Love at First Swipe (and Other Lies)

Chapter 1: Waxing Poetic (and Other Bad Ideas)

“I blame wine and optimism.”

In my defense, it seemed like a good idea at the time. YouTube tutorials make waxing your own legs look easy—like baking cupcakes or learning TikTok dances. Spoiler alert: it’s neither.

My right thigh is baby-smooth, a miracle of modern DIY grooming. My left thigh, however, looks like it lost a fight with a bear, then rolled through some honey. The wax has decided my leg hair and I should never part, clinging to me with desperation usually reserved for bad boyfriends or student loans.

I glance at my phone—twenty minutes until my date arrives. Canceling is tempting, but I've already canceled twice on this guy. Another cancellation would officially label me “flaky,” or worse, “undateable.”

I sigh dramatically, examining the damage under harsh bathroom lights.

Option one: Wear pants. Unfortunately, we're heading to a trendy cocktail bar, and my only cute pants are buried at the bottom of a laundry basket—yet another casualty of procrastination.

Option two: Embrace asymmetrical hair removal as an empowering feminist statement. Who says legs have to match anyway? I could spin it as body positivity—though my date might suspect it's closer to “lack-of-skill positivity.”

Option three: Panic.

I settle for option three.

A frantic Google search claims baby oil might dissolve stubborn wax. Since baby oil isn’t handy, I grab the only oily thing available—olive oil from my kitchen cupboard—and start liberally pouring it on my thigh. The result is less “glowing, hairless goddess” and more “human salad dressing.”

I slip slightly on the oily bathroom floor, grabbing the towel rack for dear life. With a loud crack, it comes loose from the wall, leaving me sprawled awkwardly—covered in oil, wax, leg hair, and drywall dust.

The doorbell rings. Early. Of course, he’s early.

With a resigned sigh, I push myself off the floor. A quick glance in the mirror confirms my worst fears: Yup, still a disaster.

One thing is clear—dating casually, breezily, without drama is obviously not my thing. Limping toward the front door and leaving olive oil footprints behind, I brace myself for whatever happens next.

Chapter 2: Speed Dating (and Other Forms of Torture)

Speed dating, I quickly discover, is basically emotional whack-a-mole. Just when you survive one awkward conversation, another pops up to test your sanity.

“Hi, I’m Derek. I’m into crypto, paleo, and self-improvement podcasts,” says Bachelor Number Three, leaning forward so intensely I'm half-expecting a TED Talk.

“Fascinating,” I reply, trying to remember if the website said each round lasts three minutes or three years.

“Want a quick crypto tip?” he whispers conspiratorially.

“Sure,” I say, mostly out of politeness. Also, mild curiosity.

“Don’t invest in crypto.”

He laughs loudly, startling me into spilling my complimentary wine all over the table. Derek immediately scoops up his notes protectively. I offer an awkward smile.

Ding. Next.

Bachelor Number Four adjusts his tie, clears his throat, and asks solemnly, “Do you believe the moon landing was real?”

I hesitate. “Um… yes?”

He frowns deeply. “You’re part of the problem.”

I stare down at my soggy scorecard, ticking off the box labeled “Absolutely not” next to his name. Decision-making is at least getting easier.

Ding. Next.

Bachelor Number Five seems normal—friendly smile, nice hair. Maybe too nice. He glances at my legs, eyebrows knitted together.

“Did you hurt yourself?” he asks, nodding at the vivid bruise peeking out beneath my skirt.

I cringe internally. My olive-oil-bathroom-floor-slip injury is now visible to the general public. Wonderful.

“It’s… complicated,” I reply, choosing honesty over dignity.

He grins warmly. “Complicated sounds interesting.”

My heart leaps. Maybe tonight isn’t a total disaster after all. Then he leans in closer.

“I’m really into complicated. My last girlfriend pretended she was British for six months. Accents are kinda my thing.”

And just like that, hope dies again.

Ding. Next.

I glance at the clock. Only fifteen more rounds to go.

Casual dating is officially my villain origin story.

Chapter 3: Double-Date Disaster

“I have a surprise,” says Kate, my best friend and self-appointed dating fairy godmother. “You’re going to love me.”

Nothing good has ever followed the phrase, “You’re going to love me.”

“Oh no,” I reply cautiously, leaning back into the booth at our favorite cafe. “Who did you swipe right on this time?”

She waves dismissively, excitement sparkling in her eyes. “Relax. I set up a double date—low pressure, drinks only. Completely casual.”

“Casual. Right,” I mumble into my coffee. “That’s totally my specialty.”

“Trust me,” Kate grins mischievously. “He’s cute, funny, and owns an air fryer. Basically husband material.”

The bar, aptly named “The Last Resort,” is crowded, dimly lit, and too loud to hear anyone’s terrible jokes—which might be a blessing. Kate immediately spots our dates near the bar. One looks vaguely familiar.

“Oh, hell no,” I whisper, grabbing Kate’s arm in panic.

“What?” She follows my horrified gaze. “You know him?”

I cringe. “I swiped left on him months ago. Aggressively left. Possibly with a strongly-worded comment about cargo shorts.”

Kate snorts, not even bothering to hide her laughter. “Maybe he forgot?”

He turns, sees me, and his grin says he definitely hasn’t forgotten.

“Great,” I mutter, bracing myself as they approach.

Introductions are a blur of awkwardness. I quickly learn his name is Jake, he absolutely remembers the cargo shorts comment, and yes, he’s still offended.

“So,” Jake says, voice dripping sarcasm. “Not a fan of pockets?”

“I love pockets,” I reply defensively. “Just…not six at once.”

Kate’s laughter rings above the crowd, not even trying to save me from myself.

Three cocktails later, tension simmers between Jake and me—part annoyance, part reluctant attraction. His humor is sharp, comebacks quicker, smile irritatingly charming.

“You know,” he says, leaning toward me conspiratorially, “for someone who preaches dating positivity online, you’re surprisingly judgmental.”

“You stalked my profile?” My cheeks burn.

“Just research,” he says lightly. “Casual stuff.”

“You’re impossible,” I mutter, fighting a smile.

“And you’re a hypocrite,” he replies cheerfully, raising his glass.

Our glasses clink, and suddenly I realize I’m laughing despite myself. The night has somehow shifted from humiliating disaster to grudging enjoyment.

And then, because the universe clearly hates me, I lean too far forward. My elbow catches the table’s edge, sending half-filled cocktails cascading across Jake’s very-much-not-cargo shorts.

He stares down in disbelief.

Silence.

Kate breaks first. “Well, that was casual.”

I sigh deeply, shaking my head in surrender.

“I blame wine and optimism.”