My First Blind Date (like, ever).
Ladies and Gentleman, welcome to Season 2!
If you’ve never humbled a Boston sports fan by asking them who the Patriots are on a date, I highly recommend it. Nothing has made me feel more alive.
HAPPY JUNE and welcome to Season 2 of OnHINGEd! Court is back in session, hello to all the new witnesses in the house. Please take a seat…your presence is welcome.
*Gavel Banging Noise* ORDER IN THE COURT! Let us begin.
As we step into Season 2, here are the top three things I’m looking for (or aiming to do) post-Season 1:
Date older.
Please, no more 23-year-old emotionally stunted analysts. We’re talking 25+.Find at least two qualities from the “FAWK” acronym:
(Funny, Ambitious, Worldly, Kind/Keen).Be Bold (practice what I preach, I know)
Don’t be afraid to ask them what they’re looking for—or say “I like you” if you do. *Refer to the final entry of Season 1 for my analysis on why this is so terrifying.
+ As always, have fun and be open.
To kick off the OnHINGEd summer, I went OFF-hinge. That’s right, I deleted my account for almost a month to take a break and focus on other things. Shocking, I know, but dating (and writing this fabulous column) is not my whole existence. I’d honestly recommend this to anyone feeling burnt out by the endless swiping: take a pause every once in a while. You can literally “pause” your profile, if only to decenter the dating game and see how you feel. Maybe a couple of days turns into a week... for me, it turned into about a month, but hey, other areas of my life were taking off (can’t wait to share more later on what this means for 2BD!).
BUT before I hit redownload, I challenged myself to something new: An offline match. A blind date setup. Here’s how it went down.
Picture this: a fabulous art gallery on the Upper East Side. Wine glasses clinking, polite low-volume chatter, and the click of heels across shiny wooden floors. I’m fashionably late—why, you ask? Well, I’d just come from a rooftop party full of eligible men, so that was my excuse. And the person whose art I was there to celebrate understood that excuse better than anyone else. There she was, encircled by a group of adoring admirers as I walked in, animated as she showed off her beautiful work on display. She spotted me across the room and smiled.
“Larry!” I exclaimed. I was so proud of her.
The next hour or so was a blur of chatter and clinking glasses as Larry introduced me to several girlfriends—each of them intelligent, beautiful, and doing wonderful things in the city. Some of them, unbeknownst to me at the time, actually read this blog, which made me smile like a total geek.
One of these women, let’s call her Veronica, was curious about my next piece. She asked if I was talking to anyone. I explained my Hinge hiatus and my new goal of a blind date. Veronica, seizing the moment in between sips of Chardonnay, excitedly interjected before I could even finish my thought—
“I think I know someone for you!”. Bingo.
The next day, I received a direct message from Veronica asking for permission to share my number with her coworker. Turns out he was technically her boss? Hot. Okay, older. All I knew was that he was an associate at her firm, and he was 27. Trying to be an open book, I gave her the green light.
The following day, I got a text from an unknown number introducing himself and asking me out for a drink. I mentioned in the Season 1 finale that he ended up booking the same bar that Marshmallow chose for my first Hinge date in the city, and I could hardly wait to return as the ~evolved 2BD~.
8:30 on a Thursday, it was.
I filled Veronica in on what I was wearing, admittedly stressed I wouldn't be able to identify him, so she eased my nerves.
I liked the information I was being given. Smolder to camera ;)
I was doing something unusual for 2BD dating: heading straight from an event to the date. In this case, I had to get from a museum uptown to a bar downtown. The outfit, you may ask? Well, since it’s getting warmer in the city, we’re retiring the TTLS (Tasteful Titty Long Sleeve) in favor of the TTT—Tasteful Titty Tank.
That evening’s selection was a hand-me-down from my cousin: black, sleeveless lace with a zipper in the back. God, I miss the Zara from 2015. I digress. The TTT was discreetly hidden under a blazer, didn’t want to send museum onlookers into a spiral. But as soon as I descended those iconic steps, blazer came off.
Naturally, I had Rufus with me to give a much-needed pep talk. Hey, I’d been out of the game. What I didn’t anticipate was the traffic, which pushed my ETA fifteen minutes past our agreed time. The Uber driver’s Kendrick Lamar playlist was oddly soothing. I mumbled along to “Not Like Us” as Rufus drafted a message to my suitor:
"Got caught on the Upper East Side—running 15 minutes late, so sorry!"
His response, a minute later, gagged both of us.
2BDs, when I tell you this was an absolute REFRESH from the loser responses that came before... this was a man, okay? I was used to the “Np, omw” replies, which, allow me to translate, is f*ckboy for “no problem, on my way.”
