By the time I arrive home after work, I’ve forgotten I’d downloaded the dating app Jack suggested. Not only did I download it in my lake-induced calm, I created a damn profile, albeit not really an honest one, but still a profile. They recommend creating a username rather than using your actual name, and obviously there are no pictures, but even more interesting is it asks you to build a relationship with other users without discussing the normal small talk related things. No job titles listed or your age, only an age range. And it’s pretty damn broad.
The app is designed to almost encourage secrecy, to allow people to get to know each other before moving forward with the whole in-person meet up. Nothing ever has to come of it and the added bonus is it’s free for the first month. If it’s a total bust, I’ll cancel and call it done. I’ll swear off dating again for the millionth time like always.
I collapse on the couch, exhausted and ready to have a glass of wine rather than being the one serving it, but before I get up again, I take a quick look at my phone.
And there it is, right there on the first page, the Mystery Matchmaker app and glowing bright red in the corner is the number six. Six fucking matches already. This thing is either magic or a total nightmare.
I hover my finger over the app, daring myself to click it and check out what lurks behind that little red number. It’s not like I’m going to be hit with shirtless guys taking selfies in their toothpaste splattered bathroom mirrors or some self-absorbed asshole posing next to “his” Porsche only to find out later he used to work at a Porsche dealership. “Used to” being the operative words here.
This app eliminates all those cringe-worthy moments; those ones that make you embarrassed by proxy and make you question what the hell you’re actually doing.
As much as I want to know what or who is hiding behind that little number, I can’t bring myself to find out just yet. I’m hungry and tired and I feel like a glass of wine and some food will pair well with some scrolling and matchmaking.
I grab a bottle of rosé from my fridge, annoyed that my tiny pasta sauce smelling apartment doesn’t have room for a wine chiller, something I never thought I’d ever find myself thinking, and I pour myself a glass. Heating up some leftovers, bound and determined not to jump right into the app the moment I sit down.
I let the microwave run longer than necessary in the hopes it quells my obsessive need to get rid of that little devil of a red number. Something about it creeping there on my phone, reminding me and annoying me, makes it nearly impossible to ignore.
I flop down, my wine in my hand and my leftovers on the table beside me, still too hot as I casually take a sip from my glass. A second sip and then a third and by the fourth it’s a gulp and before I know it the glass is empty and my finger is clicking the app.
Here we go.
The first two are an instant hard pass with the usernames ladysman with its nefarious misspelling of ladies or he actually already belongs to some lady, and lookin2getlaid like he’s drawn inspiration from the second movie in the Fast and the Furious franchise.
“Nope and nope,” I mutter out loud, already hating Jack for even thinking this was a viable option for meeting someone. It’s clear the idiots have joined in droves because the third isn’t any better, boasting the username HarryBSac. This literally has to be some kind of joke and I can’t help but wonder if Jack created six different profiles each more bizarrely named than the next and somehow found my profile.
“He’s gotta be fucking with me, right?” I again mutter to the empty room, talking only to the four walls and myself.
I don’t even bother looking more closely at their profiles, just immediately clicking the little black X that blocks the first three guys from matching with me again.
“No thank you,” I say, just as my cat Seymour comes strolling out of the bedroom all aloof and lazy. I flash my phone at him. “Can you believe this shit? There’s a reason these guys are single. Do you think they realize that?”
He meows at me, a low rumble as if to say, “Listen lady, up until this morning you were living with one of these misogynistic douche bags.”
“Don’t be so judgy, Seymour,” I hiss back, as if talking to my cat is somehow better than scrolling through the rest of these winners.
On to number four, but again it’s a hard pass with the username nickelbackfan2. Mom Rock? Aww hell no. And even worse, it looks like nickelbackfan1 was already taken and that has me pausing for a second to think about that anomaly.
“Should I just give up now?” I question Seymour, his little face staring up at me. Meowing again, he begins to paw at my plate of leftovers on the side table. “You don’t care what I do unless it’s to share food with you.”
I let out an annoyed huff, taking my anger out on my innocent cat when I should be dumping this app and sticking to my plan of being boyfriend-free. But I can’t just let this die here. It’ll bother me till the end of time if I don’t at least see this through till the end. When I’m ninety years old and living with my ten cats, I’ll be lamenting those last two matches.
“What if number five was my soulmate?” I’ll whine out in my shaky old lady voice. My roommate at the nursing home calling out, “What?” because she turned her hearing aid down too low.
Holy shit, this is what my life has become and I’ve only been single for like five minutes. After these last two I’m going to bed because nothing good can come of what’s left.
