It's A Match!

Begin Act 1.

Fade in: It's just dark. Like AFI back in 2003.

So life as we know it, it’s just weird and full of itty bitty coincidences that make me giggle, but also some that make me do a double take. Well, if I start out by stating that there is a coincidence then you’ll be hunting and pecking through this piece until you realize that, just like waiting on her to text you back, it may never come. * Cue John Williams * Dating in this day and age is awkward. It’s full of pixilated tension and electronic epistolary slumps. I’ll go ahead and say it, I’ll confess – I have a Tinder. If you don’t know what Tinder is then just imagine a dating application for your iPhone or Android that the insanely curious or desperate sign up for in order to meet new friends or the one nightstand of their life. It’s a rapid fire “Hot or Not” that can disappoint you as fast you can say, “nope.” Each time you are matched with a mate, the app allows you to then talk to them, and then stores them in a little column for your convenience. Kind of like an embarrassing little black book. Or better yet, watch this informational video!

 With that said, I am that guy who swipes right on gorgeous amounts of cleavage and left on “Roll Tides!”(Is it hockey season yet?) I’ll swipe right on the nerdy and left on the dirty and girthy (Showers are helpful before taking intentional glamour shots). Also, before you get peeved at me, I am an equal opportunity swiper. If you got “dat butt” or call your self a “Whovian” I’ll say yes too (Perhaps regrettably). I’ve been using the application since February of this year and I’ve felt ashamed ever since.

First of all, I’m convinced that men should not be privy to the notion that there are THAT many women out there; ready to mingle, ready to harpoon a single. It’s just mind-boggling. Every time I open it I feel like an instant dick. Here I am judging these girls based off of five to six pictures and their 500 character bio (which most of the time reads like a 5^th graders letter to Santa). I now know how many girls in the greater Chattanooga area need either a strong shoulder to cry on or a sexual experience as timely as a Woody Allen film. I have a hundred plus matches on this little application. Out of that hundred I’ve probably talked to 30 and out of that 30 there are only five that I’ve had an adult conversation with. If you’ve ever used Tinder you know that you only get matched with people who have also swiped right on you. So my hundred plus doesn’t even include the amount of women that I’ve “liked” and have not “liked” me. This pattern is addicting. Often, if I get matched within seconds of swiping right, I click the appropriately titled button that says, “Keep on playing?” “Oh why yes, yes I shall!” and I continue on my merry way. It’s this proverbial idea that the next girl could be hotter or the next dame could have Star Wars listed as one of her interests. Or even better, she is in the Princess Leia slave gear from Return of the Jedi! I better keep playing! And damn right, I keep on playing.

I’ve met a total of four girls off of Tinder and each time it was just... weird. First of all you have to get to the point where your electronic “icebreakers” lead her onto the next phase of, “Okay, well what do we do now?” I mean, when one is at this juncture it is established that both parties have already acknowledged that they are at least remotely interested. So you’d think that you don’t have to fight for their interest, because obviously they’ve noticed you, but you’re wrong. Now you have the hardest battle ahead of you, you have to fight for their attention.  To break the digital ice I’ve said a multitude of curious and/or embarrassing things. They range from, “We should get jerseys... because we would make a great team...”, or “How many tickles does it take to make an Octopus laugh?”. But then there is my favorite, “Hey, I bet I’d beat you in a fist fight.” The last one always makes me giggle. Oh, and by the way, it’s ten tickles. Each time I’ve either gotten responses that are equally as interesting or one that resonate like a dead pigeon hitting the pavement. You might also be surprised to find out that some girls block me on the spot.

Oh, do I hear your woes.

Woah!

Wait!

Girls block you?!

But you sound so charming and cute. I know, thank you. I know I do. * kiss kiss – call me *

But yes, they block me! I was under the impression that they were interested. It’s not like I’m actually going to fight them and no, I’m not shooting for a deep seeded sexual innuendo when it comes to aquatic life. Pfft girls are weird aren’t they? But if they don’t block me then I am stuck with their response, just as they were forced to deal with my witty charm. One girl responded to the “fist fight” statement with, “Oh yeah? Well who’s your trainer?” To which I responded with, “Yoda. Yoda’s my trainer. He told me size doesn’t matter.” (Yes I am that retarded) One could make a strong argument that I don’t take this seriously, I mean should I? On the other hand though, one girl responded to my octopus line with,

“You can’t hear an octopus laugh. They are... like really deep in the water. But just tell me anyways....”

