A Tinder Tale: That time I went on my first ever date at the age of 25 and ended up with a horrific hangover...
Note to self: It's never a good idea to do shots of Sambuca on an empty stomach
I’ll begin this post by admitting that I just Googled the words “dating definition” and was met with this supposed meaning of dating someone: “If you are dating someone, you go out with them regularly because you are having, or may soon have, a romantic relationship with them.” LOL.
I’m not sure how I would define dating these days to be completely honest. I was rather late to the dating game as I was in a seven-year relationship from the age of 18. We’ll call him Mr. Wonderwall. I split up with Mr. Wonderwall two and a half weeks after my 25th birthday. It was brutal. I cheated on him six-and-a-half years into our relationship (that’s a tale for another day) and at the time of our breakup, I felt like my right arm had been torn off. I had lived with him since I was 19, his family was my family, and vice versa. It was messy, it was painful and it was life-changing.
I had zero interest in “moving on” or dating for almost 11 months after that split, but sometime in late 2013 Tinder ended up on my radar. The infamous dating app officially launched in September 2012 (when I was on a make-or-break holiday with Mr. Wonderwall in Los Angeles) so I was introduced to it just over a year later, but I still remember it being all the rage. Unfortunately, I can’t remember the name of my very first date, but fuck me (no pun intended) was it a memorable one… ish.
We’ll call him Mr. Tinder.
I arranged to meet Mr. Tinder at The Crown and Shuttle, a pub on Shoreditch High Street. I was working at a national newspaper nearby at the time (the job that literally saved me post break-up with Mr. Wonderwall) so I wasn’t too far from the pub and persuaded a close male friend of mine, we’ll call him my Scenester (it’s our real-life nickname for each other) to meet me for some Dutch courage drinks as soon as I finished work at 4pm. BIG mistake. I downed several glasses of vino on an empty stomach, nagged Scenester to do a shot of Sambuca with me, and the next thing it was 6.30pm and Mr. Tinder was walking towards me as Scenester was waving goodbye.
I stupidly decided it was a good idea to drink more vino. I think we got a bottle of rosé, but it was already too late - I was completely wasted and one of the last things I remember about the date was falling over backwards on the pavement outside the pub and Mr. Tinder having to help me up. As he walked me to Liverpool Street station, we’d stop every 30 seconds or so for a very public snog, and the next thing I recall was someone waking me up on the Hammersmith & City line in Plaistow. For context, Plaistow is a suburb in east London and I lived in my hometown of Harrow - GREATER LONDON - at the time, a 50-minute or so tube ride. Basically, I can’t remember getting on the tube, but I clearly stumbled onto any platform and took the next train - completely unaware of where I was going.
I’m ashamed to say, that wasn’t the only time I had to be woken up by a stranger that night. And to make matters worse, in my drunken state, I had fallen asleep with my phone in my hand, and by the time someone gave me a nudge at Wembley Park station, I realised it had been stolen while I was snoring my heart out on the Metropolitan Line. Therefore, I had no way of setting an alarm for work the next day and considering I was drunk as a fucking skunk, I knew there was no way I’d wake up naturally at 6am - cue accidental sick day and a panicked Facebook message from my bestie, who I worked with at the time.
The next day - with a horrific hangover - I dragged myself to the O2 store and managed to get a new phone and everything transferred over blah blah blah… And surprisingly there was a text from Mr. Tinder. I was genuinely stunned that he wanted to go on a second date after my drunken tumble, but he did - so I agreed and promised myself that I would avoid alcohol completely.
Long story short, in the cold (and sober) light of day - I did not fancy this man. As we sat opposite one another in a Vietnamese restaurant somewhere in East London, I vaguely remember him bragging about how expensive his designer wallet was and telling me he had shared custody of a dog with his ex. Halfway through dinner, I excused myself to go to the bathroom and frantically started texting my big sister for advice on how to avoid another snog - which I was sure he thought was on the cards.
However, it turns out he was expecting to spend the night with me instead. As we strolled back to Liverpool Street Station, he made a point of showing me his overnight bag and moaned about how he was staying at his uncle’s outside of London for the time being. Hint, hint?!
Somehow I avoided the dreaded snog, gave him a quick hug, and hastily made my way to the Metropolitan Line - this time nice and sober and certain that I wasn’t bothered about a third date. I honestly can’t recall if I ghosted Mr. Tinder or if I sent a polite text - but I do remember him popping up on my Facebook a few years later as People You May Know and his profile picture was him on his wedding day - so I guess he found his happy ending?!
I’ve been on a billion first dates since then - or at least that’s what it feels like. To mark 365 days of living in New York City, I decided to go on one a few days ago with a guy I recently matched with on Bumble. As far as first dates go, I’d say it was a success - A.K.A. it didn’t end with me falling over or vomiting on myself.
Drunk stories aside though, dating is a funny old game. It can be exciting, it can be nerve-racking, and it can be bloody exhausting. However, the older I get, the less nervous I feel about going on first dates because, best case scenario: I meet my “soulmate” (a girl can dream), and worst case scenario: I have a funny story to tell. And remember, no good story starts with a salad.
I can’t draw the comparisons between dating in London and dating in NYC just yet, but what I will tell you is there’s idiots on both sides of the Atlantic (shock horror) - including a man who recently told me to only text him when I was “100% available to communicate” - simply because I took 45 minutes to reply to him. But I shall delve into those bright red flags another day…
Ciao for now!
Thirsty Kirsty x
You need to write a book of your life, infact, you need to have a TV show!
Nice one, Kirsty! x