OnHINGEd: Entry 1, Date 1.

"I have a birthday party to get to"

2BD! Welcome back! I’m so excited to kick off the date entries of the series because, man do I have dates to TALK ABOUT. I’m still trying to decide a weekly set time to post but so far Tuesdays (hey, it’s still Tuesday on the West Coast) have worked, and maybe sometimes I’ll even double up (2BD). Happy reading!

Okay, let’s begin. My first-ever Hinge date in New York City. I (B) am introduced to… Mr. Marshmallow.

Code Name: Marshmallow - Age: 25 - Occupation: Private Equity - Height listed on the app: 5’11” - **Height in reality: 5’10”

**because height is always 2BD.

It’s 1:50 am on the night of Valentine’s Day. I’m turning down Kacey Musgraves and wiping my feet on the bathmat after a long shower, relieved to wash off the hours of a crazy shift at work. I wrap myself in a towel and reach for my phone before my shuffle plays one more second of “Nobody Gets Me” (kind of a deep cut on V-day don’t you think?). But, it’s not me who cuts off SZA mid-verse, it’s a phone call.

A phone call from—

“Redacted Someting”.

“Hinge” is written below in the company name of the contact (and yes, the ‘h’ in ‘someting’ is omitted on purpose- all my Hinge dates are saved as ‘First Name, Someting’).

No fucking way. I can’t believe it. Neither can my blurry reflection in the steam-filled bathroom. I swallow and wait to see how many rings are in store.

BZZZZBZZZ…BZZBZZZZ

I count, 1, then 2. Okay, that’s it. He hangs up. I exhale. I set my phone down and glance at my reflection once more, can’t stop myself from mouthing the words—

What the FUUUU—??

CUT TO: INT. BATHROOM-NIGHT. Title Card reads “32 Hours Earlier”. B is frantically getting ready for her first Hinge date in NYC. She’s going to be late.

(Okay, I’m not going to write in 3rd person the whole time, but it’s fun to pretend I’m in a movie. Did I mention I’m an actor? That might explain a lot moving forward here).

So it’s the night of my date and of course, I’ve given myself less than thirty minutes to get ready for no good reason. Before tonight, I may not have many first dates under my belt but I know the uniform. It always comes down to this; my best-fitting pair of blue jeans, my signature black snakeskin boots (giving me an extra 2 inches to clock a man’s true height), and last but not least, a “TTLS”: tasteful titty long-sleeve.

The TTLS is tried and true. Give a little but not too much. I usually opt for one of the three I have on a heavy rotation. For tonight’s date, I wore one I picked up at a boutique along my travels in Sydney, no one does date-night looks like the Aussies.

The outfit is set, but hair is always the obstacle. My blowout was on its final stretch as I frantically tried to make it look presentable tucked under my favorite leather jacket.

2BD Date Night Essentials:

• Phone

• Keys

• Wallet (just for ID, I don’t expect to be paying)

• Gum

• Lip gloss (Summer Fridays or nothing)

My purse was packed and my Uber was on its way. Ready but nervous.

My first roommate and dear cousin, Sia, told me when I moved to the city that I should always plan on arriving five minutes late to a date and text them accordingly. “It’s nice to have them waiting there to greet you when you strut in there,” she told me. So there I was, standing outside of Greenwich Village’s newest hip cocktail bar in my boots at 9:05 pm on the dot- ready to strut. Still, New York was frigid and it wasn’t helping the nerves. However, I reminded myself that the reason this date was organized in the first place was because this man was very direct and showed clear interest. He had responded to one of my prompts (cleverly placed, we can get into good prompts at a later date) and said,

“Ah I missed out on X can I make it up to you by buying drinks on Thursday night?”.

So naturally I thought, that was easy, why yes Mr. Redacted Someting, you can take me out for a drink, and promptly responded with my number. Nothing to lose!

Plus, small talk on Hinge can get exhausting. Larry warned me about this. If he’s not going to pull the trigger after several back-and-forths, it’s an unmatch for me. Two of my guy friends even explained their winning formula to me the other morning. They were deathly hungover from a rave in Brooklyn the night prior but I paid attention as we made the typical NYC morning-after pilgrimage from bagel store to coffee shop. They were saying the key is a two-time exchange. First, you establish contact with the usual small talk greeting. Then, you either use a prompt to find a commonality or another subject change to set yourself up for success when you ask them out. Anything more results in a loss of momentum, anything less they claim is overzealous (not for 2BD I suppose). Hindsight 20/20, banter is not preferable, it is imperative.

So I say yes to this man knowing nothing but his first name and phone number and he texts me a time and a place. Here I am, pushing open the door.

The bar was dimly lit and very busy. I do a full scan of my surroundings as soon as I step inside, noticing a figure with a backpack standing by the window. I smile at the host and nod towards the figure. Was this him? It's time to find out. The figure turns around and while I could identify certain features from his profile, I couldn't be sure. He had just come from work I’ll give him that, seemed like a long day but could he not have dropped off his backpack? Maybe too much to ask but in any case, we were dressed for different occasions. He introduced himself with a hug and I immediately noticed how I had about half an inch on him in my boots. Also, had I ever seen a photo of him without sunglasses? Anyway, he was perfectly polite and friendly, but it took me about 24 seconds from the moment I saw him for my nerves to settle—because there it was, ever so subtle, a hint of nervousness in his eyes. This was going to be fun. Courtroom of the OnHINGEd was now in session.

