Lifestyle

It’s Not You, It’s Me… Actually It’s an App

Who’s bright idea was this?  We all get hurt until we meet the right person?  You better bet that if I kept falling off a bike and breaking my arm, I wouldn’t be getting back on after the 7th arm was broken.

So, here’s my theory.  When you’re little, you exist in the world of princesses and fairies and talking fish.  Visits from Santa and the Easter Bunny are the most exciting times of the year and the tooth fairy even leaves a trail of fairy dust (because your parents are just that good).  Eleven- years- old hits and thus starts the time of racing to the mailbox every day after school hoping that it would be the day you found out you were going to Hogwarts.  You learn spells from books that you got for your birthday to be even more prepared than Hermione Granger.  Fast forward and you’re invested in the Twilight series.  The days of seeing how many pieces of popcorn you can catch in your mouth during lunch have turned into seeking out the hot secret vampire.  But then what?  There’s nothing to believe in anymore except love.  

Love becomes, and is, the closest thing we have to magic.  

We grew up surrounded by it to realize that there was none at all.  It was all make believe and yet we crave to get that feeling back.  So that we can feel magical ourselves.  

And yet it can suck so damn much.  But it’s all I want.  To be the Allie to a Noah (pro: I already have the name).  

So, here’s me coming clean to all of my fans (the, maybe, 20 of you), parents, sisters, friends.

I’ve been complimented on how open I am on this blog and well, this might be more terrifying for me than the others have been.  

If you’re thinking that this is a coming out post, it’s not.  So, calm down.

However, it’s still about love, and finding it, and how I just can’t seem to.

How am I going about it?  The same way I go about almost everything else… an App.  Even worse?  It’s Tinder.  Sue me.

Now, I know, God will put a person in my life and I have to go through all of the ones who make me want to pull my hair out before I get Mr. Right placed on my path but if God could just come, sit on the end of my bed like parents do and say like “this is what you have to do” that’d be pretty good and would save me a NUMBER of tears.  

So, if you haven’t heard (because I told a select few), I broke up with my boyfriend of a year a few months ago.  I’m not going to bad mouth him or anything but basically I want an adventure and excitement and x, y, z.  Want more details?  Message me.

And there I was, single, excited and craving.  Not like zombies, I don’t feed off of attention and if you know me I avoid attention at all costs.  I mean, why do a presentation on the last day of class when you can submit the powerpoint and tell the professor you’re deathly ill?  

But, what does a newly single, shy ass, hopeless romantic girl do?  

App store-> search-> type-> download-> upload some solid pictures-> come up with a very creative bio (I succeeded with my two truths and a lie)-> create 

Congrats on your new Tinder profile.  (Surprise guys.)

Here’s how Tinder works.  You create your profile, and then one you’re ready to begin your adventure on this horror show of an app, you start swiping.  Swipe to the right to “like”, and left to make them disappear.  Your own profile pops up on their screen as well and if they “swipe right”, you match.  Then, you can chat.  And if you hit it off in the best way one can on this app, you text and see where it goes.

Here’s how I work…  I base my swipes off of a number of things- no not one of them is your dog (it’s just a plus).  First, bios are important.  Creative, a conversation starter, a quote, anything.  But if you put nothing, there was obviously no effort.  Second, the pictures- very important.  If you post four pictures, all with someone else in the picture, I will have no idea which one you are- swipe left.  If there is smoke coming out of your mouth- swipe left.  Ab/ muscle pictures- you better have some really good ones to make up for it- however I appreciate the confidence.  I’ve noticed that a lot of guys also love having pictures with kids, puppies, and grandmas.  Whatever floats your boat.  Bonus points if your height is in your bio (Yes, it does matter and it is a big deal.  Ya girl is 5’7ish and we might as well just get that out of the way).  THEN, if we match, we’ll talk.  Hopefully it’s something meaningful and my goodness you don’t start with “let’s have sex” because my response will be no and then, @you, your response should not be “I’ll pay”.

So, there were weird ones, some jerks, some that were 5’4 and didn’t think it was a problem that I had almost five inches on them.  However, there were some unicorns.