But this guy? Already more mature than most of the men indicted in the OnHINGEd courtroom.
One, he told me not to worry. Two, he assured me we wouldn’t lose the table, and THREE, he told me not to rush?? Fellas, it. does. not. take. much!!!
Feeling much more at ease, I got another text from him saying he was standing right by the entrance. I said goodbye to Rufus after her final plea: “Don’t apologize more than once for being late.” And there I was, standing outside the very bar I’d been at exactly three months ago. I pushed open the door, and there he was by the entrance, just like he said he’d be.
Here we go.
Code Name: The Patriot - Age: 27 - Occupation: Investment Banker Associate NOT Analyst (we have leveled up)-Whole appearance was 2BD, we went in BLIND. Height: Supposedly Tall - **Height Confirmed: 6’3” or 4?
Okay, so first impression: he was tall. Very tall. Dressed in jeans and a fitted black T-shirt, which, upon a hug hello, I discovered was quite smooth. He had a soft, cute face, different from my usual type (think: chiseled, sharp features), but this was contrasted with killer biceps and a strong chest.
I wish my Courtroom sketch generator drew full body so you could get the full picture. I’ll work on that.
He was very polite and led me to our table. As I walked that familiar path through the bar, I smirked to myself because, unfortunately, just like with Marshmallow, in those first ten seconds, I knew— I was not physically attracted to this man, the biceps were a different story. But, judging from the way he looked at me when I sat down and took my hair out of its bun, safe to say I was his type. Let’s do this, I guess.
I open the familiar menu and decide that my first cocktail will be a spicy margarita, while my date opts for a martini. Thankfully, we already steered clear of any marshmallow garnish confusion. As we hand our menus over to our waiter, I give my date the one apology Rufus allowed me. He brushes it off and leans in, veering the conversation to the obvious elephant in the room.
The setup. Veronica.
We exchange a few words about how great she is and how she’d refused to tell either of us anything about the other. He said all he knew was that I’m an actress and that we’d have a good time. Fair enough. All she gave me was that brief physical description and the comment: “He’s a good guy, and if it’s not a match, you guys can be friends.” I kept that last quote to myself, he didn’t need to know that…yet.
So I leaned back, and he leaned in as I answered the question marks about my life. I’d like to think I’ve become a pro at the first date small talk, usually giving enough to spark intrigue without boring them with mundane details. I’m a firm believer in anecdotes over simply stating information, every time.
I try to tell a story about my family, work, or home rather than listing things out like I’m in a job interview. Memories invite more conversation and naturally lead to new topics. For example, I explain I moved a lot—but no, my dad is not a spy or in the mafia. Then I can shift the focus back to him and ask what his dad does. Turns out, he’s a football coach. Checks out. He also tells me he has an older sister, much older, like eight years older.
“Yeah, I think I was an accident, but my dad always wanted a son,” he says with a grin.
“Then you must be your dad’s favorite. I’m sure he was overjoyed to have a son come along years later to fulfill his football dreams.” I respond.
I was exaggerating, and The Patriot laughed, but there were signs on his face, just a flicker, that my joke hit close to home. The mood shifted, and suddenly I felt like I was at the pinnacle of a coming-of-age movie where the son rips off his jersey and yells, Dad, this is your dream, not mine! I’m so dramatic.
“Did you like playing football growing up?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“I mean, it’s all I’ve ever known. I played nonstop since I was 8 until I was 23.”
Jeezus. What in the concussion?? Sorry, but that’s crazy.
The movie montage in my head is interrupted by the delicious scent of a burger wafting from the server’s hand above me.
“Your burger,” he says.
The patriot and I are confused, neither of us ordered a burger, but it looked divine...
“Not ours, sorry,” we both say in unison.
As the waiter turns away, it’s The Patriot’s turn to read my expression, which doesn’t take a genius. I wanted that burger.
“You want a burger, don’t you?” Ding, ding, ding!
“Yes,” I squeak out. “Could you blame me? I hadn’t had time to eat, and he was offering… plus the drink was already getting to my head on an empty stomach.
We put in the order as The Patriot asks about my weekend plans. I tell him I’m going to Boston, and his delight, that’s his hometown. Recs please! It just so happened that my team, the Knicks, were playing his beloved Celtics in the playoffs that weekend, and he was already suggesting I meet up with him tomorrow to watch the game. Eager, huh? Felt nice. He corrected himself immediately, “Ah, wait, you won’t be here.”
I joke that my trip to Boston is actually a sports juju tactic. He warns me that Boston sports fans get crazy. Let’s explore that.
