The Hinge Experiment: Harry Potter, Market Research and a Very Profitable Weekend

Apparently, the universe has decided that The Hinge Experiment™ needs a travel budget.

I found out yesterday that I might be able to go to Columbia, South Carolina, this weekend for a two-day market research interview/discussion.

That sounds pretty good on its own.

Then I found out there was a small problem.

Airica was hoping we could go see the Harry Potter experience at COSM in Atlanta.

Well, that ain't happening.

Atlanta will have to wait.

But then I realized something.

Airica is in Columbia.

And suddenly, this market research weekend got a whole lot more interesting.

Wait... This Actually Works

The original plan was Harry Potter in Atlanta.

Instead, we're going to have:

Friday night: Dinner with Airica.

Saturday: I do my market research session, then we hang out afterward.

Sunday afternoon: More time together.

So instead of one Harry Potter adventure in Atlanta, I potentially get three opportunities to hang out with Airica in Columbia.

I'm calling that a win.

And there's another little detail that makes this weekend even better.

Somebody Is Paying Me to Go on This Trip

Let's review the economics here.

I'm getting:

A hotel for the weekend.

Food during the market research sessions.

Payment for participating.

And 72 cents per mile for the drive.

Seventy-two cents.

Per.

Mile.

When can I do another one of these?

Seriously.

Where do I sign up?

If somebody wants to pay me to drive to Columbia, put me in a hotel, feed me, pay me for my time, and give me an opportunity to see Airica...

I suddenly have a very strong interest in market research.

I may become the world's foremost expert on answering questions in exchange for hotel rooms.

"Would you recommend this product?"

Absolutely.

"Why?"

Because you're paying me to be here.

Next question.

The Harry Potter Detour

I do feel bad that the Harry Potter plans aren't going to happen.

Airica wanted to see the Harry Potter movie at COSM in Atlanta.

Unfortunately, the timing of this market research opportunity makes that a no-go.

But here's the thing I've learned about dating:

Plans change.

Things come up.

We adjust.

And instead of spending the weekend apart because the original plan didn't work, we're finding a way to spend time together anyway.

Friday night.

Saturday after my session.

Sunday afternoon.

I'm pretty sure that's significantly better than sitting in my hotel room eating whatever they give me and watching television.

Although I reserve the right to do that for at least part of Saturday night.

I'm 54.

I'm allowed to get tired.

Then Came This Morning

This morning, I beat Airica to the "Good morning" text.

This is apparently becoming a competition.

And I have to admit, I hesitated.

It was my usual dialysis morning.

The time when most normal human beings are asleep.

The time when I'm awake because I have an appointment with the vampire machine to clean my blood.

The dialysis facility was also short-staffed, so I ended up sitting in the waiting area.

And while I was sitting there, I thought:

Should I text her?

It's early.

Really early.

Most of the world isn't awake at the hour I willingly allow a machine to remove approximately every useful thing from my blood while someone sticks two needles into my arm.

Would "Good morning" at this hour be considered sweet?

Or would it be considered:

"Why the hell is this guy texting me at 5-something in the morning?"

There's a fine line between romantic and requiring a restraining order.

I decided to risk it.

I sent the message.

Apparently, I'm Learning

One thing I've noticed about this whole experience is how different it feels.

I'm not trying to manufacture conversation.

I'm not sitting there wondering if I'm going to get a response.

I'm not staring at a Hinge screen wondering why someone disappeared.

We're actually talking.

We're making plans.

And now we're figuring out how to make a weekend work when the original plan doesn't.

That's dating.

At least, I think that's dating.

Remember, I'm the guy whose recent dating résumé includes being asked for rent money and a phone bill.

My qualifications are limited.

Columbia, Here I Come

So now I get to drive to Columbia, get paid to participate in market research, get reimbursed for the mileage, stay in a hotel, eat someone else's food...

and see Airica three times.

Harry Potter may have lost.

But I think I came out pretty well in the rewrite.

And somewhere, Steve the Iguana is probably sitting on a beach wondering how the hell this happened.

A few weeks ago, I was seriously considering deleting Hinge.

Now I'm planning a weekend around a woman I met on it.

Maybe The Hinge Experiment isn't quite ready to end.

Maybe it's just getting interesting.

And if anyone knows where I can sign up for another two-day market research study in a city where Airica happens to live...

I'm available. 😂

The Hinge Experiment: Please Do Not Touch Those Eyebrows

Today was one of those days when I feel like I need a vacation from my day.

It started with an eye appointment.

The good news: the retina is still attached.

That seems like a pretty good way to start a Tuesday.

I go back in a month for another check. The purpose of that visit is to make sure I haven't developed macular edema, specifically DME. If everything still looks good, I'll move to appointments every three months to make sure I don't eventually need one of those delightful shots directly into my eyeball.

Because apparently normal people get eye exams.

I get eye exams where the doctor is checking whether my retina is still where it belongs and whether we're going to have to inject something into my eye.

Dating after 50 is exciting.

Then Recovery

After the eye appointment, I went to a recovery meeting for an hour.

Airica knows I'm in recovery.

There's no reason to hide it, and frankly, I'm not interested in hiding it.

