Girl 0: Payment Plans

So.

Let’s talk about who pays.

I have now been on 6 first dates and 1 second date with many more potential ones coming up.

Why does the guy pay?

Why.

WHY.

Will someone please explain this to me?

At first, I didn’t mind. I even somehow subconsciously expected it. Like, sure, yeah, this is a thing, the guy will offer. I always reach for my wallet; I always say I want to “contribute to the cause;” and then inevitably, I give in.

After these aforementioned 7 dates though, I’m starting to have a bit of a bitter financial aftertaste… so, like, if you text me, and I want to text you back. Awesome. Then next time, I’ll pay! But let’s say, I don’t like you. I sat through the date. But for some reason, you liked me… so then you text me. I’m not gonna lie. I’m suddenly in this slightly uncomfortable position because I feel conscious of the fact that you paid.

I think about it… if I had to pay for the date, I would… date less. I would resent people who didn’t text me back if I felt like there was chemistry. I would wonder why I was supposed to pay.

So why should dating be twice as expensive for men as for women? Yes, men are getting paid more (that joke has been made now on 2/7 dates), but this doesn’t feel like the way to get our money back as women? In fact, it feels like maybe it perpetuates a worldview in which men are, ahem, meant to financially provide for women who are meant to carry the men’s sperm to completion and wipe down counters? No?

So, here’s my proposal:

Date 1: We split. NO MATTER WHAT. The only reason we wouldn’t split is… nope. There’s no reason. WE SPLIT BECAUSE WE DO NOT KNOW YET IF WE LIKE EACH OTHER.

Date 2: You can offer to pay if you adore me.

Date 3+: Depends on 10,000 different things, but like… take turns, maybe? Unless you’re making a big gesture.

This is all I have to say on the matter, and for all dates moving forward, I will be insisting on splitting. Deal with it.

Boy 5: A Little Linguistics

Boy 5.

You’re clever.

You clicked on me, and your profile was funny but vague… so I asked if you were an artist right off the bat. I’ve heard that it’s easier to be a female artist than a male artist on these apps because women are seeking financially stability. This is nauseating. On so many levels. But, anyway, you answer right away that you’re not! You’re basically a corporate writer at this point.

We make jokes about Harry Potter which I feature briefly in my profile. I’m not obsessed with the books, but it’s an easy way to get nerd conversation going. You ask if I can do real magic (…you are not the first boy to ask me this), and I say yes. You call me a magician, and I say that’s not politically correct. I’m a wizard. Then we transition to X-rays because you feature one in your pictures, and I tell you about their use in one my plays. I drop my number–this was still early texting days.

You follow up immediately. We discuss neighborhoods–I’ve slowly been moving south, and you live in Brooklyn. All sorts of heading further and further down and around the world jokes ensue, culminating in my reaching escape velocity and being launched out of Earth’s orbit as a manic pixie space girl. We settle on drinks at an intermediate location in about a week or so.

Also, you like to use the blonde surfing boy emoji. I find this funny. You are neither blonde nor do I think you have ever surfed. You are a quirky, slightly corporate creature.

On the day of the date, you text to confirm. We make many ghosting and disguise “I’ll be the one in the trenchcoat” jokes. You ask me to bring a costume because I’m “in the theatre.” I respond that obviously what it means to be in the theatre is to have a trunk of random costumes and funny hats. Do you happen to need a rubber chicken? You respond about my spelling of the word “theater,” and explain that I’m in “theatre” and not “theater.” I am excited to have this conversation face to face.

We meet.

Boy 5, you kind of look like your photo. B+.

But you are an immediately present and talented conversationalist. You insist on paying for my drink. I explain you do not need to. It turns out you chose a wine bar because I said I drink wine. Neither of us really drink wine, but I like this spot. It is not too loud or crowded.

We talk about your brother who has always been sort of a loser and now works for Google animating their doodle. So, basically, now he’s the cool one forever. We talk about your job and the kind of writing you love. We talk about my job and the kind of writing I love.

Ah, yes, we meant to return to this, and we do: I demand your explanation. You claim that “theatre” refers to the art of and locations in which live theater whereas “theater” refers to a place where non-live art, aka movies, etc., is screened. I find this a fascinating distinction. The one I hear within my community is that “theater” refers to a geographical location whereas “theatre” refers to the concept. I personally think this is all nonsense because “theatre” is simply the British spelling and “theater” is the American spelling, and there are no rules anywhere actually about it, so anyone who says “theatre” is an anglophilic emperor with no clothes on. You argue that language is constantly involving… do I say cuticle or cuticle? GIF or GIF? Language is constantly evolving. I concede.

