by Andi Dorfman
one wedding and my funeral
I’ve succumbed to the world of dating apps. I blame Chris Harrison. Him and the Bachelor franchise as a whole.
It all started on a Friday night, when Chris was in town to do some promotions for one of the franchise’s upcoming shows. We meet for dinner like we do anytime he’s in New York and has a spare night. While it might sound weird to go to dinner with the host of a show I got engaged on, it’s not in the least. It’s merely two friends shooting the shit, and I love it. I love it for so many reasons. First, thanks to our similar senses of humor, there is never a dull moment. We joke about anything and everything that is politically incorrect and it’s goddamn hilarious if you ask me. I usually walk away from our dinners having broken even in regards to calories consumed versus abdominal calories burned. Second, Chris has a taste for good food and good wine. Which leads me to the last reason I love dinners with him: he’s rich and pays for meals that would have me otherwise unable to afford my rent. That’s really just the icing on top of the cake. Basically, a night with Chris is a night of good food, expensive wine, rich conversation, and a drama-free evening. I wish he were gay so I could claim him as my “gubby.” I know that sooner or later, when he settles down and starts dating someone, our dinners will probably stop. Because, let’s be honest, no woman lets her man wine and dine a twenty-eight-year-old single girl, just friends or not. The tabloids always have a field day whenever either of us posts something on social media. Sometimes I’ll post a photo just to get a rise out of the weeklies. It’s vain and childish but oh, I’ll take any entertainment I can get these days, especially at the expense of a rag mag.
There we are eating at one of my favorite restaurants in the city, the Polo Bar. I’ve actually only been here once, because it’s another one of those new trendy restaurants that is impossible to get a reservation at unless you are somebody. Luckily, Chris is somebody. The restaurant is so country-club chic it should just be known as a golf clubhouse. The rich green walls are adorned with framed oil paintings of horses and portraits of wealthy-looking white men. The ceiling is wood-paneled with detailed crown moldings. Modest chandeliers hang over the plush leather-tufted booths. As stuffy as the decor sounds, the vibe is far from that. Once you get inside (if you get inside), you find there’s something opulent yet cozy about this place. The waiters aren’t pretentious assholes like they are at other hot spots, there is no doorman eyeing you up and down to see if you are hot enough to be granted entry, and the food, though very simple all-American fare, is orgasmic.
Somewhere between ordering the entrée-sized corned beef sandwich as an appetizer and the salad, we find ourselves on the topic of dating. Chris tells me about a friend of his who has just created and launched a new dating app. I roll my eyes at him. He tells me it’s different. Basically, it’s more exclusive than the other dating apps that are out there. You don’t just sign up and get on; you have to be vetted and approved. It sounds pretentious as fuck, if you ask me.
As he’s going on and on about it, I interject, “Wait, is this like Tinder for celebrities? ”
“Basically.”
“Kill me now. And if you tell me you’re on it, I’ll kill you, too.”
He laughs in a hell-no-are-you-kidding-me way. “Nope, but you should do it.”
This prompts a feministic rant from me about how I am happily single, and not only do I not need a man to make me happy, but I don’t need a goddamn dating app to help me find a man who won’t make me happy. Chris sits silently, desperately trying not to laugh at me. Instead, he pours me more wine without saying another word about the app. The night ends with me going home and packing for my trip to California the following day.
I’m off to attend a wedding. Gag. And not just any wedding, either, but a wedding spawned from the same reality television show I once got engaged on. I feel bad considering I’ve never even met the couple. Basically, they got engaged on a spinoff of the Bachelor franchise, on a show called Bachelor in Paradise, and are actually going ahead with it, unlike most of us. Thus, they get the pleasure of a televised wedding while I get the pleasure of a free trip to California in the dead of winter and a chance to see friends. I did buy them a gift, at least.
