Text World Problems
The anxiety induced by the post-first-date textversation. Really puts you in the metaphorical glass case of emotion.
Sometimes, you go on a date, and it’s clear how well it went. For example, if you wake up next to your date the next morning, it’s safe to say it went well on at least one level. Other times it’s clear that one or both parties is just trying to get the hell out of there. Like if the guy says the words “I’ll call you,” that’s not a great sign. I know it’s not exactly intuitive, but it’s just the way of the world. It’s a vague way to end the conversation amicably. “I’ll be in touch” is even worse.
Other times, the date ends, and you have no idea if it even approached success. The entire way home, you’re re-analyzing every line of conversation. Replaying every tick of body language to figure out if she’s into you. Even after you’re back in touch it can be a roller coaster of she-loves-me/she-loves-me-not emotions.
I had one of those dates last week. I met the girl — let’s call her Helen — via Hinge. Hinge is a dating app like Tinder, except better, because the girls are better looking. Who knows why. But Helen was no exception. Definitely out of my league. And she’s the best kind of hot, too. Not the kind of hot where she’s turning heads and dropping jaws everywhere she goes. More of a subtle beauty, where at first glance, she’s cute. But she gets better looking the more you look at her, and only after a few hours do you realize she’s a true bonafide hottie.
So my first Hinge experience began with Helen and I meeting at Urban Putt to play miniature golf. How adorable. And practical too, as it follows the “don’t just meet for drinks on a first date because that’s boring” rule I mentioned here.
Of course she was late, because everyone is late to everything these days. We did start by having a drink at the bar, because no one wants to play golf with a total stranger. I avoided making a horrible joke about how what we were doing is known as “hinge drinking,” a major problem sweeping the nation’s tech-savvy singles. That’s a win.
My next win came on the course, as I couldn’t bring myself to let her win, which is what conventional wisdom might say to do. But that would be so disingenuous. Plus it goes against my core principles as an American (after all, as it says on our dollar bill: “eff everyone else; I win”). But I’m happy to report that she made it close, and was only a few unlucky bounces away from embarrassing me.
After golf, we got one more drink at a different bar, and then I walked her home. Based on the conversation and body language throughout the evening, I knew I wasn’t getting invited in. But I thought I might have done well enough to score a brief make-out sesh. Nope. We ended with just a hug and a peck on the cheek. Child’s play, really.
So in that moment, I figure we’re probably through. She is a hip, hip lady, like Velma from Scooby Doo (for hard video evidence that Velma is hip, see video at left). Despite showing her a nice time, my guess is I’m just not her type. But wait! Right before I leave her, she tells me to text her when I get home (because I had came straight from work and was riding my bike). OMG, you guys, she cares about me.
Big win.
I leave with a smile on my face, knowing she wants to hear from me at least once more. I also know that just because she’s a nice and caring person, doesn’t mean she’s into me. Once I get home, I tell her I’m safe and sound. And while I’ve got her attention, I go with what I would usually reserve for the next day: a “thanks for coming out/that was fun” kind of message. At this point, the next message from her is potentially revealing. Anything along the lines of “Yup, thanks again” probably means it’s over. After a few minutes of pacing around my apartment, my phone beeps its normal text message sound, but it may have well been a chorus of angelic “Ahhhh”s:
It was mediocre at best ;)
Ah, that sweet, sweet winky face. I used to be anti-emoji. I thought they were childish and stupid. But then I realized they have real function: it’s the only way to convey that you’re smiling while sending a text. Our largest cultural failure this century is not having agreed upon a sarcasm font. The winky face is the next best thing, and I use it all the time. The alternative is sending a follow-up message to every joke you write: “that last message was a joke. This is me flirting with you.” That is not a great look.
We had a few more textversations throughout the week, with me of course over-analyzing every word. We were going to get together over the weekend, but she came down with a brutal cold. Oof. You want to talk about bad signs? Canceling a date due to a cold is way up there. We’ve all done it — conveniently come down with a cold the day of a date. However in this case, I’m in the clear, because we actually (gasp!) talked on the phone. Unless she’s pulling off a Ferris-Bueller-level performance, she was sick.
Big win. (For my ego. Not for her. And not for my plans to actually go out again. Fuck you, germs.)
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