“Am I cursed?!” I asked my coworker. It was a Wednesday, and my second day in a row of being canceled on last-minute for a first date.
It was the year 2016, and it had taken a few rounds of download, delete, repeat before I kept the most recent wave of location-based dating apps on my phone. The entire concept of swiping was elusive to me, since I had coupled up with somebody shortly after internet (app) dating became a thing. Once I had decided I was ready — ready to be vulnerable again, to put myself out there after nearly five years — I did what I assume most people (but especially my fellow virgos) do: write, edit and design The Ideal Dating Profile.
I was about six months out of my last LTR (long-term relationship) and equal amounts nervous and eager to begin dating again. One might say my thirst was suspect; I was terrified of taking a sip of something I didn’t expect. I had spent my early and mid-twenties indulgently devoted to another, and I knew it was time I directed some of that same reverence toward myself. So, after I’d crafted my emoji-clad profiles and selected a handful of friend-approved photos, I went for it.
I started to swipe.
It was a Friday night spent swiping left (no thx) or right (yes plz) on guys. There were tech guys. Tattooed guys. Inspirational quote guys. Did I mention tech guys? Guys with their shirts off. Guys with glasses on. More tech guys. Guys next to a freshly caught fish (so many fish??). Artsy guys. Studious guys. Funny guys. Frankly, I was pretty impressed by the pool of profiles I found myself wading in that fated Friday evening. I was intoxicated, as full of hope and wide-eyed giddy excitement as a little girl at the water’s edge, gearing up to run straight in.
When Jake* messaged me the next day suggesting dinner Tuesday night, I felt energized. However by late afternoon on the day of our scheduled deep dish pizza date, Jake hadn’t confirmed our locale. I reached out. He apologized for the delay and said he hadn’t gone into work that day. He wasn’t feeling too well, he said, and asked if I’d consider rescheduling. He understood the frustration caused by canceling, he said. “I’ll totally make it up to you…” he bargained. Feeling optimistic, I agreed to give Jake another go and we made plans to meet a couple days later for drinks.
Feeling mildly annoyed but still relatively spirited, I awoke Wednesday morning looking forward to my first date with Ethan* — dating app dude #2. This guy had his shit together, I told myself. A fellow indica and pizza enthusiast, our date fell on 4.20 and he’d cleverly proposed a puff and pizza at San Francisco’s notorious Dolores Park. He said he’d gather supplies. I said I’d bring some party favors too and went to the dispensary with my medical marijuana card in hand that afternoon.
Soon after I’d purchased some pre-rolls (Girl Scout Cookies and Chem Dog), I got a text from Ethan. “I’m trying to rally,” he said, “been feeling under the weather, thought it was allergies and now I’m thinking it might be something stronger.” OK, I thought to myself. Yes, this is a major bummer but at least he’s being communicative and honest, right? Two hours later I received another text: “I’m sorry to do this, and so late, but I should cancel. I’m coughing and sniffling and it’s just not a great scene right now, but I’m game for the same plan any day of the week!”
My confidantes couldn’t believe I’d been canceled on twice in a row by two different people. To be honest, I couldn’t either — but I’d gone in with low expectations and wasn’t feeling too down about it. After all, Jake had already rescheduled and Ethan seemed genuine enough in his remorse for snuffing out our blaze date (but still, such a shame).
Thursday morning arrived and I was ready for my re-do with Jake. This was it. I was 28 and officially going on my FIRST DATE IN HALF A DECADE. I breezed through my day, feeling high just off the idea of an overdue hot new rendezvous. When 6pm rolled around and I hadn’t heard anything from my date, I told myself he was just playing it cool and we were obviously still on for 7pm. How could we not be? He had already bailed on me once before, and I had just painted my nails goddammit.
At 7:06, I gave up my cool card and sent a feigned casual text saying, “about to head over — what’s your ETA?” At 7:15 I called my friend while walking toward the bar. “I still haven’t heard from him but we agreed to around 7.” She assured me he was probably just rushing to get there. After all, he had mentioned having limited time but wanting to make the date work anyway. Or maybe he was already inside looking for me, my friend insisted. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” I replied while doing my best to shake the electric, pulsing nerves and summon what remained of my courage.
I went in, scanned the crowd, and realized he was definitely not there. It was almost 20 minutes past our second attempt at meeting up. So I did what I imagine many millennial women in this situation would do: I texted my friend. She encouraged me to order a drink and said if he didn’t turn up she’d join me for a cocktail and guacamole. By 7:40 I had resigned to the idea that Jake wasn’t showing. He didn’t walk through the door despite my frequent glances at it, and he didn’t send a text.
By 8 I was on my second boozy drink of the evening and beyond happy to be in my girlfriend’s company. By 8:25 my cocktails had kicked in and I sent Jake one final text: “boooooo.” I didn’t hear from him again.
Friday I awoke, bewildered I’d just been ghosted and gently shaken up by my seemingly bad luck. After three consecutive days of first date fake-outs, I was relieved just to have made it to the end of the week.
On the MUNI train to work that morning, after one hell of an emotional ride, I squeezed myself into the last available seat. It was between two guys. One was reading a book. The other was swiping right.
P.S. Eventually I got my first date. It was with another match, Michael*. And not only did Michael materialize live in the flesh, he’d even arrived early and was waiting patiently for me (I know … so sweet). I was more anxious than I would have been had I not just experienced a week of other men’s flakiness, so I took some deep breaths — and some heavy sips of my adult beverage — and soon I began to feel like myself again.
*names changed
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