I know that there is hope beyond the Hill; but my hormones, unfortunately, lack the patience that hope requires. Hence, many of my bedtime hours are spent swiping through profiles on Tinder, or Bumble, or what have you. Unfortunately, I end up swiping left most of the time. Apparently, my profile is the flower that attracts all the bees that are the men with “just so you know I can fish” profile pictures. A profile picture with a fish is a blazing red flag, for me. Too bad I live in Minnesota, where 27 percent of the male population has a fishing license, and only the spirits know how many fish without a license. We’re getting off topic here – my tendency to digress every two minutes doesn’t help either when I actually, finally go on a real date. Oh yes, that happens every once in a while. After swiping left on some 500 fish profile pictures, I often find somebody who seems decent. (To be honest though, anyone after a tsunami of fish profile pictures would look decent to me, perhaps I’m lowering my standards, and that’s why my Tinder dates keep failing.)
Once, I swiped right on this cute dude from the UofM, we chatted for a while, and things were starting to look up. We decided to go on a date on this one Sunday in January. I was excited. I spent hours curating an outfit that would convey “this is super casual, we can just talk and get to know each other, but I’m also totally up for more if you’re willing.” (As you can see, I sadly don’t have priorities when it comes to Tinder dates.) I got all dolled up on the said Sunday and took the Northfield Lines to Minneapolis in 5 degrees (because I also sadly don’t have a car). And … I got stood up by this guy. Now, I was heartbroken. I take every rejection to heart. I was fine two days later, back to my swiping through fish picture guys when the guy texted me and he was all like “I’m sorry, etc etc … let’s go on date again, bla bla bla” and I was like, “sure, why not” (which ended up being a terrible idea, because, a) it should be a golden rule that Tinder dates who stood you up once don’t get second chances, and b) keep reading to find out).
We chose the next Sunday to go on a date. He said he’d borrow a friend’s car and the location would be a surprise. I was kind of excited, his very recent betrayal all forgotten. I use betrayal lightly here, it’s hyperbole. Regardless, I was really excited to be going on a date. My excitement lasted all of the two hours that it took to get from Northfield to Lake Minnetonka. It was, drumroll please… a fishing date. Out of all the things. The lake wasn’t frozen enough for him to have his best ice-fishing experience, so he was all upset. As for me, I’m not exactly a fan of fishing, or being near water really, so I just wanted to go back home. And I did go home; I didn’t even get a kiss for all the effort. Anyways, I came back to Olaf, went to bed, and opened my Tinder app to find a few texts from the guy. Something caught my eye though a new profile picture, with a … fish; and he didn’t even catch any fish that day. Well, at least I know why that date failed.