You tell me a story about how someone at work described a client as “reasonably positive” and then described you as “unreasonably positive” and you agreed with that assessment. I tell my funny story about Boy 1. Then we’re on the topic of people who text funny but don’t manifest funny… suddenly we’re on what is objectively funny and what isn’t? You think things can be objectively funny. I disagree. Nothing is objectively funny except for the consonant “k.” A “bucket” is infinitely funnier than a “pail.” You make a linguistic argument (I am dazzled, not gonna lie) in which you say that “bucket” is also funny though because of the abruptness of the word and its Scandinavian roots. You explain that English has Scandinavian threads that are perceived vulgar (“fuck” and “cunt”) and French threads that are perceived as high end (“fornicate” and “vagina”). I am impressed. I counter that linguistics are all well and good but totally dependent on your native language, aren’t they? My immigrant parents don’t care about the Scandinavian roots. I propose the following…

There are funny things. What makes things funny is that they are at once surprising and familiar. The comedian surprises you with something you always knew.
And there are funny people. We genetically find some things funny. I illustrate this. Sometimes when I deliver a line, I look down and then up and widen my eyes, and people laugh. I do not know why, I explain. I think it’s ’cause we biologically think big eyes are funny. I display my big eyes trick, and you are genuinely upset that it makes you laugh even though you knew it was coming.

I am a slow drinker. You get a second drink. We seem to be closing down the bar. We are back to meta-dating, and I’m discussing my internet presence after you tell me about your first and last experience on stage as an audience member that was called up. We head out. Awkward end of first date hug.

Boy 5, you are cool. You are smart. I do actually think you should write that film that your brother wants to animate. I want to see it. I want to thank you.

You don’t text too much.
You bought the drink without being a dick.
You met me late to accommodate my schedule.
You’re objectively intelligent.

That being said… this was an interesting case of sparky intellectual chemistry and very little physical chemistry? I’m not sure. I was genuinely dazzled by some of your conversational points, but I didn’t want to bite your lip at the same time.

Boy 5, I think I want to be friends with you?

UPDATE: You texted me the next morning asking me where you should commence googling me. I obviously suggested the horror flick in which I play a hipster date from hell.

Boy 3: The Casual Sparrow

All right.

Boy 3.

I was surprised that you matched to me, Boy 3. You are outside of the type that I typically attract. Slightly bro-ier. Into music. Attorney.

So, I’ve been on two dates at this point, Boy 3… which is still probably fewer dates than you’ve been on ’cause apparently everybody has been on Hinge for years, but I’m feeling seasoned AF.

You and I started texting last week, Boy 3. Actually, you asked me what my plays were about, and I didn’t respond for a day, and you kind of made an edgy quip about it. Something about “keeping your public on their toes” while they wait. I appreciate your honesty. This digital cybersociety is weird, and transparency is awesome. I apologized, told you a little bit about my art, and then I dropped my number. This was a week and a half ago or so, remember? ‘Cause I thought that was normal.

Eek. Now I’m wondering if my dropping my number is making guys think I’m wild? But you know what… maybe I am? Anyway. Since Date 1 with Boy 2 (when in our meta-Hinge conversation he revealed that asking for the girl’s number is a thing) I have given my number to one more guy. Ironically, when I did, he texted immediately and said that he was about to give me his. Haven’t heard from him actually in a hot second, so we’ll see. BUT I DIGRESS.

Boy 3, when you and I moved to text, I gave you shit about vinyl ’cause you were sitting in a pile of records in one of your pictures. I stand by my argument… what the fuck is vinyl? Like, really. If you actually love music, why don’t you listen to it with the best technology available? Like if you want to get somewhere, would you take a horse-drawn carriage instead of a car? You countered that it’s the journey and not the destination and also that vinyl has some uncompressed qualities to it. Ultimately, we compromised, and you asked me to drinks. I explained I was busy for a few days and also sort of sick, so we arranged to meet on a future day, if, as you pithily pointed, neither of us ghosts. To which I responded, plenty of time to ghost! We were sort of in a slightly reckless tit-for-tat DGAF text chain. I liked it.

