Merits of Dating Apps

Stumble. Mumble. Bumble. In that order or all at once, I’m not exactly sure. I stumbled over, over nothing but air from the surprise of locking eyes with the person I had been stealing glances of all night. I mumbled some sort of apology after I bumbled my drink, spilling its contents from both sides of the rim as I attempted to cover my shame in a sip. 

“I’m Alex.”

“Pat,” I say stupidly as my evening’s fixation introduces themselves after watching my shenanigans as they walked over. 

Alex is cool, suave, mysterious, sexy, and attractive. Leaving me overly self conscious of every movement and life choice that led to this moment. My outfit’s stupid. Haircut lame. My name is common, uninspiring, and forgettable. 

Alex is that person who gives you cardiac arrest when you first see them. After that, you secretly follow them and dream about the approach and initial contact. You craft the story of this fated moment you will one day tell your two and a half grandchildren while rocking on a porch. That story and potential crime is better than the anxiety riddled reality of meeting them.

“What are you drinking?”

“Liquid.” That word came out. “Liquid with lime.” That is my save. “I mean water with lime.” That somehow is worse. Did it come across as cute? Is Alex laughing at or with me? Am I laughing? I gotta save whatever is left. “I can get you one as well?”

“How about we go to the dance floor and after a few songs, we can get drinks together?”

You don’t dance. You have as much rhythm as a boulder. Deflect and guide the situation. Manage a solution. 

“Sure, sounds great.”

 Alex’s hair and hips swirl to the overwhelming wall of sound perfectly. Walking the delicate line of class, crass, and flirt Alex’s movements are the perfect mix of grit and grace. My movements are far from fluid or flashy. I learned to walk at nine months and that practiced life skill has perished as I become a new-born foal on the glossy waxed floor. 

When do people learn to dance and how did I miss that memo? Was it in middle school? High school? Private lessons or tutors? Are people born with the skill to move without shame? Ice skating on banana peels with a sword taped to my hands would be safer and more coordinated than whatever I am doing now. 

My murderous movements don’t hinder Alex who keeps moving, shaking, and smiling. Is Alex having fun? How is that possible? 

“You’re good,” Alex says as I’m gracefully pardoned and allowed to leave the dance floor. 

“If you enjoy watching a giraffe being born, maybe.” Alex’s laugh is uncomfortable. Is it forced? Did I go too far? I’ll try to save it. “Liquid with lime?”

“I’ll probably go with an old-fashioned or a martini, but you do you.”

The laugh has become more natural, less creepy clown. That was a good choice. This is going well.

“Then let’s go.”

In real life, drinks don’t glide down bar tops. They are placed by overworked and often under-tipped bartenders. Our drinks plop unceremoniously in a group of six as our bartender struggles to keep up.

“So why liquid with lime?” Alex asks in a non-accusatory way.

“I don’t know. Just never found a drink I like. I don’t mind people who drink or that you are. I just…”

We had been dancing together for over thirty minutes, inches apart, sometimes even less, and now the cat has my tongue. Why are intimate actions easier than conversation? Am I embarrassed by my drink? Is Alex judging me? Should I ask? No, I should just let it pass. I’m overthinking this and my watch’s relax alarm is confirming that.

“I didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable,” Alex says I’m assuming to assuage the panic overtaking my gaze. “I just don’t see people order water at a club like this, well at least not without another drink and… I’m sorry, that was rude, wasn’t it?”

Is Alex embarrassed? How is that possible? Confident, handsome, sexy Al… are all my preconceptions of who they are. Is Alex nervous too?

“It wasn’t rude. I’m the one doing something odd.”

“No, you’re not being odd. And don’t think I need to drink… Should I just-“

“-please enjoy yourself.”

“I… I…. Let’s start over.” Alex offers before our night crashes like the conversation.

“From where? My legs may fall off if we do the dance floor thing again.”

Alex’s sweet laugh makes my heart flutter as my shoulders collapse and I relax. 

“I’m not sure we need to go that far back. Let’s start from when found these stools.”

“That was a treacherous endeavor.” 

“Exactly,” Alex chuckles with another sip. “So what brought you out tonight? Friends? The DJ? Something random?”

I’m not sure how but those last five words: friends, the, DJ, something, random, yes five words make all the difference. Counting on my fingers may make me look baffled, but offering answers, those five words, invite me to answer comfortably.

“I was here to prove my family wrong.”

“About?” Alex’s intrigue is intoxicating.

“About how you are as likely to meet someone on an app as you are at a club.”

“Interesting.”

We spend the next hour talking about dating apps, not a mundane, safe conversation about its flaws. Instead, we discuss the true pros and cons of the technology by comparing our own stories against the statistics and eventually to a more the traditional boy meets girl story of meeting in a bar or a club. This naturally turns into a conversation about gender norms and from there spins into a conversation about our plans for that weekend. Infatuation and flirtation have given us the freedom to be honest with one another. 

We landed in a weird safe space that society naturally shuns. An honest place people married for twenty years, colleagues, and many times friends can’t find. Alex is interested in me, and I’m wearing my emotions on my ruined sleeve. There is a certain amount of shared discomfort opening our vulnerability. We don’t know what will end the conversation, what will turn the other person off, but only know where we want this to lead, so our options are to lie or be honest. Talk honestly and hope for the best is my approach and-

“-Honey, are you boring the grand kids with that story about Alex?”

“Michelle asked, and I was just sharing.”

My partner René doesn’t believe me completely and after passing around drinks asks our granddaughter for confirmation. 

“Michelle, what was your question?”

“How did you two meet?”

“I was getting to that. I just wanted to let Michelle know that it is best to be honest with yourself and your feelings, and that everyone feels uncomfortable and nervous more often then you would think.” 

My defense is feeble and René gives me a glare, chuckle, and smile I have come to love over the past sixty years, before answering our granddaughter.

“Michelle, Alex had a dog who wasn’t friendly. I was the nurse who stitched up this lovable lug’s arm.”