I’m the worst at goodbyes. No matter if it’s a job, a tedious conversation, an event, or even a place, I’m like the Bad Breaker-Upper on “Seinfeld.” When I’m done, I’m done. If it’s over, it’s over. No parting gift necessary.
I’m No-Drama Girl.
So for whatever reason I feel the need to say adieu, I know it immediately and instinctively. I get this feeling in the pit of my stomach that says, “You’ve done all you can do here. You’ve gone as far as you can go here. You’ve had as much of an impact as you can here. Move on.” If I feel my presence is redundant or irrelevant, I will remove my presence from that person or situation without any hesitation.
Yesterday I got it again. That familiar feeling that said, “Yeah, it’s time. It’s time to go. You’ve overstayed your welcome. You have expended all the resources in your arsenal to make a difference. You can go no further.”
So after three years, I have completely deleted my Tinder account and subscription.
Yep, it’s the end of an era, my friends. I mean, I initially started this blog because I truly felt that Tinder was a great way to meet cool guys, and that it would be fun to blog about it. And I did meet some cool guys. But not many.
Yeah, that high standards thing again.
And truth be told, I’m exhausted with the whole thing. It was fun while it lasted, but for once in my life, I am going to say a proper goodbye. But where to begin?
At the end, I think.
This past week my Tinder was set to Scottsdale, the location of my next trip. Within three days I had about 850 likes and 50 messages. I assure you that it sounds more exciting than it is, because wading through all of those likes and messages would be like a Tyrannosaurus Rex swallowing your diamond ring, and then taking a huge dinosaur crap.
Dinosaur crap= 850 likes and messages
Diamond Ring= The one cool, smart, funny, good-looking person worth your time
Hose= Your phone
Yeah.
(Disclaimer: Any reference to any guy in the following section is anonymous, because they don’t know my real identity off of Tinder messaging anyway. So no emasculation occurred with the publishing of this blog, I promise. I would never do that).
Even men on dating sites know that it takes a lot of hosing to find their diamond. And I just didn’t have it in me this past week. I got bored and exhausted, and then true to form, I started fucking around with these guys. I know it’s not nice, don’t you think I know that? That’s why I deleted my account. But it’s just that Tinder guys are so predictable.
Indulge me.
Tinder guys have to be careful. They always think they are being scammed. They are distrustful of you, of your pictures, of your whole story. They think you are married, or a prostitute, or a bot, or a foreigner who wants to come to America, or a floozy who wants them to deposit funds into her bank account. I grant them all of that. I have it on good confidence that it actually happens.
Because of this inherent suspicion, Tinder guys ask for your phone number almost immediately. They say it’s to “get off this site,” but they want to research you. Google you. Make sure you’re not a psycho. I get it. Strangely enough, I never do that with guys. What the hell do I care where they live or what they do for a living? But that’s just me. I usually don’t give out my number, but once in a while, if I meet someone who seems cool and normal, I will. I also sometimes do it just for the amusement.
When I give a guy my number, I could set a timer to the unfolding of the events. For example, after chatting with a guy for a day or so on Tinder Messenger:
Him (2:30 p.m.) “Hey you wanna exchange numbers?”
Me (2:35 p.m.) “Sure.” (I give him my number)
Him: (2:37 p.m. Text comes through) “Got it. Hey Jordie. This is Mike from Tinder.”
Me: (2:40 p.m.) “Hey. My real name is Mary.”
Him: (2:41 p.m.) “Oh. Ok.”
About thirty minutes of silence ensues at this point, because he is sitting in front of his computer, inserting my phone number into some kind of search engine. Once he has my name and location, he most likely cross-checks the few details I gave him for veracity and finds out that I am indeed real. Then I guess he inserts my first and last name into some kind of chick database, where you can obtain chick stats.
(What in the world is in this data base? Sex drive? Turn-ons? Nicknames? Maternal instincts? Portfolio worth?)
Regardless, the feedback he gets from that site or app must be accurate (and quite complimentary), because when he texts me back again after an hour or so, he is warm and receptive and seems to know everything about me. A guy this past week actually called me by an affectionate pet name another guy once used to refer to me. Coincidence?
Doubtful.
Anyway, Tinder guys love to text, and there was a time that I too thought it was fun. You know, breaks up the monotony of a day. But as of late, I have been getting really, really fed-up with it. All this past week I was texting stuff like this to total strangers:
“Listen, I’m not into texting. I’m a grown-up. If you want to meet in person, let me know”
“Why are you on here if you’re afraid to meet women in person? I’d really love to know, for my research.”
“You will never, not if you live a million lifetimes, get a nude picture of me.”
“Listen, how about you sit in your house and sext yourself? Then give yourself a hand. I’m going to the driving range. Go nuts, dude.”
In the five days I was on Scottsdale Tinder, I unmatched every single guy I corresponded with. But it’s not them. They’re just trying their best to make a connection. It’s me.
When I’m done, I’m done.
Monday was the worst. I got fifteen messages in two hours, and I spent a precious hour of my day sending bizarre messages back to men to see how fast I could turn them off. All just to amuse myself. Here are some conversations I remember from Monday:
Elmer: I live on a lake.
Me: Really? I have a boat.
Elmer: I have a pretty big dock.
Me: How big?
Elmer: About fifteen feet.
Me: A fifteen-foot dock? And you’re single? That’s hard to believe.
(He didn’t get it. I had to go further)
Elmer: Yeah, I am.
Me: Well, you sound awesome. I can be there in a few hours, do you have room for me to stay at your place?
Elmer:
Success. Conversation done. I’m sorry, Elmer.
Charlie: Hey Jordie, why did Tinder match us up if we live so far away?
Me: Well, I’m headed to Scottsdale soon.
Charlie: That’s cool. You’re lucky to be doing some golfing here, huh?
Me: Yes, I’m excited, but all the courses I want to play are so spread out.
Charlie: Ubers are everywhere.
Me: I don’t use Uber, I was kind of hoping you could pick me up at the airport?
Charlie:
Done and done. Sorry, Charlie.
Mike: Hey, that’s a nice resort you’re staying at.
Me: Yes, it came highly recommended.
Mike: Maybe you can show me your room? (Wink e-moji)
Me: I’d love it. You’re welcome to come up. There’s only one bed but plenty of room. It’s just me and my son.
Mike:
Bye Mike. My deepest apologies.
So I am leaving Tinder. I obviously cannot be trusted to use it with any degree of morality or forthrightness. But please don’t think I was using it as a tool for cruelty. I am not a cruel person. I think I was just looking for a challenge, and came up empty-handed. Time to look elsewhere.
Hinge?
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