I'm submitting the following essay about online dating to the "Modern Love" column of the New York Times, and would love to hear your feedback. Enjoy a break from work and (hopefully) a laugh or two about my experience with the virtual dating scene.
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I refused to ever do it in Los Angeles. Online dating in my
hometown meant running the risk of virtually bumping into people I went to high
school with, who I knew from around town, or who I worked with. Plus, I didn’t
need to do it in LA. I had my crew, meaning I had plenty of wing-people to help
me meet guys organically.
I had done it a couple years back when I was in grad school
in Boston. I quickly realized grad school was quite different from my
undergraduate years, and that people were not looking to get their party on
mid-week. Plus, my best friend from class had a boyfriend (who is now her
fiancée), and the few others I knew were equally coupled up. Joining OkCupid in
Boston seemed like an easy choice: It was free, meaning I wouldn’t meet anyone dying
to be married tomorrow, and I was far away, meaning no one I knew would see
that I was on a… err… dating website.
On OKC, I met a guy in the closet, a few Boston bros who
pretended they weren’t, a cute neuroscience Ph.D. student who loved his thesis
more than the idea of dating me, and a nice teacher who I had to end things
with after his kissing didn’t improve (subsequently, my friend began messaging
him on OKC and luckily, they had better kissing chemistry).
A Master’s degree and one serious relationship later (a guy
I met at a bar in LA), I found myself in my first Los Angeles apartment ready
to try out the dating scene again. I went out a lot with my girls and gays, and
met a lot of people. Some I made out with. Some I gave my number to. Most were
pretty lame.
For a few weeks, I lived vicariously through my female
coworkers who were online, browsing strangers’ profiles and remembering my days
in Boston of the long-winded messaging and ultimate date initiation, only to
end up disappointed that the chemistry was lackluster and the laughing
courtesy, at best.
But for some reason, I joined again. Maybe it was my
coworkers’ encouragement combined with my boredom during the slow season at
work. I kept my information short but helpful, trying to avoid having the
elusive “too cool for school” profile I’d heard about, where curtness comes off
as borderline bitchy.
I went on a lot of first dates. During my OKC mishaps in
Boston, I quickly learned that it’s easy to have good banter with someone via
planned out message exchanges, and that the only way to know if something is
real or not is to meet them in person. So, much to my coworkers’ confusion, I was
having a lot of mid-week drinks. If I thought he was attractive and we exchanged
a couple messages that proved he wasn’t a total idiot, why not go for it?
A few noteworthy dates: the recovering heroin addict who
invited me to bottomless mimosas only to order an espresso and reveal his
checkered past; the hippie who loved music and psychedelics and men and women, who
raved about his ability to smell when a woman was ovulating; the comedian who I
had no chemistry with who texted me two weeks later to get drinks, to which I
replied, “Thanks, but I didn’t think we were a match,” to which he replied, “I
totally got that vibe, just making sure.”
So OKC wasn’t working out, but there was another dating website
waiting in the wings. My coworker had met someone on “Coffee Meets Bagel,” a site
that sends you one match every day at noon (so there’s no aimless browsing),
and she was determined to get every woman in LA hooked on this new online
dating model.
Bagel was better. I met a cute Midwestern boy who I had a
few dates with but who ultimately liked his beers and bros better than being an
adult. I met an attractive lawyer who convinced me that he wasn’t a boring
lawyer, only to unconvince me of that fact four dates later. I met a creative type with a real job (jackpot!),
but quickly realized that if you’re nick-named after a jungle animal, the
possibility of something lasting is slim, to say the least.
I was discouraged. I had been single for about a year (and
yes, was having a lot of fun), but I was really ready to commit myself to
someone. So I did what any single girl who was looking for a meaningful
relationship would do: I joined Tinder.
From its induction into the online dating scene, Tinder was
known as the “hook up app.” It’s easy to use and is rooted in a location-based
“hot or not” platform, where you can swipe through dozens of people to find
those nearest to you whom you find most attractive.
I can’t remember what put me over the edge and got me to
download this seemingly superficial app. I asked my coworker if she could
remember, to which she replied: “Likely because, why not? It was easier than
OKC and Bagel, and I think it was just during a time when we were all trying whatever was out there.” I think that’s
right. It seemed fun and easy and I had heard about more and more people
joining it (and even having success beyond just hook-ups!), so I thought I’d
try my thumb luck.
