Late December, 2014.
“Get on Tinder,” my friends said. “It’ll be fun,” they said.
I gave into the peer pressure, but only to be obnoxious and witty and be that girl who responds to “Hello sexy ;)” with “No, this is Jamie.”
And this is the story of how I met my boyfriend of two years on Tinder.
I had been Tindering for about a month. It was mostly just an activity I did out of boredom, but I enjoyed talking to new people. And who doesn’t enjoy occasionally being flattered? But that was all it was for.
I knew Tinder had a reputation as a “hook-up” app, but I figured if I was on there just looking to meet other people instead of to hook up other people had to be, too.
Throughout the first month, I only gave my number to one person and had a typical awkward meetup at the Indiana Memorial Union Starbucks when the Starbucks was, in fact, closed.
But one Saturday, all my friends were busy or out of town. And it was one of those days where I was so bored I couldn’t even get out of my creaky bed in Forest Quad. So Tinder kept me occupied.
Generally, I didn’t judge by looks, but rather by the whole profile. So when I saw “David, 23,” holding a bowling ball next to a picture of President Obama also holding a bowling ball, I thought, “Hmm, bowling.” Context: I’ve bowled since I was eight years old.
“IU Bloomington — gender studies. I’m a bit of an introvert, so while I can start the conversation, I find it great when you do.”
Grammatically correct: check. No outward appearance of being a jerk or a serial killer: check. Swipe right? Yeah, sure.
I got a message from this guy who was clearly a nerd. But hey, so am I. Two hours and 58 minutes after the first message, I did the “ballsiest thing I’ve ever done in my life,” as I told him and asked him out.
Then I upped the ante and suggested we meet that night. Mother Bear’s Pizza at 8:30.
So, we met. David awkwardly shuffled in. He tripped on something and made a self-deprecating joke. I added that self-deprecating humor was my specialty, so I knew this was a good pairing.
Our waitress sat us in the very back booth overlooking Third Street and Jordan Avenue. I was ready for pizza and good conversation.
The conversation was not as I had hoped.
This David was an awkward dude in person. He seemed to be a lot more interesting over text.
The waitress would come over every now and then to check in on us.
I wonder if she can tell this is a terrible date, I thought. That’d actually be a great story idea — interview waitresses around Bloomington and see if they’ve seen a spike in terrible first dates since Tinder became popular.
That’s what happens when you date a journalist. We come up with story ideas over dinner.
But then I heard a firetruck. It wailed down Third Street and turned onto Jordan Avenue. I panicked. I nearly left to go see what was happening. It was my journalistic duty, after all.
Somehow, David convinced me to stay put. While headlines of “Jacobs School of Music burns down; IDS would have had this sooner but the employee closest to the incident was too scared to go check it out” flashed through my head, he calmed me down.
The music school did not burn down. And that was not the last time David pulled me out of a panic.
Less than a week later, I went to his apartment. We watched “Gilmore Girls” because, well, that’s what I live for. I mean, my bio literally said, “Gilmore Girls is the gospel.”
He asked for permission to kiss me because he understands consent.
He didn’t know it, but I had pepper spray from one of my floor mates in my pocket. Just in case.
That night went fine, nothing creepy. He drove me back to my dorm and we decided we definitely had something going.
We weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend then, though. I had my own defense mechanisms, as well as shame for meeting and so quickly becoming attached to someone from the internet.
That was Feb. 6, 2015.
This weekend, we celebrated our second anniversary.
When an entire staff meeting full of IDS editors suggested I write this column about my Tinder success story, I didn’t balk. My only hesitation was that my mother didn’t know I had met my boyfriend on Tinder. She still doesn’t, but maybe by the time you read this, I’ll have told her. Sorry, Mom.
Lying to my mom is one thing. She didn’t know this guy. Hell, I wasn’t 100 percent trusting of him and his motives until a year ago. Once I realized that he probably wouldn’t have introduced me to his parents or asked me to spend time with his brother if he had planned to hurt me in some way, I lightened up.
But we did, indeed, meet via a dating app.
Now, there’s no way that I can vouch for every creature on Tinder. Note the use of “creature” — some of the individuals you’ll meet via the internet are hardly men. But if you go on Tinder just out of boredom and to talk to new people, it can actually be a pretty positive experience.
David, 23, now 25, makes me happy. And that’s all that really matters. And though we had mutual friends in the real world, I likely wouldn’t have met him if not for the virtual dating world.
I still have a little shame in saying this, but I in no way regret it: I’m Jamie, and I met my boyfriend on Tinder.
