A 30-year-old woman’s Tinder date has a few dark, druggy secrets
My name is Madeline, and I’m 30 years old. I’ve been using dating apps for nearly a year, and, within the last month, I’ve widened my age net. I’m still swiping at 26-year-olds, but I’m also looking more closely at those mature mid-to-late-30-year-olds (potential homeowners), because, hey, I want true love.
I matched with a 36-year-old guy on Tinder, and we agreed to meet for a drink and some pool at Swan Dive on Easter Sunday. Admittedly, a blind date on a holiday feels inherently sad, even if you’re not religious. The bar was deserted. But that was fine: I’m pretty fun on first dates.
My date was already there when I arrived. A Red Stripe in one hand, a Kinder Surprise in the other. “Happy Easter,” he said, smiling. I was delighted.
Kinder egg aside, he presented more workman than gentleman. Flannel. Tall and burly with big hands. I sank into his hello hug and thought this feels pretty safe.
We talked Easter egg hunts and family dinners. It was easy-breezy chatter and, after 10 minutes, he leaned in. “Full disclosure?” (His words, not mine.) I nodded. “I’m actually 39. My profile says 36 because I can’t figure out how to change it on Facebook. But yeah, I’m 39.”
I told him I didn’t mind, and he kept talking. A lot. He told me all about his job, his car and his prodigious brother. He told me about his killer loft apartment, with its huge projector and exposed brick. He didn’t ask a lot of questions. We moved onto pool.
Here’s why I like pool on a date: it’s something to bond over, a chance to win at something and, most importantly, an opportunity to rollick around a pool table. (Full disclosure: I’ve been known to circle men on dance floors, and, in one instance, a parking lot attendant in Detroit. Yes, it waffles between flirty and predatory, but it’s my move.)
By the time we were on the third game, the conversation went to pot. “Have you ever been around a whole lot of weed?” he asks.
Pot makes me silly and sociable. I really like it. “Yeah,” I said confidently, “I’m housesitting right now for some friends, and they have, like, four different strains in their drug paraphernalia box.”
“No, I mean like a backpack full of weed.”
He sidled up to me, chalked his cue and leaned in again. There was a twinkle in his eye. “Full disclosure?”
That’s cute. We have a thing.
“I also deal weed. Sometimes.”
It turns out when you sometimes deal “a whole lot of weed,” you also, sometimes, have a whole lot of money around. Chest puffed, he told me about once having $4,000 in cash in his killer loft apartment. Which, by the way, has seen some killer parties, too, and he DJs all of them.
At that point, we were sitting down again and getting antsy. He asked what I wanted to do next. Another bar? Dancing? Suffice it to say I didn’t see myself circling this man on a dance floor; I was thinking more like a cup of tea, at home, alone. I had to get up early for work the next morning, which made for an easy out.
“Damn,” he said, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. There was that mid-to-late-30s sincerity—or was it maturity?—shining through. “I’m having a really, really good time with you.”
“Yeah, it’s been nice.”
He walked me out. He had a bit of a giddy-up bounce in his step and a big smile on his face. Like I said, I’m pretty charming on a first date. Plus, it was actually fun. Or funny. Whatever.
“Thanks for the beer and the pool,” I said.
“See you soon?” He leans in for a goodbye hug and a final word. “Full disclosure, Madeline: I’m high on MDMA.”
And that was it. With those four little letters, my date was transformed from lame to legendary. Or, at the very least, hilarious.
The next day, I sent him a text. “It was nice to meet you. Full disclosure, though: I think we’re better off as friends.”
His response? “FD: I let you win that pool game.”