It's part of my life.

Just like dialysis.

Just like the prosthetic.

Just like the eyes.

Just like the eyebrows.

Apparently, the eyebrows may actually be the most important part of this story.

We'll get to that.

Then Off to the Vascular Surgeon

After the meeting, I headed over to Novant to have my fistula graft checked.

The good news continued.

Everything looks good.

I don't have to go back for four months.

I'll take that.

So far today:

Retina attached.

Fistula graft good.

Recovery meeting completed.

Eyebrows apparently still under consideration.

Then It Was Time for Mom

I stopped at Come Back Shack and picked up lunch.

For me:

Fried chicken salad with ranch.

For Mom:

Hawaiian chicken salad with fries.

I got to the skilled nursing facility and found Mom asleep.

Instead of waking her up, I left her food on the rolling tray next to her bed.

By then, lunch had apparently become dinner.

I sat in the lobby, ate my salad, and checked movie times.

Why?

Because apparently there is a new Tom Cruise movie called Digger.

Review coming.

Yes, I am aware that my life has somehow become a combination of dialysis, medical appointments, recovery, assisted living research, dating, and Tom Cruise movie reviews.

I'm leaning into it.

And Then My Phone Buzzed

Somewhere in the middle of all of this, I heard from Airica.

And one of her first messages was:

"Please do not touch those eyebrows."

Ladies and gentlemen...

We have confirmation.

For those of you wondering whether Airica actually likes the Ming the Merciless look...

She does.

I have proof.

Apparently, these eyebrows aren't a problem.

They're a feature.

The threading appointment is canceled.

My eyebrows live to fight another day.

The Conversation Continues

Airica and I had another awesome conversation.

We talked about having a wish.

Then somehow that conversation turned into Amazon Prime Day.

Then Christmas lists.

Then Sono Bello.

Apparently, I need to lose about 20 pounds.

This is becoming an aggressive dating strategy.

First:

"Don't touch your eyebrows."

At least she's keeping me on my toes.

Then We Went Everywhere

We talked about the songs I listened to while driving around Mount Pleasant.

We talked about me going to a recovery meeting.

She knows I'm in recovery, so there isn't any reason for me to pretend otherwise.

We talked about my salad.

I even sent her a completely respectable picture of it.

Not a nasty selfie.

A salad selfie.

Apparently, there are levels to dating after 50.

I'm choosing to believe this is one of them.

Then somehow the conversation moved to pizza.

And tiramisu.

Apparently there's some saying involving "Not the tiramisu?"

My 54-year-old brain did not comprehend the reference.

It went straight over my head.

Apparently there are cultural references I missed while I was busy doing whatever the hell I was doing for the last 30 years.

I'll have to investigate.

The Important Part

For those keeping score at home:

The conversation is still awesome.

And we're making plans to hang out this weekend.

Together.

Not hanging out with each other, which would be a fairly ridiculous definition of a date.

That's another thing I like about this.

We're not spending all day trying to figure out whether the other person is interested.

We're actually talking.

We're making plans.

We're learning things about each other.

And I'm not sitting around staring at Hinge wondering why my match disappeared into the digital abyss.

This is different.

Tuesday and Friday Have One Problem

I did let Airica know that Tuesday and Friday nights are already spoken for.

Those nights belong to my fraternity brothers and our Zoom hangout.

And without fail, I get grilled about the date.

How did it go?

What did you talk about?

Are you going to see her again?

What happened?

Basically, it's like having a Greek chorus of nosy brothers who have collectively decided that my dating life is their new favorite television show.

Now they have even more material.

Because there was a first date.

There was a mug.

There's a second-date possibility.

There are weekend plans.

And apparently, the eyebrows have received official approval.

I'm sure Tuesday's Zoom will be completely normal.

Absolutely no one will ask me about Airica.

Sure.

And I'm the guy who almost fell into a booth on his first date.

The Hinge Experiment Update

A few weeks ago, I was wondering if it was time to delete Hinge.

I had no matches.

No conversations.

No dates.

Steve the Iguana was practically packing my bags.

Now?

I've had an actual first date.

It went well.

I'm still talking to her.

We're making plans for the weekend.

She sends me good morning texts.

She likes my eyebrows.

And somehow, I'm okay with all of this.

For once, The Hinge Experiment doesn't feel like an experiment.

It feels like I'm just getting to know someone.

And that's probably the best part.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a retina to keep attached, a fistula graft to maintain, a movie to review, a mother to visit, fraternity brothers to answer to...

And 54-year-old dating decisions to make.

Oh, and apparently I'm keeping the eyebrows.

Airica has spoken.

The Hinge Experiment: My Eyebrows Are Now Part of the Story

I'm older than most people wandering around the dating-app wilderness, and saying I don't have much recent dating experience would be an understatement.

Actually, forget recent.

I don't have much dating experience, period.

My last first date was about five months ago.

For anyone new to the blog, that one didn't exactly end with a mug and talk of a Boo Basket.

She tried to shake me down.

First, it was rent money.

Then came the phone bill.

Luckily, I escaped after paying for a meal, a few hurricanes, and maybe $60 cash that I had on me.

