I’ve been on an incredible lame streak. A dozen or so (online) first dates that have gone nowhere. I’m not sure if it’s because of my poor choices, the moon rising in Saturn or whatever, or just plain me. In any case, a friend told me about Bumble, the latest and greatest online dating route to misadventure, and it was on.
It wasn’t long before I connected with 67. I had seen her on other sites. Never sent her a note – a smidge too much burnt orange in the pictures. But those were offset by others that showed a great smile and a great style – a winning combination for me. The trick with Bumble; if you match, she has to send the first message. She did, and we had a bit of chit-chat, we exchanged numbers, and went about arranging a meeting.
After work happy hour drink downtown, I had arrived first and was seated. She walked in – tall, slender, natural, pretty. I stood up and she did a double take on my tattoos – I have a few modest ones on my arms, not sleeves, not up and down my neck. In her I witnessed instant body language that indicated she was likely more conservative with perhaps much more burnt orange on the inside.
We had one drink, talked about music and travel. When she professed her love for longhorns, football, and beer, I knew it was time to go. Hello Bumble.