It happened one faithful night in Williamsburg (Brooklyn). Pigs finally flew across the purple sky. “Shit, I am lost in Brooklyn,” declared I with sweat dripping from my brow. In my all my years in New York, I had never been lost.
Oy, there was that one time I did get lost taking the G train, en route to Greenpoint. That doesn’t count though. Everyone gets lost on the perplexing G train. I’ll just keep telling myself that.
Back to the story:
Close to the Montrose, L train stop, I grew further frustrated. I was heading toward my friend’s apartment for a dinner party. The map on my smart phone had me confused. As I glared at the map, my agony worsened.
The phone slipped from my hands and fell face forward on the very cold concrete. “Memories,” from Cats played in my head (Cardigans F.M.). Unfortunately, this was not an Andrew Lloyd Weber musical, although dancing cats would lessen the blow. As the chorus was belted, I nearly cried as I examined the phone’s newly cracked screen. Dahling, it’s been a fabulous 3.5 years, said I. Speaking to my phone like I wounded warrior, I had to take drastic measure. (I did make it my friend’s apartment, albeit very late, which is not an Anthony quality).
Firstly, welcome to first world problem brought to you by the Whole Foods, yoga mat and cupcake loving, first world.
Predictably, I had to buy a new phone. “Oh great, I don’t want to turn into one of those people with their head constantly down starring at their iPhone. I don’t want Instagram and oy, Grindr,” said I. The next day, I upgraded my phone. “No reading books on the phone, no twitter and especially no Tinder, said I, while walking out of the phone shop. In toe was my new and very technological, accessory.
I did download the Facebook and Pandora app. For the first week with my upgrade, I almost completely avoided apps. On a faithful Sunday, I sat at my favorite East Village coffee shop and pulled out my black marble notebook. “I am going to take part in bohemian interests, “said I. As, I opened up the notebook and attempted to write poetry, my brain farted.
“Shit, I can’t think,” said I. “People watching, that’s it. The East village is my favorite place to people watch to inspire me,” said I. Then I ordered a bagel to compliment my black coffee. “Stimulation will be mine,” declared I. Lots of men, entered the coffee shop. Every shape, color and size was represented. “Maybe, I need to be in love?” I asked myself, philosophically.
I took out my iPhone and the unthinkable proceeded. Geez, I think I am going to download Tinder. For those in the dark, Tinder is a phone app, which shows you a variety of men and. If you swipe, left, it means you’re interested. A swipe to right means you’re not interested. If you and your choice man, both swipe left, then you can message each other (since you’re both interested).
It downloaded the app. Initially; I was disappointed as I swiped. Hipster, hipster, hipster, and Bravo reality TV escapee (pretty boy/generic look), I am so bored and feel very judgmental, “said I. “I can’t do this,” declared, yours truly. While strolling down First Avenue toward the Lower East Side, I had an itch. “Nope, I am not looking at Tinder. Actually, I am going to delete the app,” said I.
I crossed Delancy Street and with imposing Williamsburg Bridge, beckoning my inspiration. The itch persisted. I found a cozy bench and went back on Tinder. I had a jolly good time swiping to the left then the right. After a few minutes, I matched with guy. “Wow, finally a guy who’s interested, ” I said. The swiping continued.
To my surprise, I ended up racking up a greater number of eligible bachelors. We started chatting. Surprisingly, they seemed like amazing guys. There was less talk about sex and more about significant hobbies. What I disregarded as a shallow phone application had proven to be a fantastic tool to message other single guys in the city.
“Have I gone on a date, yet?” you ask? I haven’t really met the right guy yet, but eventually it will get there. Thanks to a precious shattered cell phone, a whole new world opened up. Thanks Tinder, for reminding me that this isn’t a lonely, dateless city. There are indeed other dateless, Tori Amos loving, Augusten Burroughs reading, and Stanley Kubrick film aficionados in this universe, we call, New York City.