TAMOLA: The Dating Game

I think that dating and being attractive comes naturally to some people.

I, shockingly, am not “some people.”

Phil, my pal from my place of employment, recently informed me that a young female will “never find a real man on Tinder or a bar.” I’m not really looking for a man in either locations, but I do feel it fair to share some experience I’ve had with both mediums that support Sir Philip’s point.

September 2014, I recreate (for about the 17th time—I have a habit of creating, then deleting, then creating, then deleting) a Tinder profile. Tinder is the app that involves expressing interest in fellows based on their appearances. Swipe left if you’re not into it, right if you think he has a face you can live with/possibly appreciate.

So I pick out my most appealing Facebook photos. My profile simply reads, “I want a dog” because I don’t know what the hell to say on these godforsaken forced-romance contraptions.

A few days in, I get a few matches, but not that many. My already John Hancock Tower-leveled self-confidence is at an all-time high. I get a match with some kid named Timmy or something. I don’t think his name was Timmy but he creeped me out so much that we will just go with Timmy.

“Do you like your dogs with or without skin?” Timmy wrote to me in a message.

So then I deleted my profile. Should I have called a law enforcement official? I’m sure Tim-Tim was harmless, as his default photograph was that of him and an attractive young woman.

That’s another thing. My rule of thumb is that if a guy is on Tinder and he has one or more pictures of himself with a young female or his grandmother, he’s a womanizer, or he’s going to do something weird. Run, don’t walk, America.

Bars are worse than Tinder. Hell is a bar. Hell is a bar located in Fenway Park, packed to capacity with that one ruthless group of girls you went to high school with.

My rule of thumb is that I try not to enter a bar unless I am definitely going to be consuming a large amount of French fries or I am already well beyond intoxicated. I’m sorry, but if there is not a promise of potatoes or me being drunk enough to the point where I don’t have to acknowledge that I’m not in my bed and/or eating potatoes in my own home, I really just don’t want to be there.

Alas, I have spent a good amount of time in bars, specifically in the Allston area. I have spent a few nights at Tavern in the Square, affectionately referred to as TITS (my undergrad friends keep me cool and hip on the lingo). Anyway, TITS is where all hope goes to die.

One night last year, my pal Meg and I decided it would be a solid idea to enter TITS, as the bouncer at the Wonder Bar told us we would need to pay him $5 in order to enter that bar. Do I look like Melania Trump? Bye.

So we walk in and these guys start talking to us, and I’m like great male attention, now my life finally has meaning, etc. About four to seven minutes later, this guy’s friend and my friend were jamming on the dance floor and making out like there was no tomorrow.

So I stood there, and talked to this 5-foot-11-inch blonde man who had a job and stuff. He was attractive…and smart. I know he was smart, because he repeatedly told me he was “the smartest person he knew.”

Then he delivered the single most romantic thing any man has ever said to me.

“You’re cute, but I have really high standards.”

At that point, I asked him if he wanted to borrow my cell phone to call his mother one last time, because I was going to take the keys to my apartment and stab him in the jugular. He declined my offer.

I clearly haven’t learned my lesson because I once again shimmied into TITS a few weeks ago and met another guy with a job. He bought me a kamikaze shot (charming), and he said his aunt worked at BU and made a million dollars a year or something, so I said “Oh OK. Hi, my name is Katie.”

He has my phone number, and this weekend, he sent me a picture message at 3 a.m. It was a racist meme.

I asked him if that was a booty call. He essentially confirmed. So now on the weekends, I get racist-meme booty calls at 3 a.m. If the apocalypse happens, I hope small animals head it, and they make him, the Tinder kid and the standards kid their personal slaves. Dreaming big.

Dating is difficult. I mean, I think it’s difficult. I don’t really date. I just get myself into awkward situations. The Daily Beast released an article in December 2011 stating that Boston was one of the best places for singles to “find dates.” With about 67 percent of Boston men being single, there is arguably hope that I could find someone who knows more than four things about my life and thinks I’m the business.

If I’m being honest though, I’d much rather adopt a dog and get drunk with it instead. And maybe I’ll just stay home. Mama always tells me to never settle!