“Um, ten tickles.”

“OH! That’s cute.”

“Yep...”

And that is where I awkwardly stare at my phone screen for about two calendar days wondering what the fuck happened to saying hi in public. Oh to be bck in middle school where my hands would shake before I called her house. I’d pray to the Lord above, “please don’t let her father answer. Please oh Lord, let her be home and bored enough to enjoy my candor." But that’s beside the point because we are no longer living in that age. The point I am going to make is that sometimes the universe allows you to have what you want, and once it’s there you must stand quietly before making a most ridiculous choice. I met a girl off of Tinder this weekend and it wasn’t crazy, but it caused me to seriously examine my personal growth over the years and how my love life ended up here, on an application for the casually desperate or curious.

            It all began when I was at my fathers 60^th birthday party out by Harrison Bay on Thursday evening. The sun was chill, just bobbing and weaving around the mountaintops shinning on the water. It was as still as the breeze and the ducks would paddle their way across the waves and land for bits of hot dog buns (after I stopped chasing them of course). It was cozy. My mother had worked hard on this party all week. She set up camp under a wooden veranda. Everyone wore Hawaiian shirts; the bubble machines were pummeling the park bench tables with suds and there was a palm tree raft filled with ice, drinks and h’ordeurves. If most of the people there were my age I would have opted to buy three or four cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon and let my wild side rip, but I didn’t. Besides the presence of my lovely sisters I had two friends with me that might as well be brothers, Robert and Geoff.

Robert has a rather large ego and I probably don’t need to bolster it any farther, but he is a good-looking fellow. Robert is tall with dark brown scruff and has features that I’d picture that most women within the ages of 25-30 would want in a reliable partner. We’ve been all over the globe together and have a plethora of rated-R stories that have bound us for life. Geoff is about Roberts’s height except clean. Geoff is a clean-cut dude and you should expect that from him since he is in the National Guard. He rides a motorcycle, has a nerdy chuckle and enjoys old 8-bit games on his Wal-Mart laptop. So standing in the middle of these guys I’d often feel a tad inferior. Geoff and I have also traveled the globe together. If you ever get us together, as us about Japan and we'll never stop laughing.
Geoff’s built, Roberts the good neighbor next door and then there’s me; I am short, tattooed, socially awkward and most of the time inappropriate. My friends have often joked about the “Brady Test”, as if I am a litmus exam for future prospects. Not many have passed. Either way, we were sitting on a bench by the lake as the party was winding down when we began to discuss Tinder.

            Robert was giving Geoff some pointers about the Tinder world, and as he should have – he has over 300 matches. In the distance my sisters giggled and my father told stories of old over a plate full of hot dog remains. It was the perfect silence of a moment. Geoff joined Tinder earlier that week and was already going on a date the next week. I guess when you’re muscular the system works fast for you. “What you need to do is put a picture of you on your bike man. You’ll be flooded with requests... if you know what I mean.” Robert said with a sly grin while giving him a quick click of the cheek. Geoff chuckled but then took a serious mental note. He’ll probably call me next week in hopes that i’ll snap a few shots of him on his crotch rocket. While Robert was educating Geoff about the “dos and don’ts” I was scrolling through the potential girls I could match with, like you do.

Blonde, brunette, Black, Asian, Southern, power lifter, hunter, nursing student, mother of three and so on. I’d periodically swipe right on ones that were cute or I presumed would be a decent human being to share a drink with. I wasn’t really paying attention when a girl named Claire came upon my screen. My first impression was: tattoos – okay, swipe right. Next girl please. Oh wait! It’s a match! I opened up Claire’s profile and the first thing I noticed was that we had a common interest that was pivotal -- we both liked Star Wars. In my mind I was doing a booty shake twerk dance thing, but then continued on. She was covered in gorgeous ink, from her chest to the tips of her wrists. Her hair was long, a roasted toffee color that complimented her cream complexion and matched her small but soft eyes. From what I gathered from her photos was that she was small, cutely petite and ready to mingle! Booyah! But there was something about her that I couldn’t quite place... If I were a Jedi I would have said that the dark side is clouding my thoughts, but something is amiss (Bum Bum Bummm foreshadowing!). Oh well! I sat there for a second before I alerted the boys to my most recent catch.

