It's like a deep breath after months of hyperventilating.
It's like heaven.
And every time Fuds rolls around, two things are inevitably true.
1. I feel bloated.
2. I am single.
Those don't sound like particularly lovely things on their own, and as a pair, they're not exactly the bees knees. But that's the point, right? There no amount of bloating or break ups that can't be fixed with some pain reliever and a weekend at Fuds.
This weekend will be my fourth time attending the tournament, but only my second time playing. In the spring, I played on a women's team that probably could've won our (very low) division, had playoffs not been rained out. This fall, I'm playing co-ed instead with three really great people. Higher net, but also bigger fun.
On Tuesday, I told my homeroom that I would be out on Friday and Monday for a volleyball tournament, and they started...clapping. Needless to say, this was unexpected.
"It's not that big of a deal," I told them. "Seriously, it's a lower division. I'm not like a professional, not even close."
"But you're playing?" one of them asked.
"Well, yeah," I said.
And then they clapped AGAIN.
Team, we'd better earn that applause this weekend. That's all I can say.
(Actually, I can also say that it's really heart-warming to have a group of children you're in charge of get excited about something that has absolutely nothing to do with them. Seriously, it was awesome. Kind of uncomfortable. But mostly awesome.)
Meanwhile, back in normal land, I've been feverishly trying to pull together work for my students on those two days out that both challenges them and doesn't make the sub want to cry. I mean, I might cry after spending consecutive days at work until 6pm. But for the sub, I always want to plan for smooth sailing.
During the brief moments I have at home, I have been writing (obviously), but I've also ventured to get myself back out there in the least appealing way possible. Yep, you know it. Tinder. The bad part about Tinder is that it's full of people who are either (a) self-involved, (b) visiting the city, or (c) jerks. Or all of the above. The good part about Tinder is that it can be hilariously entertaining, and it usually creates some pretty good stories, too.
And so, I present you two recent "matches" that leaned toward opposite extremes of online dating stereotypes. One goes for the shallow side of things. One swims for the deep end. I hope they give you a good laugh.
Story #1: His Name Rhymes with Never
The conversation started with a discussion of facial hair, prompted by a comment on his profile that said he'd grown a Gandalf-length beard since he'd posted his pictures. This was not true (which I'd guessed), but also I found out that he had made that comment without ever having read or watched a single Lord of the Rings installment. Perhaps not a huge offense, but probably pretty representative of him as a whole. He then inquires after my height/age preferences in dating, to which I reply that men are not objects, and therefore, I have no requirements. This is when it gets good.
T: I have to be honest, I don't think we'd be a good match. I tend to do better with younger, more insecure women.
...Put me on record as not having believed that any human being of our generation would ever speak (or type) those words. My mouth is still slightly ajar.
So, of course, being me, I probed.
Me: I'm wondering, just out of curiosity, what makes you do better with younger and more insecure women? I've always assumed that insecurity was something to avoid.
T: I don't know; I think it's because I'm insecure myself....as hard as that is to believe [editors note: NOT HARD TO BELIEVE]. So, I prefer not to be with someone who seems to have no faults. It's hard for me to relate to someone like you.
Please keep in mind that during this VERY short conversation, I have never claimed to be faultless, nor given any indication to that end. But I digress...
T: The younger thing is more about maturity. I'm immature for my age, so dating younger women even things out.
Even now, I find myself almost believing this bullshit, this inanity gently spun through his greasy fingers and sent along the radio waves to my (new! yay!) phone. The tone is so respectful and self-aware, it's nearly blinding. And it's left me wondering. Is he a politician? Is this what politicians are like when they're 30? If so, one more reason to ignore politics until election day.
Unmatch.
Story #2: His Name Rhymes with Stall
It began with a simple message.
P: Good morning.
Not your typical "Hey," but not exactly a barn-burner of an intro, either. Nonetheless, we got to talking (typing) about what we do, where we're from, how nice my smile is (well, that part was one-sided), and what we like to read.
Do you know that Pride and Prejudice quote? "A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment"? Well, let's just say someone's imagination escalated pretty quickly. And it wasn't mine.
P: Your profile, as short as it is, is my favorite. ...You mention reading. I can't imagine ever getting serious with someone that doesn't read.
Me: Reading is my favorite. Over the summer, I pretty much read non-stop. It was incredible. It was almost as good as traveling.
P: Will you marry me?
To be clear, he quickly followed up that message with a "just kidding" and a winky face, but I was a little taken aback all the same. Then again, it's pretty hard to find a guy on Tinder that reads fiction and doesn't wear flannel shirts, skinny jeans, and half-smoked cigarettes. So I can empathize.
The texting continues, back and forth, over the course of about an hour, and while it's mostly pleasant, he drops a couple more too-soon bombs on me. Just when I least expect it.
P: My dad taught high school. If you ever meet him, he'll want to talk to you for hours about teaching...
P: Don't get me wrong. If I meet 'the one' on Tinder, that's great. But I can't wait to delete it.
Perhaps you are wondering how old this man is. You'd be correct in thinking that he's older, but not significantly so. Not really. He's 35. It seems old to me--a woman who generally forgets that she's not 25 anymore--but it's only 5-6 years. That's no worse than the cradle-robbing I was doing when I hung out with a 23 year old last year.
So, despite my reservations about his enthusiasm (what's wrong with me?), I gave him my number, and we're set to meet sometime next week for a drink.
Why not this week? Well, because it's Fuds week. And I've never met a Fuds being single that I didn't like.*
*Also, I have a bajillion things to do before leaving this week. Seriously. A bajillion.
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