mixing my liquors. I tried to find a witty way to say, I know what I’m doing, I’m an alcoholic. I don’t know what I mumbled but I’m pretty sure all she heard was, “I drink a lot.”

I could feel Dick’s eyes on me.

I took a sip from my beverage and said, “Chantalle, thank you for meeting me. I think you’re great, but I’m not feeling any chemistry here, are you?”

Chantalle’s face was fixed in a slight, forced smile, had been the whole date. I registered no reaction. She just shook her head and gulped down some wine.

I said, “OK. How about we finish our drinks as friends or whatever, I’ll pay our tab, and we’ll go our separate ways?”

Chantalle nodded.

I started conversing with the bartender, then to the three strangers, including Dick, on the other side of Chantalle. I should have paid closer attention to Chantalle, as she chugged the remainder of her second glass of wine and ordered another, which she drank very quickly before ordering her fourth glass. I’m not sure how many glasses she ordered in total. I didn’t realize what she was doing until she noisily stumbled off her stool and staggered to the bathroom.

I got the bartender’s attention and asked for my tab. He brought it to me as Chantalle flopped back onto her stool and downed her latest glass of wine. I told her I was closing out. The tab was more than $150, before tip.

Chantalle opened her mouth, paused, closed it, then opened it again, scowled and slurred, “I thought you’d be more assertive, based on your messages, but you weren’t assertive at all.”

I signed the check, smiled and said, “OK”. She went back to the bathroom.

I finished my drink, requested a Lyft, and walked outside, while Chantalle was still in the restroom.

It was an inauspicious start to my dating endeavors, but it was also educational. I will close out before I tell a date how I think things are going from now on.

  1. One profile read that she was in an open relationship and looking for some “fuckboi trash.”

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