Last week I downloaded Tinder again.
I know, I know; the dead pigs. And yes, they’re still there. Some have even upgraded from pigs on their backs to just straight up dead pig, no human male in the photo at all. I have also upgraded in my levels of not giving a fuck to sharing potential matches’ photos with my mum. Needless to say she was simultaneously overwhelmed and disgusted. The close up of a ginger-haired fellow with dead eyes forking a sausage into his mouth was tu meke for the old girl.
So now I’m back on that wild horse and I’m riding her all the way down to the local pub tonight to meet Cutie With Glasses and Great Teeth, 31. We’re meeting at a hipster-who-had-kids-and-got-boring establishment that has craft beers on tap. Usually I aim to be a little late to dates, so that I know for sure they’ll already be there when I arrive. Low-level social anxiety makes me hate this part savagely, I don’t even like meeting ACTUAL FRIENDS at a bar or restaurant if I don’t already know exactly where they’re sitting. That bit where you walk through the door and look around awkwardly makes me sweat just describing it, so I’ve come up with an obvious new tactic that I’ll debut tonight and can’t believe I haven’t thought of before.
Instead of being late, I’ll be early. Early enough that I know I’ll get there first, have time to get myself a beer and choose a table, and be calmly waiting by the time he arrives. Leaving him to be the one to sweatily scan the room from the doorway.
Wish me luck.
[Now put your hands up woah-oh-oh]
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