I could write a list as long as the dictionary with reasons, non-reasons, bios, and red flags that make me swipe left on Tinder. “Singer. Songwriter. Model.” Left. “New in town, show me the real New York.” Left. Photos at Burning Man, no photos at all. A homicidal glint in your eye, a smile where the tip of your tongue pokes out between your teeth. I’m not into it. Call me picky, but I know what I don’t want.
My “Swipe Right” criteria, on the other hand, is a lot more loose. All I’m looking for is: a good face (I know it when I see it) and a good sense of humor (which ironically disqualifies anyone who explicitly describes themselves as having a good sense of humor). After that, it gets complicated. I’m a woman. I’m used to being hit on, objectified, harassed. Now I’m on Tinder, matching with women, and feeling unsure of how to be. Knowing all the things women don’t want to hear, trying to figure out what women do want to hear—coming from a woman.
I struggled. I had high standards for the kinds of women I wanted to talk to, but felt inadequate myself. I wanted someone effortlessly funny, but couldn’t come up with a better opening line than “crushed or cubed.” I gave up on icebreakers and just tried my luck with “Hey.” It was a salutation that often got iced. Until this one girl. Jackie.
“Hey,” she responded.
I re-reviewed her profile. No bio, but great photos. And by great photos I mean a great face. A face so great that I couldn’t believe she liked me. This girl looked like Charlize Theron with her head shaved. Intimidatingly beautiful.
I played it cool. Followed her lead. Didn’t want to say anything that would make her ghost, as had been done by many to me, and by me to many. I was careful not to seem too eager. To not give to much information. Message too many times in a row. Answer too quickly. But to also be encouraging, interested, supportive. What this ultimately looked like was a whole bunch of small talk smattered with lightly playful guessing games (like tell me what bookstore you live near, and I’ll try to guess where you live). She was gorgeous, bald, and mysterious, and out-of-my-league, so I tried to reflect that same energy back to her instead of being who I am (someone who uses a lot of extra lettersss, and writes as quickly as they speak). I talk fast, and I text fast, too. I’m self-aware. A New Yorker. Well technically from Long Island. But I’ve always tried to downplay that. Going as far as lying and saying I’m from Queens. I don’t lie like this anymore. But I am certainly not being myself with moody Charlize Theron over here.
To my surprise, it works. She asks for my number. She texts me. Says she’s busy this weekend but wants to hang out soon. Asks me when am I free. Am I free Thursday? I think about it—not about Thursday, but about meeting her. I think about how this could be anywhere from boring to uncomfortable. How can I feel comfortable if I don’t tell her the truth? How can I tell her the truth if I don’t feel comfortable? Such are the questions you are plagued with when you conveniently forget to mention that you have a boyfriend.