But what I thought was going to be a “blissful” weekend celebrating the love of two strangers turns out to be a complete nightmare. Surprise. Surprise. I arrive at the pre-ceremony cocktail hour where there is a mix of people I know and some I’ve never met but have heard of. Of course, in true Bachelor form, the cameras are rolling, capturing every moment. It’s annoying at first, but then I realize the cameras aren’t there for me, but rather there for the most recent contestants, who have decided to take this wedding cocktail hour and turn it into their own reality show. I watch with horror as they take shots off each other’s chest, shotgun beers, and make out with one another. It’s as if they’ve forgotten they are wearing suits and gowns and are at someone’s wedding, a wedding that hasn’t even started. That or they just don’t really care. I won’t lie, though—I’m also kind of glad they are creating the drama, because it means I can happily mingle and get as drunk as I want to without fear of exposure. I never knew being irrelevant could be such a relief.
The cocktail hour ends, and we are ushered into the ceremony, which is beautiful. Even though I don’t know the bride and groom, I’ll admit, I’m buying it. You can tell that neither of them is the attention-seeking type. They seem simply happy, but not in a juvenile way; and two quick “I do’s,” later, they are also the latest couple to beat the Bachelor curse and emerge as husband and wife.
It’s not until we all head into the reception that everything really begins to unravel for me. I make my way to my assigned table, where there are eight chairs. Three are occupied by other former Bachelorettes, Ali, Deanna, and Kaitlyn, along with their significant others. I take my seat next to Kaitlyn and wait for the eighth chair to be filled by someone. And wait and wait.
The DJ comes on the microphone and begins introducing the newlyweds. I look at the empty seat beside me, and surrender to the fact that my biggest fear has come to fruition. I am the single chick with an empty chair beside her at a wedding. A wedding that is being filmed from every angle for the world to see. A wedding in which I am seated at a table with two pregnant women and one engaged woman who is challenging herself to a month of sobriety, making me the lone alcoholic. Kill. Me. Now.
The embarrassment I feel has me not just sad but physically nauseated. But I know that even the slightest hint of sadness will bring a load of unwanted attention from the camera crew and the producers, who are bouncing around from table to table, pretending to say hi but really sniffing out everyone’s level of drunkenness and weakness. I’m trying to hold it together, but as the minutes pass, speech by speech, toast by toast, my eyes begin to tear up. My jaw is clenching harder and harder. And then a slow song comes on. I can’t take it. I make a beeline for the bathroom. It’s empty, thank God. I go into the handicapped stall, sit on the toilet, and cry. Within minutes, I hear two girls come into the bathroom. I stifle my tears and hold my breath. I can hear them talking about someone’s ugly dress, a hot groomsman, and then . . . me.
“Oh, my God, did you see Andi with that empty chair next to her? ”
“God, yes, poor thing. I’d totally be dying if I were her right now!”
A few minutes later, I can hear them washing their hands before the sound of a door closing restores the silence. I resume crying. I’m blotting the tears as fast as I can, but no amount of toilet paper seems to dry them up. I’ve been in the bathroom for a solid ten minutes now, though I doubt anyone has noticed. I’m sure they’re all way too busy frolicking and flaunting for the cameras.
The only thing worse than being the single girl sitting next to an empty chair at a wedding is being the single girl sitting on a toilet in an empty bathroom crying at a wedding. I need to get it together at least for the next hour or so. I cannot let these people see me like this.
&nbs
p; I take a deep breath and reapply some concealer and blush before I stand and straighten my dress. I make my way back into the reception hall, where, just as I suspected, no one has noticed my absence. A few hours later, I see some people heading out, and I follow suit.
Back in my hotel room, I lie in bed with my gown still on and cry yet again. I feel so alone. I’m beginning to wonder if I really am happy being single after all. Why is it that being alone feels so liberating at times but so debilitating at other times, like weddings? Note to self: never attend a wedding alone again. Never.
With the wedding over, my pride shattered, and my insecurity at being single in rare form, I’m off to the airport and bound for home. I’m reading through my emails on my phone when I come across one saying I’ve been approved for a dating app. Fuck, I must have applied when I got back to my room after the wedding. I seriously need to make a rule that I am not allowed to use my phone after a certain number of drinks. The shit I do when I’m drunk just . . . well, it just lands me in even more shit.
