Texts from Men on Tinder
Sciatica and spelling.
Friends,
It’s Monday morning and I’ve hit you with a headline that reads “Texts from Men on Tinder.” I know! I bet you’re thinking this post is full of illicit selfies and emboldened nighttime favors I’ve received. But that’s not where I’m going with this post. Sure they have happened, but they’re not really newsworthy; naughty texts are pretty standard at this point. This post is about something less offensive, but somehow more baffling.
As some of you know, I have been single for a few years now, and have been on and off the dating apps as my levels of frustration and hope wax and wane, like a see-saw, sometimes balanced, sometimes more up than down, and other times anchored to the ground with dread and disillusionment roughly the weight of a cinder block. I’ve had a few relationships since my divorce, one that was quite meaningful, but nothing that has lasted too long; it seems I tend to pick men saddled with a world of trauma, perhaps that exceeds even my own, which maybe is not the right path? Possible. Definitely possible.
Anyway, this week, after taking some time off the apps for my sanity’s survival, I decided to try a few swipes here and there just to see if things had improved. I was not optimistic.
My prospects were not looking all that promising, but then I came upon someone I’ll call A (his name rhymes with Madam) – from Brooklyn, age 48, “looking for long-term open to short-term” relationship. That’s what I’m looking for too – more long-term than short – and he was nice looking, with blue eyes, salt and pepper hair and a goatee. Cute smile. Kind of Paul Mezcal-adjacent-ish. Well, he looked like maybe he could be a third cousin of Paul’s, maybe twice removed, maybe more, or not quite related by blood. But you know, something along those lines. (Also this is to say that yes, Paul, if you’d like to go for dinner, I can make room for you in my schedule.)
But back to A, he had no photos with dead fish, nor did he have any pictures of his abs or parking lot selfies in a sedan with his seatbelt fastened, which at this point is all I can ask for. He seemed like someone I should consider.
After he emailed with a few things he liked about my profile, I replied. I asked him a bit about himself: where he lived in Brooklyn, how his weekend was, and what restaurants he liked most in his hood. This line of questioning may sound shallow or too bougie, but it tends to give me a baseline of insight into what a guy is about.
For instance, a guy I recently asked these questions to replied with something like “weekend is good, doing a food crawl with friends in Flushing, and taking my kid to see Swept Away.” So I can glean that he loves food, knows theater and has a kid he hangs out with. All good indications. He seemed like someone I could get on to with – or at least enjoy chatting with — and we are having a drink on Tuesday. But A, well, his reply is pasted below:
Yes this was the text I received in reply to my questions. Where do we begin? OH MY GOD. Now, I suppose we can overlook the fact that the typos, missing words and botched sentences make it seem like this missive was written by a potential kidnapper pasting together a ransom note from magazine clippings. He did send it at 2:12am, so that may have been part of the reason it was not quite composed in the language known as English.
So let’s give him a pass there (?), and move onto the paragraph about restaurants and going out, where he writes: “I have no idea where I go out.” He has no idea where he goes out? So he’s blacking out, or he doesn’t remember? Or he just doesn’t go out? I’m confused. None of these explanations is particularly encouraging.
Then he continues: “It’s been so long….NYC no longer exists. That all I know.” (Sic.) Oh dear. THAT ALL I KNOW. See, I can’t date this person. Right? We can’t date this person. (I feel like you’re all in this with me.) Because I do believe NYC still exists. If we are comparing NY today to what it was in the 70s when I was growing up among the squeegee men and the dime bag sellers in Washington Square Park, I agree it’s not the same.
But in terms of COVID? It’s back. It’s way back. We have glamorous blasphemously-priced maximalist restaurants (Crane Club, Time & Tide, Twin Tails, Four Twenty Five, La Veau D’Or) and big meaty steakhouses we haven't seen since the 80s (Cote, Hawksmoor, Beefbar, La Tete D’or), and tiny thoughtful gems (Bridges, Sailor, Thea, Cervo’s, The Snail, Strange Delight, Third Falcon) and so much more. So, I beg to differ. The city has most certainly bounced back. My thought is perhaps it is he who has not. It’s possible he might be living in his mother’s basement? And I have a strong feeling his mother is way cooler than he is.
Now, let’s move on to the reference to his sciatica. Reminder: this is the second communication we have had, and I am getting information about his inflamed sciatic nerve. No doubt this is a painful condition, but perhaps this lower quadrant issue could have been saved for after we’d gotten to know each other a bit longer, maybe the second date? By then, I guess we could lay out our tales of middle age woe – hangnails, gout, insomnia, heartburn, hot flashes, chin hairs, arthritis, and arrhythmia, what have you. But this is a first exchange – still on the app, mind you, not even crossed over to texting. This is the earliest of stages, where one imagines one is meant to present one’s best self. You’re trying (I think) to get a date, not a doctor’s appointment?
This was all too much. I could not even think of a reply, and so I hit the button at the top corner “UNMATCH” and under why, I chose “not interested in this person,” but I' wish there had been an “other” choice where I could have written “sciatic nerve references in first text; typos and spelling errors, possible serial killer, I would rather date his mother.”
Friends, I don’t even know what to say about most of the men I encounter on the apps. I’m not sure that they will ever produce a relationship of any substance, but hey, hope springs eternal. And the good thing is that my life is good; a relationship would be gravy, but my table is nicely set. My attitude tends to be that these apps provide more in the way of comedy than anything along the lines of potential connection. All of which is to say that “Texts from Men on Tinder” is a clearly a column that’s bound to reappear. After all, as the inimitable Nora Ephron said: Everything is copy.
Got a Text from a Man on Tinder to share? Comment below.
I was laughing out loud on the train. Thank you for sharing. ❤️
I love this one! I mean I always like the restaurant commentaries (I just had dinner at See No Evil - thank you for the rec!), but your dating substacks are hilarious. Thanks for starting my Monday off with a big laugh.