Mr. Marshmallow in Court (dressed more formally) but facial features are drawn accurately.

The host led us to a nice table for two towards the back next to a huge standing plant dividing us from the table to the left. The whole bar was adorned with hanging plants. Given that my thumb is anything but green, I was unphased but my date seemed amused. The cocktail menu was extensive and expensive (points for alliteration?). I opted for the house cocktail and he picked something with mezcal.

Okay, small talk about what liquor we like is done, and drinks are ordered, now what? He’s looking at me expectedly, I’m smiling at him not breaking eye contact, and he looks down. God this is such an ego trip. Calm down B, get it together, you probably have food in your teeth or dandruff in your hair…you are not all that…or are you? (Fuck there I go with the third person again). I throw him a bone—

“So you grew up in X (major city listed on profile), ”I say.

“No actually, I grew up in a suburb about 30 miles north of X,” he responds.

Strike 1, he’s not actually from X city. Not his fault, but I’m disappointed.

We chat about my experiences in his home state and I give him my spiel about where I grew up (spoiler: it’s not a suburb and it’s not the US). I watch as he listens but his eyes occasionally dart around the room and I wonder if he’s following what I’m saying. I don’t care really, I need to fill the silence somehow. He’s not saying much and the bar is getting louder. Am I talking too much? I don’t care.

The drinks arrive and they are delicious. He becomes a little more animated when I bring up movies. That is until I ask him what his “Letterboxd 4” would be.

“Letterboxd… what’s that?” he says between sips.

My heart sinks, you gotta know Letterboxd.

“Ermm, you know it’s like Good Reads for movies,” I say.

It doesn’t ring a bell. Once I’ve explained it, and have given him my top 4 picks, I expect him to have his ready to go. He doesn’t.

“It’s too much pressure, I don’t know” he smiles nervously.

“Okay give me one then,” I say encouragingly.

“Errm, I watched this movie on Netflix the other day, I can’t remember the name but it was good,” he states.

Strike 2. Short-term memory is questionable, does he not have a favorite movie? Trouble handling spontaneous seemingly normal questions? Maybe I’m being too harsh but these are just simple traits I like that aren’t being exemplified.

Alas, it’s time for a second round of drinks. I opt for a cardamom-inspired cocktail and my date gets a spicy pepper-themed one. Conversation waiting for those drinks was like grasping at straws. I resorted to asking him what he would name the standing plant to our right. Shocker: he couldn’t think of anything. What the hell happened to just John? Jack? Sarah or even…Plantie?

“Fern, I would name this plant Fern,” I asserted.

He chuckled, well at least someone was having fun. Okay, that was rude, I was having fun, just not in the same way.

I finally tell him I’m an actor, he asks if he has seen me in anything. The answer is no (for now). I decided then and there to do a bit with all my dates which has now become a 2BD trademark move. It’s not a lie, it’s more of a half-truth. I tell them that—

I have to film an audition tomorrow for a couch commercial, the casting director wants me to improvise for 30 seconds about my favorite thing to do on my couch. Then I ask how they would approach it. Insane? Yes. Informative, also yes.

All Marshmellow can muster is that if he sees me in a couch commercial on his Instagram reels he’s gonna think it’s awesome. Thank you kindly, Marshmallow.

The drinks finally arrived and I took a blissfully long sip. I put my cup down to notice my date examining his glass like a dissected frog in high school biology. There was some kind of garnish on a toothpick lying on top of the glass.

“I have no idea what this is here,” he says with a shrug, pointing to the garnish.

“Only one way to find out,” I answered indifferently.

Without warning he picks up either side of the toothpick with the garnish on it like its corn on the cob but begins to slowly lick it.

I couldn’t believe my eyes, I suppressed a laugh with a cough and I glared at Fern the plant to my left for emotional support.

“I think it’s like… a marshmallow?” he says eventually. “…would you like to try it?”.

I politely decline and later the waiter informs us the garnish is a butternut squash.

Strike 3. No explanation is needed. Mr. Marshmallow it is.

Let’s just fast forward through the rest of the night and the days following—

• He picks up the check (as he should, I’m very grateful).

• I initiate the “I have a birthday party to get to” protocol which my other cousin, Elsa, taught me in times when I need to respectfully GTFO (of a date).

• He walks me to the subway, touching the small of my back one too many times causing me to squirm and change the subject back to movie theaters because it’s all that comes to mind. He tells me there is a cool movie theatre near his house. I say “COOL! This is my station”.

• It’s not my stop it’s just the next station I see.

• I make it back to my neighborhood and am walking out of the station when I receive a text message from Marshmallow of the aforementioned movie theatre. “Said theater”, the text underneath reads.

• The photo is live…my feelings for this man are not. I don’t respond that night.

• The next day he asks me how the birthday party was.

• I don’t respond, he calls me at 1:50 am that night as referenced earlier.

• The next day- I let him down easy.

  

  Well, there you have it, OnHINGEd: Entry 1, Date 1. MUCH longer than I anticipated but I foreshadowed a stream of consciousness in my introductory post last week and here it is.

We’ll talk soon, DATE 2 entry is in progress.

The next date? That’s 2B Determined.

:)

P.S. Post-date with Marshmallow I decided that in addition to my couch commercial bit, I’m always going to ask my dates if they have a Letterboxd / know wtf it is. xoxo