Number five isn’t my soulmate by any means, but at least his username isn’t something gross. He saved that for his bio where he references his ten-inch penis and all I can do is shake my head. Ten inches my ass. More like ten centimeters, I’m sure.
This is even more exhausting than being on my feet all day in the tasting room, entertaining guests and making constant small talk. Don’t get me wrong, I love that part of my job, but it is tiring coming up with constant conversation pieces and making sure people are having a great time. It would be nice for a change to have someone want to know a little more about me, to have someone interested in what I have to offer versus always being the one offering.
I click on number six, barely looking at the screen as I turn on the TV and it begins to drone mindlessly in the background. I glance down at the username and instantly feel a smile tug at my lips.
C.Grizwold is intriguing and I click his profile and find the quote, “You didn’t order the Metallic Pea?” and now I’m laughing out loud. Number six just may be my soulmate and I notice he’s currently online. Just as I’m about to click the messaging section of the app, it chimes out indicating I have a message.
I startle a little wondering if this could be some creep-o with an equally disgusting username or if this could in fact be C.Grizwold, my new favorite person just based off his love of National Lampoon’s Vacation.
The coincidence is a little uncanny and I wonder if he matched with me because of my username. I’m kind of liking this whole not knowing what the person looks like and matching based on compatibility because right now, it’s actually working.
But when I open the messages it’s a dick pick from someone going by the name of boobiesRlife. Well, he’s got one thing right, boobs are life supporting, like as in they supply food to babies.
What a fucking moron.
I immediately shoot him a message back asking if his grandma knows he sends unsolicited pictures of his tiny penis to unsuspecting women on the Internet? He returns the message calling me a cunt and prude, which is kind of the highlight of my night and then he takes the trash out himself by blocking me.
“Thank you!” I yell out, scaring Seymour back into the bedroom, not like he was any big support anyway. I’m pretty sure he just sticks around for the free food.
I should really give up, but I find myself intrigued by Clark Grizwold and wondering if I should just bite the bullet and message him. It’s obvious he either sought me out or we matched based on compatibility. I’m pretty sure I can guess his favorite movie.
I start to type out a message to him, but quickly delete it when it sounds a little too excited. I don’t want this guy to think I’m desperate, because I’m so not desperate. I’m so far from desperate that it lives in the next state. Scratch that, the next country.
I try again, but the words just aren’t coming out right and as I delete it all over, the little message bubbles begin to float. I practically scream out loud, tossing my phone onto the floor and it slides under my TV stand. I’m a fucking shit show.
I scramble on my hands and knees across the floor suddenly desperate to find my phone and see what this guy has to say.
“Please don’t let it be a dick pic,” I say, sending up a plea to whatever god is the one that tells dudes to behave themselves.
I wedge my hand under the TV stand, fishing around for my phone and when my hand finally lands on it, I slide it out slowly with my eyes closed.
“Come on, Clark. Don’t be a smarmy douche canoe,” I murmur, thankful I live above a restaurant and no one can hear the weird conversation I’ve been having with myself all night.
I turn the phone over and open up my eyes, the screen is black, and I laugh out loud at how completely idiotic I must look right now. When the damn thing finally recognizes my face, it opens and there in front of me is a message from C.Grizwold and it isn’t a picture of his flaccid penis.
“Hallelujah!” I yell out, tossing a fist into the air. Score one for me because even if he turns out to be just as slimy as the rest of them, at least he didn’t shoot a picture of his wiener.
C.Grizwold: Gotta love the play on words, WineQueenFamilyTruckster. Guessing you like wine and my favorite movie.
Me: You serious, Clark?
C.Grizwold: Hahaha! I guess this app does know what it’s doing. You’re the first match I’ve had that I haven’t rolled my eyes at.
Me: Please, you’re the first match I’ve had that didn’t have something to do with getting laid in the username.
C.Grizwold: Guys are pretty much the biggest assholes on the planet. This is my apology for my gender.
Me: Thanks, I appreciate that. So, what is it that you do for a living?
C.Grizwold: I thought we were supposed to stay away from typical small talk?
Me: Whoops! You’re right… How about this… Do you have a job?
C.Grizwold: I do. How about you?
Me: I also do.
C.Grizwold: Well, score one for both of us because that seems to be quite the hurdle, so I hear.
We spend the next two hours chatting and learning about each other. It’s far more fun than I ever thought possible. He’s witty and smart and is quick with the one-liners, and I actually haven’t given a single thought to what he might look like. He makes me laugh which is something I can’t say ever happened with my past boyfriends.
This guy may be worth a few more chats based on that alone.