Lena’s Epic TInder Fail -Part I: The Alchemy of the Written Word

Lena here:

You know how it is. Your eyes connect across a room, there’s a flare of recognition, and suddenly a force generated at about navel level is dragging you over to him for a chat. Chemistry. The much vaunted but seldom found spark that people are always talking about it. Isn’t it grand? I know I find it very hard to resist when I find it. Which is exactly why I have spent the last few months putting up with the erratic behaviour of a tinderfella.

Now, a few background details. In terms of what I find physically attractive, aside from the fact that he’s a bit blonde, this guy is not dissimilar to the brat of a kid who hits every floor on the elevator – he’s pushing all of the buttons: he’s built, ruggedly handsome, plays rugby, drinks gin and scotch, eats his steak rare, and drips sexual appetite. However, like the metaphorical brat, he’s getting off at the mezzanine, when I am going to the roof (just go with it, I’m about to explain my convoluted metaphors in detail, so strap in). Before the explanation though, I have a confession. I have never actually met this guy in the third dimension. This whole saga has played out in cyberspace, and I don’t know if that is embarrassing, or indicative of the world we live in now.  Anyway, allow me to set the scene for the sad and embarrassing saga of Lena’s total inability to function like a normal.

Let’s start at the beginning:

I am hung over. Lying on the couch, feeling sorry for myself, wishing I had more chips and in need of some male attention. I’m hungover like a fat man’s belt though, and in no state to be viewed by anyone, so so tinder it is. I’m flicking through the album of hotties and notties when I see the most beautiful face I could imagine. A smiling, half-profile shot, square jaw, cleft chin and a nose that has lost its fair share of battles to elbows in scrums. I take my time running through his pictures, because there is no way this vision of masculine beauty is going to swipe right for me and he really is exceptionally pretty. But what can I say? I’ve always been lucky, and a few minutes later I get that lovely little “It’s a Match” screen. We start to chat. He’s also feeling a little worse for his weekend in Dubai, and is at the airport, waiting to fly back to Saudi, where he works. He likes his beer cold, and his whisky on the rocks. He likes The Shawshank Redemption and very rare steak. He likes the kinds of questions I ask, and he definitely likes the picture I just sent him on Whatsapp. We’re hitting it off and we haven’t even met yet. His next weekend away is definitely going to be in Abu Dhabi, he’s been meaning to check it out, and now he has a tour guide.
We talk for about three hours, then he gets on his flight, and we resume our chat when he touches down. It gets pretty steamy, if my poor Samsung has any sensibilities it’s probably deeply ashamed of the things I made it send, but it’s late, and we both need sleep. Then the next morning we’re at it again. That first ‘hi’ has snowballed into two weeks of intense, day in, day out texting. Needless to say, I am smitten. He’s funny, and hot. He gets my slightly off beat humour and thinks I’m sexy and cute. I’m looking forward to what promises to be a great date, but there are already warning signs that this is going to go south.