Done Browning Out


Been awhile since I’ve been able to sit down and write. Now, at 33,500 ft altitude with a both a mimosa and a wheatgrass shot in my system, I’ll attempt to pen what’s been going on in my world of dating and mating.

Firstly, let me preface that not every experience I have will go live. Some aren’t worth it, others I don’t want to jinx, and some I’m unable to write about without throwing up the cheap wine in my system. But I’ve got a good one for ya so take a seat and pour yourself a tall one.

As the self-pegged Tinderella that I am, I’ve been swiping hopelessly since around February. I recently have taken some time off from Tinder, but only because I found a better way to spend the 5 hours of free time that I have per week, so if it ain’t broke don’t fix it right? But about a month or two ago I had a dating experience that is well worth an article…

Which brings me to my next story: Mr. Brown.

I never actually, genuinely thought I’d meet someone awesome on Tinder. Never did I anticipate Mr. Right would be on mobile, waiting patiently for me to right-swipe him just as Aurora awaited her true love’s first kiss. I never pictured us sitting there one day, telling our kids “well back in our day there was this app….”, nor did I foresee a future with someone I went over my data looking for. But, and there’s always a but, I did know I was bored, hungry for some free food, and absolutely starving for content.

So Tinder it is!

After my first few bad or meh dates, I became selective. I decided not to meet up with anyone that I didn’t have at least a few days worth of solid, engaging conversation with first. And definitely wouldn’t meet up with anyone who didn’t have listed a good job, or praiseworthy education. Life’s too short, man.

Superficiality aside, I wanted someone to go out with, have some fun with and maybe yes, some other things too. So I swiped as fast as my boozy brain allowed for, and finally found a commendable mate!

He had the face of a CW show lead character. It was chiseled and attractive, but in a very standard hot-guy way. Perhaps like he’d be listed in movie credits as “hot guy at mini-golf station”. His profile, which stated that he graduated from Brown University a few years ago, had me excited, and his bio even more so.

My bio, which I still love, is “I’ve already tasted our wedding cake”. Clever and playful, it completely plays into the notion that I wasn’t going on this app to meet my future husband, but that I’m just crazy enough to play along.

His read “how will we tell our kids we met on Tinder”, which was a refreshingly similar sentiment, and I was immediately intrigued by this handsome, educated fellow.

After a few days of typical “tell me about yourself” chatter, we agreed to meet for a first date. I chose a dimly lit wine bar by my apartment in Brooklyn because that’s kind of where I do my best work.

After admittedly awkward conversation and his not-yet-obvious enough douchebaggery, I decided I was “into him”. In retrospect it was definitely the 7 glasses of wine making this decision, but humor me will you. Anyway, he wasn’t immediately awful. Sure, he said some douchey things, and yes, conversation wasn’t natural or seamless, but he was a male and we were, at this point, intoxicated, so about 20 minutes from the time we left the bar we were walking up the 4 flights of stairs and into my chicly humble Brooklyn apartment.

Use your imaginations, kids.

About 4 days later we went out again. Same cheap conversation, same unshakable feeling that this wasn’t going great and that I wasn’t about it. So what did I do? Had another bottle of wine or two to calm the ol’ nerves and suddenly, boom! The night was again “salvaged”. We went back to his place, watched Hulu Plus and passed out in a tangle of wine sweat and sexual frustration.

The next morning I woke with a wicked headache, but still had a full outfit on, so I considered it a win.

Mr. Brown, who was sick of humoring my coquettish behavior without cashing in, tried pretty hard that next morning. Considering I was on the West side of Manhattan in last night’s clothes with a full-time job to arrive at in nearly two hours, I luckily had an out. I hurriedly ordered an Uber home and spent the entire ride deciding if I’d ever speak to this dude again.

He was handsome, well educated, intelligent, and at this point he sort of understood and appreciated my personality and sense of humor. Because I’m so God damn much to deal with, I sometimes figure that if they are willing to put up with it I should just shut up and put up…But then I leave those thoughts in the trash next to the used condoms and shake myself into a new line of thinking.

I spent a few weeks seeing him, each time the same, mixed drinks and mixed feelings.. Even though he was douchey and overtly sexually driven, I’ve always had a thing for smart guys. I like a clever guy and, despite my better judgments, (which are lain dormant somewhere in my deepest subconscious, I’m pretty sure), I have a hard time getting REALLY turned off to a guy when he’s got a brain in his head.

Finally though, there was the night to end all nights. He came over, we drank a bit lot at my apartment and went for dinner. Things were progressing better this time, we laughed, drank, and not all conversation was as gag-worthy as it had been in the past. Plus, it had been almost three full hours without him trying to put his hand up my skirt, so WOW, a real pleasant evening was well in the works.

That is until the epiphany finally occurred. Somewhere between the tequila shot and the Jalepeno mojito I had
FullSizeRender 39ordered to look cool, I heard him say that his leather jacket was the same one that James Dean had worn, and I swear I saw his smile turn into a sarcastic sneer right before my eyes.

This guy is a real douchebag that I can only handle if I’m properly browned out, I realized.

He is insecure despite his dressings, and is so sexually driven with me that I’m not even sure he hears what I’m saying, or knows my first name.

Our time together is so intolerable that I need to consume mass amounts of alcohol, and even when I do I don’t have an awesome time. (Though he always had an awesome time don’t you worry).

Why was I playing this game? Because of his looks, job, background? For my blog? For myself? To feel satiated? Because I wasn’t at all.

In true Carrie spirit I’ll happily gallivant around NY kissing frogs until I find my Prince, but here on out I won’t even consider a potential Prince if that same suitor requires a 5 drink minimum.


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