Swipe Right, First Kiss: The Michael Scott Vogue Poster Affair
Welcome to the saga of my second date from the dating app — a tale that has secured its spot as not just my favorite but also my friends’ go-to story for entertainment.
It all started with one of the late-night Zoom calls with my squad, as we defied the pandemic to keep our gossip game strong. After enduring a particularly cringe-worthy first date from the dating app, I concluded that my friends, the self-proclaimed sane ones, were my true companions in this chaotic love life.
In our classic fashion, we, the perpetually horny and cringey twenty-somethings, decided to elevate our Zoom session with a riveting game of ‘Never Have I Ever,’ armed with nothing but bottles of water. Little did I know that this innocent game would lead to a moment etched in embarrassment history. There I was, virtually cheering along with my fully filled water bottle, proudly admitting that I had never actually kissed someone. Cue the awkward stares from my equally awkward-looking friends — what could they say?
Fast forward to the post-Covid era, as we bravely stepped back into college life. While the peak of the pandemic saw me going on a few forgettable dates (seriously, I can’t recall the names of half those people), it was upon returning to college that my dating app adventures truly kicked off. And so, the curtain rises on a series of interesting dates that all began with a bang — a story that unfolded in the wee hours of the night in my dorm room, surrounded by furious swiping and texting.
Among the sea of potential matches, one caught my eye in a way no one had before: a bumble profile with a Michael Scott Vogue poster. The date in question was not just a connoisseur of artistic tastes but also had a knack for appreciating the same extremely popular and overhyped shows as I did (yes, Dwight’s antics were a major selling point).
But there was more to this date than shared interests — the cool texting demeanor, a rather sexy calmness, and a refreshing lack of the same old small talk routine. This, I thought, was definitely the making of a potentially legendary date.
In a move that showcased my rapidly diminishing patience, I scheduled not one but two ‘learning dates’ before the grand rendezvous with, let’s just call him ‘Michael’ for convenience (To be fair, I had already scheduled them before I came across Michael, and I say ‘scheduled’ because by that point I gave only a generous 20 minutes to my dates, I was rarely interested in continuing). The other two dates were intriguing in their own right (or maybe I just have a knack for hyping people up, take it with a pinch of salt), but there was an undeniable anticipation for Michael .
Before the man himself could make his entrance, he did pull a classic dating app move — a last-minute rescheduling an hour later.
But, oh boy, did he make up for it.
Michael appeared, and to my utter surprise, he was not just well-dressed; he was a fashion revelation in a college accustomed to pajama-clad rendezvous. Cool shoes, an actual shirt, colored jeans — he even smelled AMAZING. I was floored. The rain poured, and we strolled in silence through deserted corridors, engaging in “deep” discussions about life, love, and, of course, The Office.
As our dates became a regular affair, almost daily rendezvous and constant texting when apart, a peculiar realization set in — Michael wasn’t much of a talker. Correction: he talked way too little. Our meetups often involved a few minutes of conversation followed by an hour of sitting beside each other in absolute silence. Oddly, we found ourselves seeking out private spots, only to sit there without a clue about what to talk about. But, and it’s a BIG BUT, we weren’t bored. In fact, we couldn’t wait for the next installment of our oddly enchanting non-conversations.
Cue a festive evening, adorned in our finest attire, both of us looking hotter than usual (He looked extremely hot with an office suit and tie by the way), we decided to meet at 9 PM. Amidst the celebratory crowd, we found a quiet, empty spot near the basketball court, and there we were — doing the usual, sitting side by side, doing absolutely nothing.
And then, just as the clock struck the end of our rendezvous, it happened. Michael leaned in, and whispered, “I’ll quickly do this before I end up regretting not doing it for the hundredth time” as he cupped my face in his palms. I nodded an almost instantaneous yes, and there it was — our first kiss. Fireworks might be an exaggeration, but it definitely felt great. His lack of verbal communication found redemption in his kissing skills.
After that, there was no stopping us. We turned into hormone-fueled teenagers, making out at every conceivable spot. Classrooms, corridors — you name it, we probably kissed there.
Michael, the romantic gentleman, was all about the tender moments. I, on the other hand, was a bit frustrated. “He ONLY kisses. We don’t do anything else. He’s so romantic!” I’d rant to my friends, who, in turn, would look at me with bemused expressions, advising me to calm my overly enthusiastic spirits.
The inevitable moment arrived soon enough. We explored the realms of more-than-just-kissing territory, mostly in classrooms where anyone could walk in anytime (clothed for the most part, except for a few rebellious instances :P). Even with all the passion, Michael maintained his gentlemanly demeanor — a quality that earned my respect after a series of romantic escapades.
However, despite the physical attraction and our fiery encounters, something started to bother me. Michael, the not-so-talkative individual, turned out to be too chill about life. Conversations about the government, capitalism, or even the existence of God were met with nonchalant responses. “Doesn’t matter to me,” he’d say, while giving me the same smile that used to give me butterflies just a few days back. His lack of opinions began to gnaw at me, a largely opinionated individual.
As fate would have it, our final year in college was cut short, and it was time to bid adieu. As much as I sensed that Michael wanted our story to continue beyond the campus borders, the harsh reality of long-distance relationships loomed large. After all, I wasn’t Jane, and I knew my sanity would wave goodbye if I tried to keep the flame alive based solely on physical attraction.
So, with a heavy heart , I made the executive decision to pull the plug. On our final day, I sent a well-thought-out text and poured out my appreciation for our time together, told him everything I appreciated about him, making sure to tell him about his triumph over Bumble competition (seriously, he was the MVP). But let’s be real, it was a long text — an epic, a saga, an odyssey of words.
In a moment of hope and optimism, I wished him all the luck in the world, hoping he’d find someone as charmingly quirky as yours truly back in his hometown. With a playful sign-off, I envisioned him living his best life, surrounded by equally entertaining individuals.
And how did Michael respond, you ask? Well, brace yourself for the dramatic irony. He replied with a sorrowful collection of office stickers, those virtual symbols of our shared chat history. The irony wasn’t lost on me — a silent acknowledgment that our story had come to a bittersweet close.
As Michael and I part ways, much like the Dunder Mifflin gang did in the series finale, it’s not without a dose of bittersweet sentimentality. Picture Michael Scott whispering his goodbyes to Toby — that’s essentially how I felt crafting that final text. His office sticker response was like the ‘Schrute Bucks’ of our parting exchange — weird, inexplicable, and quintessentially us.
But worry not, for the future chapters of my dating escapades promise even more absurdity, and maybe, just maybe, a story that rivals Jim and Pam (or at least, Michael and Holly)
Before we move to the third date, here’s a little something: Swipe, Chat, Caution: Navigating the Unpredictable Seas of Dating Apps
Or jump directly to the next date experience: Swipe Wisely: A Tale of Unexpected Twists and Turned-off Shoes
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