Chase Myers' Hinge Binge

Life is one big game of carrying your oversized stack of photocopies down the school hallway.

If you're lucky — and everyone wants to get lucky —you'll gently bump into another photocopy-encumbered soul and spill your papers all over the floor. As you go to pick them up, your hands suddenly touch, eyes meet; one thing leads to another and soon enough you're saying vows and popping champagne.

I've always believed in this version of love — no matter how unrealistic — so imagine my surprise when an assignment about using dating apps was brought to my desk (we don't have desks, but it's nice to imagine). I puffed on my imaginary cigar, slammed my hand on my imaginary desk, and said, "What gives?"

Photo by Lily Foster.

I'd tried dating apps before, and they were — saying this nicely in case my parents are reading — not for me.

Surprisingly, dropping your guard and telling random strangers on the internet that you find them attractive is less like a gentle bump and more like sending two bullet trains at each other with broken brakes.

Needless to say, online dating and I had a rocky history. But, in true toxic relationship form, I decided to give this ex another chance.

Three exes, to be exact: Hinge, Tinder and Bumble; the big three of poor life decisions.

Luckily, I have an open mind, a mostly undamaged heart and too much free time on my hands, so why not try again? I mean, where else could you timidly say "hi" to someone before quickly slamming the door in their face and running ten miles in the opposite direction? Perhaps I'll find the love of my life. Perhaps I'll rediscover the meaning of romance. Perhaps I'll waste several dollars on coffee dates because chivalry isn't dead after all. Whatever the case may be, join me on my ride through Lexington's dating scene and the wild world of dating apps.

Date 1: Too little, too late

Photo by Lily Foster.

Here's a question: what's the latest you've ever been to something? Follow-up question:

what's the latest you've ever overslept? Well, regardless of your answer, just know that there's someone out there who has you beat. By a country mile.

For example, my first date, who I can only assume was several nocturnal creatures stacked in a trenchcoat given how late they slept in. "Let's meet for sushi at 4 and get to know each other" quickly became sushi at 4:30, then sushi at 5, then sushi at 6. The only thing I got to know was the menu, which I became very intimately familiar with after re-reading it a few hundred times while I waited. To this day, when close my eyes. can still see the words "CALIFORNIA ROLL"

imprinted on my retinas.

After playing background extra for two hours, my date finally arrived, which shocked me. It was like discovering something that didn't exist, like bigfoot or a reason to be happy. I was hit with a very dry, "Sorry, I overslept" as they slouched into the booth, which I found far too nonchalant considering the two hours I would never get back. Well, as they always say, great things never come to those who wait, and believe it or not, the rest of the date was extremely lackluster.

Photo by Lily Foster.

I picked at the sushi with my chopsticks as every attempt at conversation was met with a square kick in the jaw. "So, do you like to read?" "No, not really." "What's your favorite TV show?" "I don't know, l don't really watch TV." "What music do you listen to?" "Oh, a little of everything." I didn't even bother asking their favorite color in case they said something like, "I don't believe in colors."

This continued for another hour, which I'll never get back; the conversation slowly crawled its way to finality, like a corpse dragging itself to its own grave. The second our server plopped the bill down, l snatched it up, paid, and got up to leave. The human-barn-owl told me they had a great time, and they'd love to go out again. I said OK, I'd call them. I did not call them.

Date 2: Saké Showdown

In 2007, Faheem Rashad Najm - better known as T-Pain - famously said, "Baby girl, what's your name? Lemme talk to ya, lemme buy you a drank" on Shawty Snappin. Well, Mr. Pain, I think you'd be quite proud of me, as l unintentionally bought shawty like six dranks. I say

unintentionally because 1: we were going for sushi, not drinks, and 2: the drinks were ordered for the table while I was in the restroom. By the table, of course, I mean all for them and none for the wide-eyed, shallow-wallet-having person facing them.

This was not a bar date, but they were sure keen on turning it into one as fast as possible because I watched multiple shotglasses turn empty in the blink of an eye, which, for those unaware, is pretty fast.

Under the table, I kept counting with my fingers as they jerked their head back and forth like a drunk seesaw. One, two, three, four, shots, shots, shots, shots! It's one thing to get to know each other sober, but a drunk person breaks the ice with a two-ton jackhammer.

Photo by Lily Foster.