            I nudged Robert, “Hey, check this girl out.” He snatched the phone from my hand and began to assess the situation. He’d let out murmurs as he scrolled through her photos, “Yeah...MmmHmm... Okay... Okay. Yeah man, she’s a cutie.” Geoff then took my phone, “Hey wait! Let me see.” He did the same thing and passed me back the phone in a congratulatory nod. I could tell by the look on his face that he wouldn't mind matching with her either (Haha sucka!). Then Geoff asked me, “Well what are you going to say to her?” I froze. I honestly didn’t know what to say. Opening lines are so pivotal; they might as well mirror peace talks between two awkwardly aggressive countries. “Okay, ‘Country A’, do you agree not to be an asshole to ‘Country B’ anymore? Come onnnnn. Shake hands. Please?”

            After a few terrible suggestions I decided to go with, “Hey, where do you get your work done?” I landed on this choice because I didn’t want to sound creepy by asking how many tattoos she had or where they are placed. I didn’t want to give off the rapey vibe and tell her that she was stunning or be lame and just say, hi. I mean when you tell a girl she's beautiful she either loves it or stamps you with the "creepazoid" mark, and dudes, that shit is hard to wash off. And there was no way I would risk the Octopus joke; I needed certainty.  Like any good woman, she waited.

About 30 minutes had passed and had to leave the party to drive Geoff back home so he could be at work. Third shift at the city jail -- woof! After I dropped him off and I was cruising home with the wind in my face my phone bleeped, it notified me that I had a message from Claire. Oh, sweet joy! She responded with, “West Palm Beach, Florida.” And that was it. Nothing else. I was left hanging with a big large, “uhhhh” hanging from my jowls. I had to act fast and strike hard, I quickly said, “Oh yeah. Florida’s as hot at Tatooine. I get mine done in Atlanta.” (Nice! You like that Star Wars nod? Yes... no?) 

As quick as my mind could work she responded again and told me that she had just moved to Georgia and didn’t where to go for future tattoos. Being the gentlemen that I am, I fired off into the night sky with a list of places to go and my readiness to be her helpful tour guide. In retrospect I’ve learned that if you ever let a female know that you are “ready to be their immediate friend/whatever” it doesn’t work. I don’t know why, but that’s just the way the universe conducts their behavior. But Claire didn’t run, and from what I understand now, she is no runner, Stella is a diver. Claire went on to say that she didn’t have any friends, to which I opted to be a new one for her and that I’d show her around, drinks on me. She then hit me with the best message that you can get off of Tinder, “Text me??” (The double question mark must mean that she is excited, right??)

Mentally I thought, Oh yes, yes I will text you. (EvenThoughIHateTextingBecauseICantStandWaiting)

            We began texting that evening. I introduced her to Fanboys, which is a comedy that every Star Wars fan needs to see. We talked about stand up comedy and even body fat content, which resulted in her sending me a picture of her belly. Weird -- but sure, why not. So far so good I guess. I felt like I was winning this digital haze of hormones. Throughout our texts she told me that she was coming to Chattanooga then next evening and that she would take me up on my offer for a drink. It took me a second to really process the fact that a complete stranger, who is exceedingly attractive, hasn’t blocked me due to poorly timed social cues and then insisted that we meet up. And I didn’t even use my octopus joke! Huzzah! So there it was. Tomorrow evening we would go to a free concert together in downtown Chattanooga and follow that up with a drink among friends. After we were done texting, a.k.a. she stopped responding, I shot Robert a message. “Pookie! I am meeting that chick tomorrow” to which he immediately responded with, “That was fast! Huzzah!” 

Time for bed.

Time to rethink over every little thing I said and panic because it just seems like this is going to happen. *gulp* 

            End Act 1.

Fade out: I’ll laugh until my head comes off... (Radiohead)