As often is the way, shortly after posting my slightly frustrated-toned post last week, I matched with six men—and better yet, actual conversations occurred. Success! The universe likes to do that I find. Just when I complain or I am feeling a whole heap of doubt, she provides little nuggets, little gifts, to remind me there is hope yet.
The breakdown: four of the six matches have carried conversations beyond the minimal exchange I so loath, one has resulted in a date, the other lining up for a date tonight, and the other two of the six? They fall into the must-not-be-interested category based on the single conversation exchange I referred to above. But that’s okay. Tinder is an app of numbers. Match high, date few. Or at least that’s been my experience.
Let’s focus on the price of a good night aka the conversation that resulted in a date. I think having an eight hour date, one that starts at 4 in the afternoon on a sleepy, quiet Labour Day Monday with a glass of wine, and ends with me riding the TTC home at midnight sandy and bra-less is a good thing. I had fun.
We met at my local-ish fave, Boxcar Social, at 4 and because they close at 5 pm on Monday’s we ended up relocating to Spacco’s at Yonge and Eglinton for a bottle of vino and some pizza. POAGN was thoughtful, intelligent, handsome, very fun (at 10:30 pm he asked if I wanted to go across town to the beach. I said yes), and a great conversationalist. We have a lot in common, similar cultural backgrounds, and superficially? He’s tall. Feeding into my viking obsession 😉 What more could you want?
Perhaps a second date.
Until then, my faith in dating has been restored. I have been reminded of just how fun it is to meet new people. Or at least, how fun it can be, it obviously depending on the company.
Here’s hoping ce soir will fair well too as I’m sure it will.