We agree to meet on a Tuesday night at the bar of one of Nashville’s swankier restaurants. This should have been the first of many warnings about Nicole. We met magically―as if it was meant to be―after we both swiped right on the other’s Tinder profile. Witty banter ensued―mostly from my side―and before you knew it, we lined up what appeared to be a mellow, low-key drink date.
She is an outgoing, 34-year-old native Nashvillian working in the booming local real estate market. Her case is strongly supported by her generous feminine curves and brunette hair. This is my first month in Nashville and my second ever Tinder date. I finally gave in and signed up for the infamous Tinder app my second week in town. What has Western Civilization come to?
I arrive earlier than her and manage to find an open bar stool at the packed, trendy restaurant of her choosing. The atmosphere is ideal for a classy date spot―dim lighting, stylish decor, reasonable noise level, and, of course, overpriced cocktails. I take a seat and order a pint of some passable local Tennessee brew from the attractive bartender while keeping an eye on the door and the arrival of my newest Tinderella.
After about 10 minutes, she surfaces and approaches me as I stand to greet her, which gives me the chance for the once-over. She is indeed a curvy, tallish, fairly attractive brunette wearing a form-hugging black dress. We hug it out and I give her my bar stool before one opens up next to us. Lively conversation is quick to take hold, especially after she orders up one of the bar’s fancy specialty cocktails. Little did I know that her night was just beginning.
Nicole is sipping her second pricey drink and she regales me with her stories about hanging out with Tony Robbins at various conferences. She admits to being a Tony Robbins groupie and I recall in her brief Tinder profile summary that she describes herself as a self-improvement junkie. Those were her exact words and the pieces of the puzzle are beginning to fall into place―as does her third cocktail. She encourages me to research Mr. Robbins and emails me a number of his articles and links to his online self-assessment tests. Her concern for my personal growth is endearing, but tiring, and easily exceeds my own interest in doing any personal growing―whatever that may involve.
The establishment slowly begins to empty out as closing time and 11 p.m. approach. Nicole decides to order up her fourth cocktail and all I’m able to do is stare. I have heard that Southern women like their booze, but this is a Tuesday night and she has to be at work in the morning―not to mention the fact that she drove to the restaurant. Within a second of the bartender placing the new cocktail in front of her, she is already guzzling it down with renewed zeal.
Before she can order a fifth concoction, I ask the bartender for the check and I’m a tad floored at the damage as I review the bill. Unsurprisingly, Nicole does not even pretend to want to chip in and cover some of her drinking. From my experience, feminism tends to stop when the check arrives, but restarts soon after the check has been paid by the man.
For the record, I always attempt to pay for the first date, but this one got away from me. We leave together and say goodbye knowing that the odds are against us ever seeing each other again. She appears to be surprisingly sober as she walks to her car. Either those drinks were seriously watered down or she has an impressive tolerance or perhaps a drinking problem.
I cross another one off the Nashville list and head home scratching my head thinking about the following astute truism from my father: “Sorry to hear the acquaintance has ended in the graveyard where most acquaintances end. As for women, too frequent dating is a headache and waiting for the right woman to stroll along is a bore. So, you have a choice… Sorry, this is how it goes unfortunately.” A headache or a bore. Wiser words have rarely been spoken.
Disclaimer: The name of my date has been changed to protect what is left of her privacy in the age of Google, Faceberg, GPS, and the random Russian hacker.