The sadness of being alone at the wedding has me feeling the need to concede. I figure I’ve already been approved so it can’t hurt to download it, check it out, make fun of it, and then delete it. Nobody has to know. Plus, let’s be honest, I am in no position to thumb my nose at anything dating-related, even an app. Who knows? Maybe thanks to the Brazilian, this year could be my year. But I’ll never know unless I try, right?
I arrive at LAX with time to spare, which means time to create a login and follow the tutorial on how the world of app dating works. I’ve played on enough of my friends’ other dating apps to realize quickly that this one really is different, at least in terms of logistics. Instead of swiping right or left, you click on either an X or a heart. This is genius, because I’ve never understood how someone could remember which swipe direction meant yes and which meant no. Also, there is a link on each profile that takes you directly to the person’s Instagram page. Another genius move. There is no better way to stalk a man than on Instagram. You can tell what kind of guy he is just based on whom he follows and how many posts he has. If he follows a bunch of “models,” he’s a douche. If he posts more than one selfie a week, he’s a super-douche.
Now it’s time for me to create a profile of my own. There’s an option to add photos from Instagram to your profile. I select this. Wow, I’m lazy. I select my age range as twenty-four to thirty-four. I probably shouldn’t be looking at twenty-four-year-olds, and I probably should be open to looking at men older than thirty-four, but then again, I probably shouldn’t even be on this app, so screw it. Last, it prompts me to “Upload a song that best describes you. This will play alongside your slideshow.” A song that describes me? I mean, what the fuck, I don’t know. My first instinct is just to go for my favorite song, R. Kelly’s “Bump n’ Grind.” But then again, I’m not sure this is appropriate. Actually, I know it’s not appropriate. Nothing says skank like the lyrics “I don’t see nothing wrong with a little bump and grind.” Scratch that one. Hmmmm. Taylor Swift would probably come off as juvenile, even if the twenty-four-year-olds would appreciate it. Hmmm. Several thoughts later and I finally decide to play it safe with “Concrete Jungle” by Alicia Keys. I click the button labeled NEXT, and just like that, I have a dating profile.
I wait as the app searches for my potential husband, I mean matches. Twenty minutes later, I’m hooked like a teenager on Candy Crush. And not because there is anyone hot or promising on it—quite the opposite, actually.
First up is Lars, age thirty-four, lives in New York City. Who the fuck names their child Lars? I mean, poor guy, I guess it’s not his fault and I guess I don’t really have much room to talk, considering my parents gave me a boy’s name, but come the fuck on, Lars? Hi, Dad, this is my boyfriend, Lars. No way. X.
Next is Geoff, age twenty-eight, Los Angeles. Geoff’s profile picture is him with the gold-leaf crown filter from Snapchat that gives you a bronzed glow that makes you look the most like J.Lo you ever will. And while I’m a fan of this filter, I’m not a fan of a man using this filter. X.
Next is Steven, twenty-nine, New York City. “Steven is just here for friends.” I’m confused. What the fuck does that mean? Dude, you’re on a dating app. Why the fuck would you be on a dating app looking for friends? You want some friends, join a goddamn fraternity. X.
I continue with my countless Xs. Neil’s profile picture shows him wearing sunglasses—not a good sign. Jake’s profile picture is a silhouette of his back. Again, not a good sign. I want to see your face. I want to indulge for a moment and be shallow and judge you based on your looks alone. Come on, this is a dating app! David, thirty-four, from Orange County, is posed next to a red Lamborghini, which deserves not just an automatic X but a slap in the face with an actual bag of douche. In all likelihood, David does not own this Lamborghini, let alone lease it. I would bet a pair of Jimmy Choos that either (a) he rented it for the day, (b) he saw it in a parking lot, or (c) it belongs to a friend or family member. If he does happen to own it, then he is still a douche for flaunting it. Whatever the case . . . X!