“Okay, so you’re from Boston and you like the Celtics, so that means you’re into the Sox and the Bruins. And you played football, so what team does that mean you support?”
It’s like he short-circuited. His eyes go wide, and he swallows hard, like all the hope he had about me being a sports fan just melted before his eyes.
“I’m kidding!” I blurt out. “Patriots, of course. Can’t forget the Brady-Belichick era.”
He audibly sighs. I just put his little Bostonian sports heart through the wringer.
And... I liked it?
“Thank God,” he says in relief. “And you know your sports—see, I knew we’d hit it off. Veronica is never wrong.” Slow down there, Gronk.
Then I bring up the inevitable: his job in finance. Not to tease him, just to flex a little. I did not go on dates with four finance bros in Season 1 just to let that knowledge go to waste.
He’s already deflecting. “Just boring finance stuff.”
“Maybe boring to you, but I’m curious, it’s not my field. We can do enterprise value calculations alll day long”. Old habits die hard.
He pauses, mid-chew.
“Is it private equity, wealth management, or investment banking?” I press.
“Investment banking,” he replies, almost in disbelief. I’m putting on a show.
He’s already on his third martini before I even get to Letterboxd, and I fear they’re going down like water.
We do connect on the film front, his favorite movies include The Dark Knight and The Town (Ben Affleck supremacy), which leads to a shared love of the Boston classic Good Will Hunting, which leads to a conversation about the Boston accent his parents still have.
I give him my best “I pahked my cah in the yahd,” which earns a laugh. He says we could work on it on another date. Another date? Interesting. I’m practically a one-woman show at this point, but I’m having fun and so is he, now inquiring if I’d like to go to another bar. “Why not? One more drink.”
The bar is right next door, and we immediately start playing my favorite game: Guess the story behind the couple. After a few rounds and some spot-on guesses for a first date, The Patriot pivots the convo to tell me what he’s looking for without me even asking.
“I’m honestly looking for someone smart, down to earth, and easy to have fun with.” He’s staring into my soul now, as if to say like you, and all I can think to do is what I do best under pressure: crack a joke. In a British accent?
“Well, that’s me, I guess—check, check, check!” Oh god. It’s time for the bill.
He laughs again, and I swear my being weird is just making him like me more. Damn. Maybe guys do like weird.
He is so sweet, and Veronica was right, he is a good guy. But I’m three hours into this date, and I’m just not feeling the spark. Like a gentleman, he walks me out and tells me to text him when I get home. He doesn’t try to kiss me (which I appreciate), though he did try to get me to move to the couch area of the second bar, which I politely declined.
I texted him that I made it home and thanked him again for the fun evening and drinks (gratitude lesson learned from Entry 5). He tells me to text him when I get back from Boston.
As I boarded that Greyhound bus to Boston the following morning, I was overwhelmed with the sweet relief that this man had treated me with nothing but clarity and kindness, something new and very welcome. Veronica even texts me that she’d “heard good things” and that I could expect him to text me again. No, I didn’t want to rip his clothes off— well, maybe just for a bicep meet-and-greet— but here was someone who wasn’t making me read his mind. I knew he liked me, I knew he had a good time, and the ball was in my court.
He even double-texted me at the end of the weekend, before I’d had a chance to reply, asking me out again. I knew I owed him the same clarity and respect I’d always wished for from my ghosts of OnHINGEd past. I told him I was going through some changes this summer, leaving the city (true), and that I really enjoyed meeting him (also true).
While it’s a shame I didn’t feel chemistry with The Patriot, I know his level of communication and eagerness is exactly what I deserve and a standard I should uphold. Lastly, it proved true the phrase that infiltrates every dater’s TikTok and reel “ForYou pages” and it’s so straightforward…
“If he wanted to, he would”. He just fucking would.
If you have to ask if he’s that into you, he’s not. It’s a pill that no longer suffocates me to swallow, it washes down nicely with the realization that it’s so simple.
And that, my friends, is a damn good outcome of a blind date, if you ask me.
The next date? We are sooo OnHINGEd… and that’s all 2B Determined.
Stay bold :)
xx 2BD
An honorable quote from a dear friend while visiting Boston, who chose the alias Linebackerlover69.
“If he wasn’t funny first date but was laughing at your jokes, you can let it slide, maybe it was nerves. But if he can’t generate gumor by the second date, I don’t care how big his biceps are.”
While I didn’t give The Patriot that second date, Linebackerlover69 had a good point.
Always a easy and engaging read with 2BD!
The biceps meet and greet sent me