I’ve been keeping busy in New York lately.
Between dating and writing, killin’ it on a boxing bag and traveling, I haven’t had as much time to blog as I would like. And though I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time, I’m finally able to reveal that I’m in an ABC News documentary on Hulu, called Swiped! I’d love for you to watch it and share what you think below.
More updates coming your way soon! Watch the documentary by clicking here.
It was about a month ago that I decided it was finally time to kick the bucket and log off. There was such a surge of power—and frankly, relief—when I deleted all of my dating apps. Tinder was the first to go, followed by Hinge and then Bumble.
When I read Vanity Fair’s article, ‘Tinder and the Dawn of the ‘Dating Apocalypse’—I found myself nodding along mindlessly, silently saying ‘Yep, yep, yep.’ I didn’t really need the article to tell me that dating apps had changed relationships, marriages and the process of finding someone that you want to see for longer than it takes to swipe left or right. That, I knew, from four hard years of being single and watching the whole process change and in many ways, worsen. Even my mom taking over my Tinder account for a week confirmed this.
But as the article points out several times, as we all continue to get online to find someone we connect with offline, I had to beg the question to myself: “Why was I investing all this time into something that makes me miserable?”
Like any true addict, it took me a week to wean myself off of my dating IV and to get rid of the shakes that made me anxious: “If I’m not on these apps, how will I meet people?! What will I do?” Continue reading
I’ve been getting pretty burned out on the whole Tinder thing lately. So much swiping, so many unwelcome nudity, creepy opening messages, endless conversations that go nowhere and far too many (ridiculous) propositions. Blame it on being single in a city that sleeps around or just my lack of attention span — but I’ve had an on-and-off relationship with Tinder for a while now.
My mom, on the other hand is fascinated. When I would tell her about another date that didn’t go well, she’d instantly say ‘It’s because of Tinder.’ I can’t say she’s wrong, really, there is a certain amount of anonymity that apps provide, but she’s obviously never used it before — my dad called her on the good ‘ole phone when they dated in the 80s. Continue reading
We met on Tinder.
Okay, okay, okay – I know I broke up with Tinder a month or so ago. And while I had every intention of making it a permanent separation, like we all do in moments of weakness (and when intoxicated), I gave in and saw my ex-account. As I sat at a picnic table on Stone Street across from my roommate, sticky with sweat from our boxing class, I aimlessly swiped left and right. I tried my best to ignore the deja vu as my 900+ matches loaded, and the same trite, ridiculous digital conversations starting rolling into my inbox.
Ugh, ugh, ugh, ohhhh?
That one margarita was enough to send both me and C over the edge (hey, we’ve been really healthy lately and apparently, that makes you a lightweight) – so with one swift mature adult decision, we went home to change and continued to bar hop. It was Sunday Funday, and I was intrigued by the first guy to message me on Tinder since I had sworn off the scene. He checked off all of those checkboxes – employed, attractive, not creepy – and I agreed to a first date.
After so many mishaps and men who don’t have a clue about how to date, I was a little surprised when this dude (who I originally matched on Tinder with in 2013, for the record), made a reservation at a cute Italian bistro near Union Square. I was even more taken aback when a 6’4″ handsome dude with a big smile walked through the revolving door and said, “Wow, you must be Lindsay.”
Hello, Mr. Unicorn.
Dear Tinder,
We really need to talk.
We’ve been seeing each other for a couple of years now. In that time, we’ve grown pretty close: I find myself searching for you when I’m waiting in line at Starbucks or when I need a break from editing at my beloved job. I often think of you when I’m heading to the ladies room or when I feel that small, haggard, terrified voice in the back of my mind that’s politely screaming: where the hell is he?!!
You made so many promises when we first met one another – when you encouraged me to talk about my interests and you gushed over my smiling, yet subtly sexy, poses. The one where I’m in a bikini in Mexico, the one where I’m on the merry-go-round in London. The classic, stereotypical one in front of the Eiffel Tower, and of course, the one of me trapezing by the pier, looking graceful as I sling myself toward the ground, dangling by a cable. Continue reading
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