Now, your girl is living and breathing in all that are the boroughs of New York and dating has altered. I no longer have to drive into the city for a date or decline dates because they refuse to hop the pond to Jersey; now the train is our magik carpet. Here are a few additions to my last post on dating, as a millennial, in this ambitious ass city.
Infinity Scarf, the Frenchman
I connected with Infinity Scarf on good ol’ Bumble, the dating app that is only a minuscule step up from Tinder and a significant one down from OKCupid. He had an auburn tint to his hair, matching freckles and a set of thick lips that I found enjoyable in photo form. His photos were very good, since they were completely misleading once we met 🙂 We chatted frequently throughout the course of a week until he asked me to some newfangled French restaurant in the Lower East Side. It was winter, yet not so cold, so I just wore a peacoat and meandered into the hoity toity spot; whereupon I found out he was about 5’7″. I am, 5’10” just to clarify. Yes, I care about height. Yes, I am superficial. Yes, I am picky. Sue me. This wasn’t going to work, so I sat down to enjoy a meal anyway.
We talked, haltingly and awkwardly until the $80 tab was picked up by him (with my wallet being pulled out, because NY has taught me not to be presumptuous). We stood up and he went to put his hand on the “small of my back” (what am I writing here, a novel?) and I damn near busted out laughing, but held myself together. We got outside and I went to turn around to give him some face time and I couldn’t find him! He was absolutely lost within the confines of his infinity scarf, I was just DONE. Not only are you short, not only did you lie, but you’re audacious enough to wear a very European infinity scarf and act like the world can find you! Goodnight.
He walked me to my train, wanted to see me again and I went for the hug as he went for the double cheek kiss. Duh … I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. If there was moment that I thought it might not have been awkward, he intoned, “isn’t giving a hug a little juvenile”?
Life of a Yogi
Bumble, at it again with the fails. This one started off really well, with lots of long conversations into the wee hours of the morning. Getting real honest real quick, which made sense since he was not a native New Yorker. Yes, that was a shot at all male New Yorkers 🙂 He lived in Brooklyn and took up a temporary, hands-on job through his family to take a break from the intensity of an ivy league education. I found this interesting and wanted to dig deeper, so we made plans to meet on a weeknight evening. He warned me of the big, white, windowless van that he would be driving to my neck of the woods. I tried to alter my thinking to that of the fact that he was trekking all the way to me, in the depths of Brooklyn, as opposed to the fact that the van might foreshadow pedophilia.
He arrived, covered in plaster that had clearly been washed off in vain. I like a man who can work with his hands! He parked, we walked to a sushi spot a few blocks away and got through dinner + conversation easily. Suddenly two hours had passed, it was 11pm and we were walking in the direction of my apartment. I felt pressured; I hadn’t even considered the notion that he’d “come back to my place” and I’m not much of a drinker, so I don’t even have a nightcap. Things were looking bleak and when all else fails, I chose humor. I mentioned my thoughts, we laughed and he said we’d just chill for a bit and he’d bounce. My gut wasn’t yelling at me, so I felt this was an acceptable plan.
He relieves his bladder while I scurry around to at least put on some entertainment and music videos start streaming on my TV … it’s all very 1995 VH1 era. He returns and we sit in different places, he mentions this aloud and I laugh so now we’re on the same couch watching music videos as if it’s the first time we’ve seen this new and exciting technological advance. We puff on a hit or two and out of left field he asks if I have a yoga mat…
I’m thinking, “ouuuu, how dutty!” I pull out the mat and he proceeds to do literal yoga in jeans directly in front of me. I have absolutely no idea how to react to this and start to feel like this might be too intimate for a first date? Jean yoga. Like, I just don’t know. We don’t speak for an hour until he’s done and decides to leave.
Two weeks later and he texts me, “so wasup.”
Preface: this one is quite peculiar and just a snippet.
Bumble is clearly the death of my ego. Nonetheless, I started vibing with a cutie and it took many months to finally meet. I’ll go right past the context of most of our conversations and say this had the potentiality to become a friends with benefits situation. Fine. He comes over after biking what seemed like the entirety of Brooklyn and was thus a little sweaty and shorter than anticipated. FINE. He’s already here, let’s make the best of it. We’re chilling, chatting, and drinking non-alcoholic bevs in my living room when a light makeout situation ensues. I’m halfway into it when, shockingly, a beard is being LITERALLY stuffed into my mouth. I am confused. Is this some sort of fetish? What really constitutes a fetish? Is this real? What is my life?
These questions surround my head in a cloud, meanwhile the beard is still in place and it’s starting to floss my teeth. I get knocked back into my senses at the sound of Sia coming from my radio and it’s DEFINITELY time to part. He’s got to go. No…no no no.