And tinder was fun. It was fun at
bars when you were bored with your girlfriends. It was fun to show to people
who had never heard of it before. It was fun when you saw people you went to
high school with, and it felt less taboo than when you saw them on a
full-fledged site. Some of the guys I recognized from the dating sites I had
been on, others had the shirtless flexing pic I had heard horror stories about,
but a lot of the guys were actually pretty hot.
It was fun when you found someone
worthy of swiping right for, especially when the “It’s a Match!” popped up on
your screen. I made a rule for myself that I would swipe with ease, but that I
wouldn’t initiate any messages.
The plan was working pretty well.
I met a superhot DJ/entrepreneur who was working on opening a wine bar in
Hollywood. When he picked me up in his vintage Jaguar and ran into about five
girls he knew between the walk from the car to the bar, I knew a committed
relationship would never be in the cards with this dude. But the kissing was
fun.
Then I met someone who I thought
did have real potential. A design engineer from Stanford, he had the creativity
and the smarts I had been looking for. It was also reassuring to know that
cool, smart, attractive people were unabashedly using this app.
We hit it off immediately. We met
on Sunday, and were already meeting up again on Monday for a show. I began
travelling for work and we texted often, sharing a similar sense of humor and appreciation
for the LA art and music scene.
I was excited about our budding
relationship, and was confident we were on the same page. His avid texting, even
when I was away on business, was surely a sign of his interest, right?
Apparently not. Things were great
when I got back but quickly turned sour. He began acting very withdrawn and
when I immediately confronted him about it, he blamed work. Disappointed and
confused, I gave him an out and told him to be straight up with me. Still no
truth. Alas, why men say one thing and do another is another post for another
time. I continued along my Tinder journey.
Work got busy and I was traveling
a ton. After Stanford, I decided to just have fun and let whatever was supposed
to happen just happen. Tindering while traveling proved to be pretty
entertaining, and while I never actually met up with anyone, I did send some
pretty funny “Tindering in Detroit” pictures to my coworkers back home.
On my last trip of the year, I
received a message from Nick, a cute lawyer with a good beard who I had swiped
right on about a week prior. Like the lawyer from before, Nick also played the
“I’m not a lame attorney” card, saying that his coworkers made fun of him for
his tailored pants and fade. He was impressed when I guessed he did IP
transactions, (the only “cool” law I knew of) and I promised to not judge him
based off of my previous experience with a seemingly against the grain lawyer
who turned out to be anything but.
We met at 7 and Grand, a whiskey
bar in Downtown LA. I spotted him immediately—I had asked him how tall he was
(being 5’9 ½ myself, I always round up to 5’10), and he told me he was also 5’10
(I later learned he lied—he rounds up too, but he’s only 5’9 ¼ ). He was
leaning against the bar sporting those nicely tailored pants he spoke of with
what I thought was a hipster-cool carabineer for his keys sticking out of his back
pocket (I later learned it was a hook). I assumed he was arrogant.
I tapped him on the shoulder to
say hello, and immediately went to the bathroom to have an internal pep talk
with myself. I told this guy I wouldn’t pre-judge him based off his profession
and my past experience with know-it-all lawyers, but that’s exactly what I was
doing. I vowed to have a good night. And I did.
Nick and I have been dating
exclusively for about two months. Yes, we are in the very early stages of our
relationship, but it feels good. We are both strong and independent people who
somehow complement each other quite well. He likes that I call him out on his
shit; I like that he has perfectly mastered the art of being confident but not
cocky. It doesn’t even bother me that he’s ¼ inch shorter than I am.
I can’t predict the future, but
since meeting Nick, I can say that Tinder has worked for me. In the beginning, I
had wished that we had a better story like some of my friends do—selling him a
piece of furniture on Craigslist or meeting at an art gallery opening—but I
decided to own our Tinder reality. We quickly learned that we have some mutual
friends—a coworker of mine was a good friend of his in high school, and we
found out that while in college, we both did a program in Washington, DC at the
same time. We certainly could have met through one of those scenarios, but it was
Tinder that finally brought us together. And I think that’s romantic in its own
right because after all, what’s modern love without a modern introduction?
