I’m single and I’m 30 – and I don’t want to be either. But what are ya gonna do? That’s not a rhetorical question. What Am I Going To Do? First, I’m going to lie about my age, then I’m going to do some online dating. Seemed like a rock solid plan, I thought. Well, actually it’s been a little rocky, like how you might describe the Andes Mountains as “a little rocky,” because: 1) my coworkers and 2) Tinder.
My Coworkers… I don’t work in a normal office with a regular mix people who have kids and yards and travel mugs and things like that. I work on a restricted access floor with a hundred 25-35 year old dudes. Like actual bros. There are beers in the pantry, a pheromoney sweat smell, and high fives given out like 2008 bonuses. Our floor has six women: four of them are married, one is engaged, and one is me. I could bring a subway rat to work in a Baby Bjorn, and I would still be the most eligible bachlorette.
Tinder… Is a dating iphone app that uses a combination of facebook+maps to
ruin my life show people pictures of potential matches. You give rapid fire indications, “Sure” or “Nope” in order to see more candidates. I guess when you sign up for Tinder you’re asking for them to find a corp of single dudes armed with iphones in your exact geography, but still, who knew they were so literal about it?
We’ve got coworkers and tinder; and I hoped these things would stay away from each other, like playing double dutch with flaming jump ropes. But flipping through my candidates, I got the slow reveal… WhoaMG, is that shoulder-sweater-guy from the energy team? WhoaMG, is that the summer associate who sits by the bathroom? WhoaMG, if I look over my shoulder right now can whats-his-face see me see him on my Tinder?
I mean, guys, how would this even work? I’m guessing you would Tinder message me to see if I want to go on a date to eat old Snackwell cookies in the pantry. Then, maybe later you can accidentally touch my butt while I’m clearing a paper jam at the copier. And after we break up I’ll overhear you talk about your new chick filet and I’ll google some of your phrases for immediate regret. Sounds dreamy, like the kind when all my teeth fall out and I’m running through quick sand.
I did find one dude who doesn’t work with me. His name is Matt and he dresses like a Clown. And he also might be the Craigslist murderer.
In the words of Liz Lemon, Shut it down.