I learned things about this person I should probably take to the grave, or at least to my mother's and my next gossip session. While I appreciate their transparency, I am less thrilled by their confidence that I was happy to foot the bill. Liquid courage is a slippery slope that rapidly turns into liquid stupidity, and this person was an Olympic skier.

I was far less eager to pick up this check — wouldn't you believe it — so l let myself be entertained by the drunkest person in a five-mile radius (it was a Monday night).

Several personal life stories and the saddest signature ever left on a bill later, I drove the alcohol warrior home and never heard from them again. Either I was bad company, or they just wanted to drink for free. Regardless, I learned a very valuable lesson: I should really stop going out for sushi.

If you've ignored everything l've said up to this point — firstly, that's quite rude — and secondly, at least hear this. Never underestimate the power of three little words: "Sure, why not?"

Date 3: Mus-ick City

Otherwise, you'll find yourself driving to Nashville in the middle of the night for Italian food that the other person swears is worth the trip. But they were offering to drive, and it had been a while since l'd eaten rigatoni, so can you really blame me? For once, the date started innocently enough at coffee, with a fairly smooth conversation that gave me a disturbing, unfamiliar feeling in my gut. I think it was hope.

Unfortunately, I think my date's drink was laced with "let's drive to Nashville" serum because right after I suggested dinner their eyes lit up in the way only someone who's about to say something outrageous does. Perhaps it was the hole burning in my wallet, perhaps it was the mental toll this was taking on me, or perhaps I had simply given up at this point because I agreed to drive to Nashville.

Fun fact about spur-of-the-moment road trips: regret sets in somewhere within the first 40 minutes or when the driver starts to blast Disney Channel songs.

Photo by Lily Foster.

Whichever comes first. You truly do not understand the length of 230 miles until you have driven with a stranger, never forget that.

If a drunk conversation is like a jackhammer, then a three-hour car ride is comparable to digging through Antarctica with a toothpick.

Besides the Hannah Montana ringing in my ears, there were several minutes of complete silence between the two of us. We might as well have been operating a library out of their trunk with how quiet it was in there.

The icing on the cake, or, rather, the fire on the garbage, was that the restaurant was closed by the time we got to Music City. So, we substituted it with a restaurant that I was too angry to remember the name of, then drove off with our tails tucked between our legs. Do you know what's worse than driving three hours with a stranger to a restaurant that isn't even open? Realizing you have to drive three hours back home. No, the conversation was not more interesting. Yes, more Hannah Montana was played. No, there was not a second date.

If you'll allow me to be serious for a second, l'm very aware that these three dates do not reflect the entirety of Lexington's dating scene, and, truthfully, there were several other dates I went on which ranged from mundane to very enjoyable.

The issue I take with these dating apps is that they encourage people to quickly agree to dates with a large number of people. The apps can swear that all they wish is to see you happy with your one true love, but I see the fingers crossed behind their backs. Being able to pay to see the people who like your profile, for unlimited swipes and even "power-ups" on Tinder that trivialize human interaction to nothing more than a casino game shows their true colors.

In removing one's agency, they remove people's accountability (being late), responsibility (reckless drinking), and boundaries (unplanned road trips). I need to stress that I am not trying to use these individuals as lessons or trying to attack them for their decisions. I do not know what they go through, nor was l at any point manipulated into my actions; I merely wish to relay the difficulties that came with my experience.

That said, I do have to reflect on the danger these apps pose, specifically from the perspective of a white man. I did not have to go through the same worries that many women do when meeting strangers, and, if I were to be in a woman's place, it is highly unlikely that I would have accepted this story.

Photo by Lily Foster.

There is much to be said regarding how these apps influence the power dynamic between men and women, and how heteronormativity is so strongly pushed on these services. Ultimately, however, I worry that online dating is making us complacent in the death of genuine human empathy and normalizing the gamification of relationships.

So, with that said, what's my advice? Well, l'm not your mom, but l'll say this: cherish the romantic feelings you carry for others. Do not attempt to send a bullet train into the wild, and do not play with other's emotions for cheap validation and romantic flings.

Otherwise, you'll feel like a batter in Little League, hopelessly missing your swings as you hear your dad yelling, "Keep your eye on the ball!" and wondering why you just can't get onto first base. Well, sorry Pops, but I think this batter struck out. For good this time.

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