You checked in once or twice over the course of the next four days. Nothing crazy.

The day of the date you checked in with me about meeting up still. Asked me about my weekend, and I asked you about yours. You made a joke about a music festival at which the audience was too dorky. Like they listened to NPR. I immediately bristled. And I let you know. I’m a dork. I’m listening to NPR right now. You said you did, too. Hmm. Remember when I noted that you were slightly outside my type? You suggested a tapas/wine bar. Ok. Ok. Oy.

During the day there are quips about ghosting. I describe my outfit in case I don’t look like my picture. You respond, “you’re not blonde?” Then you arrive.

Boy 3, you do look like your picture. Thank you.

We talk. I ask about your job. Now. This is a thing I do. I ask about what people do all damn day because… it’s what people do all damn day? You sort of indicate that, eh, it’s a trap, you hate it, and that there’s no need to go down this conversational route. You order a beer; I order sweet, cheap white wine. You say I seem more like a red person. I explain that I am actually neither. I am a sugar person hence the sweet wine. We drink. We struggle a little at the beginning conversationally, jumping away from profession to family background stuff, so we make jokes about the woman sitting next to us who is giggling and sort of crazy. We finally sort of hit our stride with music and vinyl ’cause when I ask you your favorite musicians, you say what genre? Yes. Get specific. That’s fantastic. So we get into old music vs. new music. Turns out you like Jenny Lewis, and I’ve seen Rilo Kiley in concert twice and know the entire album More Adventurous by heart. Now we’re really sort of talking.

I finish my wine, and you pay for it. I offer multiple times to contribute to the cause. You make a joke, “Well, men are getting paid more. Let me.” You pay. So, Boys, is it that you think you have to pay? Are you aware that we can split? Maybe you are, and I’m just new to this. Or is it that paying is meant to socioeconomically indicate that you like me? I’m still not sure. And then you said let’s GTFO and go somewhere else?

Location #2. I guess this date is the most stereotypical, Boy 3. Drinks at Location #1 and then another drink at Location #2. Somehow at Location #2, as tends to happen I imagine, the conversation suddenly turns to meta-Hinging and to major exes ’cause it turns out you have one and I have one. Which you point out is actually more like 3rd date material. After a mutual commiseration about toxic codependent relationships, you ask for the subject to be changed, and you tell me about your new tattoo. A sparrow. I almost say, “There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow,” but I’m not sure if Hamlet is how you roll. You tell me though that apparently they are an invasive species not native to America. That’s cool.

You finish your beer; you walk me home. You want to hear me talk more about the writing process. I think you kissed me on the cheek when I hugged you goodbye, but I am not sure.

Damn, guys, how do you depart from someone on the first date? I don’t know why people don’t like shaking hands. I love it. It’s intimate but acknowledges the inherent distance. I think I’m a shake-hands or kiss-me kind of person? Like the hugs are strange.

So, Boy 3. I want to thank you.

You took me on a conventional date that somehow I hadn’t had yet. Or rather “conventional.” This is good. I need to learn.
Conversation wasn’t that easy between us, but you were good at asking questions and/or simply changing the subject when you wanted to.
At one point you said you didn’t think you were particularly funny. You’re not particularly funny, but you’re transparent and authentic. I talked about how annoying it is when guys send too many texts pre-actual-meeting but that I understood this was because many women online were just digital unresponsive stones. You countered that you didn’t think this was an online dating thing but that that was a New York City thing. You might be right. People here just don’t respond a lot of the time… or they disappear. And that you don’t have that many friends yet ’cause you’re a recent transplant, and it’s crazy how many times you have to poke someone just to hang out with them. I like that. I like that you’re honest and looking for company.
You live in my neighborhood. Like one block away. Not gonna lie. Compelling…
Ugh it’s so good. Thank you for reminding me. “Not a whit, we defy augury. There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come – the readiness is all.” And oddly relevant to love and dating, too, isn’t it?

Boy 3, I don’t know if I would go on another date with you, but I would sleep with you.

UPDATE: I texted you the Hamlet quote for “conversation starters with chicks and your new tattoo.” I felt like that was a nice way of acknowledging the evening without foisting myself. You texted back right away and want to know what my week is like. Hmmm.