In terms of potential mates, this app is quite disappointing thus far. However, in terms of entertainment value it’s magnificent, dare I say addictive. And just when I’m starting to think I’m on the brink of yet another profile to poke fun at, a new screen pops up alerting me that those are all the profiles I get to see for today. What the fuck? I’ve been cut off! I have to wait until tomorrow? Shit. This chase is only making me more intrigued . . .
matchmaker, matchmaker . . .
I’m not sure if it’s that I’m fresh off attending a wedding alone or the new snow on the ground, but I’ve had a bout of single woman depression this past week. It doesn’t help that Valentine’s Day is approaching and this will mark the second year in a row I’ve been without a boyfriend on the most nauseating holiday of the year. It also doesn’t help that it’s the dead of winter in New York City. And by dead, I mean, the city literally dies for a few months. Everyone bitches and moans about it being too cold to go outside, let alone go to a bar, and instead just goes into hibernation. If you’re lucky, you have someone to stay in with. If you aren’t lucky, you find yourself going an entire twenty-four hours without having so much as left the house—or put on pants, for that matter.
One person not afraid to brave the cold this week was Michelle. She’d asked me to go to dinner and even offered to trek from uptown to the West Village. I knew there had to be some hidden motive behind this move, and the second I walked into the restaurant where she was waiting for me in the corner booth, I could see I was right. A giant pear-shaped diamond on her ring finger was blinding me. Yup, another one had bitten the dust. Though, if anyone is deserving of such a statement ring, it’s Michelle. I mean, the woman freaking sets the dinner table with real napkins, for crying out loud! We gab on and on about the proposal details before she wipes her newly-engaged-woman smile off her face and replaces it with a let’s-get-serious smirk. “So . . . I have a question for you,” she says. I’m all but certain she is about to ask me to help her do something for the wedding. “Pete and I were thinking . . . don’t get mad, but . . .” Oh shit, they are going to want me to do a toast aren’t they? “We were wondering if you’d be open to letting us try just oooonneee more time to set you up with a guy.”
“Fuck no!” I blurt out.
“Geez, you don’t have to say it like that.”
“Sorry, that just came out wrong. I just—I’m—I’m good.”
“But I want you to have a date for my wedding.”
“Which is when? ”
“Well, hopefully by this fall.”
“It’s February—that’s like six, seven, maybe even eight months from now.”
“Okay . . . well, this isn’t going how I thought it would.”
Now I feel bad. And so does Michelle, and the last thing I want to do is ruin this moment for her. “We can figure that out later, okay? Ahhh, this is really exciting. So tell me what
you’re thinking, what color scheme, what is the dress going to look like? ”
She starts describing different hemlines, but I can’t hear the words that are coming out of her mouth. My mind is occupied wondering when and how she and Pete hatched this plan to set me up again. Was it over a candlelit dinner as they basked in their newly engaged lovey-dovey bliss? Did they suddenly feel sorry for all their single friends and out of guilt decided to start pairing them up together? Also, what makes Michelle think she’s more capable of finding a date for me than I am? Is she totally delusional about how shitty the last guy she set me up with was? Yeah, real fucking winner there, Michelle. I’d rather die alone than have to spend one more second with that dick. Oh shit, I hope he’s not invited to the wedding.
I leave dinner that night seeing Michelle in a different light, and not the sparkling kind that was coming from her hand. As I lie in bed I wonder if I’ve become that pity project for all my engaged and married friends. And once again, I begin to question my relationship status. So I’m back to hiding under my newfound security blanket, my dating app.
I spend the better part of the week hearting and X’ing nonstop. Sometimes I find myself clicking the heart button simply out of boredom, but other times I click out of attraction. Some guys I match with will message me with a cheesy line, like “So, when am I taking you out on the best first date of your life? ” I don’t respond to those. Some I do respond to, but after a few messages back and forth, the conversation tends to die down. Lately, though, there’s been one that hasn’t been cheesy, hasn’t died down, and has me crushing . . . hard.
I think he was someone I’d originally hearted out of boredom, because he’s not significantly good-looking. But we matched, and since then, we’ve been texting back and forth a good bit. He’s smart and kind, which makes him more attractive to me.