Unicorn (N): Someone who seems way too good to be true.  Most of the time they are, and then they’re not but the time that they are is arguably the best.

I chose two unicorns.

If I have told you about a boy within the last two months, I didn’t meet any of them how I said.  All thanks to the app, I was connected to “John Doe” and “the boy next door”.  (Both nicknamed by friends and family)

Pick your jaws up off the floor, it’s not that big of a deal and for all of those who actually know me, that whole “hookup” thing is like the opposite of the kind of person I am.  I heard the success stories and figured I could find the success for myself.  And so, God only knows how many people I swiped on, but ya girl got 174+ matches.  

Of those, I met three.

The first?  Took me to see Beauty and the Beast and pizza on the first date, then actually wanted to come back and did a few more times.  Met his family, and then a week later, I didn’t get a text back.  Or the day after and then a few more days past and, well, he promposled someone… A day later, he claims he is just so full of love (like towards the girl who’s name popped up on his screen a few weeks before).  Two more days?  The date appears in his insta bio.  And his excuse to me was “he’s in a bad place”.  Cool.

The second, I met, was during the four days I could cry at the drop of a hat (due to guy number one) and he brought me pizza and asked about this guy and basically listened to me rant about just how stupid I thought I was.  Needless to say, never heard from him again.  (But I, honestly, wasn’t complaining).

The third?  Lives next door.  Which is just F-A-B-U-L-O-U-S.  Now, I strategically plan my trips to the little convenient store after awkwardly seeing him yesterday.  He’s the guy who’s a gentleman- doesn’t kiss in front of his roommates, doesn’t all of a sudden have the bright idea to watch a movie in his room rather than with this roommates, and spends the first three days of talking to you asking you to tell him everything about yourself.  Invited you to watch nothing but movies because they’re romantic.  Speaks the way that you can picture him talking to your parents and challenges you and gives you crap but apologizes later and invites you over yet again because let’s face it, he thinks you’re too god damn adorable.  Asks about how he should go about officially asking you out, says he has a list of things he likes about you- which he won’t tell you because there’s a time and a place for it (apparently, texting it at 2:30 while I was stuck in an English class wasn’t that time).  However, this Prince Charming will be terrified of me next halloween when I wear a large white t-shirt dressed as the scariest thing any guy could imagine.  The shirt shall read “commitment” and y’all will stop in your tracks.  And I will probably never hear that list.  (Fun fact: the only three fears he told me were spiders, heights and Donald Trump).

I’m not saying these three (actually 2) “things”, “almost relationships” were bad.  I mean, tears are bad and so is getting to the point that your friends feel the need to change the group chat to “Allie’s Crisis Line.”  Could be the group chat for a very long time too because according to a Facebook quiz, I’m not getting married until I’m 69.  

It’s all kind of amazing.  The ones who break you in half are still incapable of being hated by you.  I don’t hate them, I don’t even hate myself (like sometimes but not always).  I actually hate the ones who broke you so that you could break me.  Those girls who caught your attention and diverted it away from where it was on me.  

So, until I find that person who will commit and make me see in a world of our blinding (please be reciprocated) love, enjoy my subtweeting blog posts (yes, they’re intended to be @you), passive aggressive words, utter confusion and boy trouble.  It’s the beginning and due to my recent track record, doesn’t seem like it’ll be the end.  But, if either of you are reading this, know that I wanted it to be and genuinely thought it was the end for me.  

I put all my marbles in one basket.  No questions, no doubts, even through the worries, I don’t keep a single marble.  They’re yours.  And they are until you drop your basket and leave me rolling around on the floor wondering how I got there yet again.

Last fun fact: if I was this passionate about the eight page paper I have due this week, I’d be done with it.  And yet I only think about you.

From the Hands Touching Hands post, I thought this last part works here too…

So your hands, which have touched who- knows- how- many inches of the earth somehow fits with someones who has touched a different who- knows- how- many inches of the earth to touch another who- knows- how- many inches of the earth together.  And while you do, you hope they don’t leave, because you started to pay such close attention at night one, that you can remember every little thing about when you were with them to how your hand fit around theirs, in theirs and on theirs.  

But they leave.  And before you know it you were dropped like a sack of puppies.  God only knows why.