Considering how that evening was headed, I consider myself lucky.

So now that I've had an actual enjoyable first date with Airica, I've encountered an entirely new problem:

What the hell am I supposed to do next?

Is There Still a Three-Day Rule?

Do I wait three days?

Four days?

Do I call?

Text?

Send a carrier pigeon?

Do I conjure up a magical genie and ask it to grant me three wishes, with one of them being:

"Please don't let me screw this up."

I don't know the rules.

The last time I had a first date, I was apparently supposed to bring enough cash to cover someone's monthly expenses.

This feels different.

Thankfully, Airica may have answered the question for me.

Good Morning

Today is a dialysis day.

That means my alarm goes off around 4:15 in the morning so I can start getting myself together and make my 5:50 dialysis start.

Once I'm hooked up, I usually try to sleep.

It makes the time go faster.

But this morning, I got a more-than-pleasant surprise.

A "Good morning" text from Airica.

WAIT.

WHAT?

I don't have to wait three days?

I don't need the genie?

I don't need to analyze the date like the Zapruder film?

Apparently, people who enjoy talking to each other can just…

continue talking to each other.

What a concept.

I was so pleasantly surprised that my dialysis needles almost came shooting out.

For the record, that would have significantly changed the tone of this blog post.

But I Had a Question

On my drive to dialysis this morning, I started thinking about something Airica said during our date.

I had asked her why she swiped on me.

Her answer?

Apparently, I had an "interesting look."

Interesting.

I've been thinking about that one.

Is "interesting look" another way of saying:

"You're not ugly, but I'm also not prepared to call you conventionally handsome"?

At this stage of my life, interesting works.

I've got one leg, no hair, questionable eyesight, kidneys that have outsourced their responsibilities to a machine three days a week, and now apparently an interesting face.

Put that on Hinge.

Then She Mentioned the Eyebrows

Airica also pointed out my eyebrows yesterday.

Specifically…

how bushy they are.

Excuse me?

My eyebrows?

Bushy?

No way.

All right.

Maybe a little.

Actually, this isn't the first time I've heard this.

It's becoming something of a recurring theme.

Most Tuesdays and Fridays during the fraternity Zoom hangout, I can count on someone to remind me that my eyebrows have apparently declared independence from the rest of my face.

Then there's a guy at one of my recovery meetings who calls me:

Ming the Merciless.

If you're not familiar with Ming, look him up.

Look at the eyebrows.

Apparently, you'll understand.

And now Airica has joined the Eyebrow Oversight Committee.

At some point, when multiple independent organizations reach the same conclusion, I suppose I have to consider the possibility that there might actually be a problem.

They're Large and in Charge

I told Airica this isn't the first time I've heard about them.

These eyebrows are large and in charge.

It's actually a little unfair.

My head decided years ago that growing hair was no longer part of the strategic plan.

Meanwhile, my eyebrows apparently looked at the newly available resources and said:

"We'll take it from here."

All the hair production has been consolidated into two small strips directly above my eyes.

Efficiency.

Maybe this is why Airica thought I had an "interesting look."

She didn't swipe on me.

The eyebrows matched hers.

I'm just their transportation.

Do I Need Threading?

Now I'm starting to wonder whether I need to try one of those eyebrow-threading places.

I've seen them.

Someone takes a piece of thread and somehow uses it to rip hair out of your face.

This sounds exactly like the type of activity a man with my medical history should voluntarily add to his schedule.

Dialysis Monday.

Eyebrow torture Tuesday.

Dialysis Wednesday.

Recover from eyebrows Thursday.

Dialysis Friday.

Dating Saturday.

Seems reasonable.

The problem is that I know myself.

I'll walk in and say:

"Just clean them up a little."

Then I'll open my eyes and discover that I've gone from Ming the Merciless to Whoopi Goldberg.

No eyebrows.

Nothing.

Just forehead transitioning directly into eyeballs.

So, About That Follow-Up...

I guess I don't have to figure out whether I should wait three days.

Airica texted me.

She said good morning.

We survived the first date.

She survived my driving.

She survived my near fall at The Grand.

She survived four hours with me.

She made it home with all of her organs.

And the next morning, she still wanted to say hello.

I'll take that as a positive sign.

Does that mean there's going to be a second date?

I still don't know.

I'm new at this.

Maybe I still have to audition.

Maybe I'm waiting for the callback.

But compared with where The Hinge Experiment was a few weeks ago—zero matches, zero conversations, and Steve the Iguana preparing to become my permanent companion—I'd say we're making progress.

And if there is a second date, I may arrive with slightly more aerodynamic eyebrows.

Or I may leave them exactly as they are.

After all…

She swiped right on the eyebrows she saw.

No sense engaging in false advertising now.

But if the next picture you see of me has absolutely no eyebrows whatsoever, you'll know what happened.

Airica started it.

The Hinge Experiment: Four Hours, 250 Miles, Brussels Sprouts and a Mug

Well, it happened.

After all the matches that went nowhere, conversations that disappeared, unanswered messages, unmatches, an empty Hinge inbox, jokes about deleting the app, and Steve the Iguana patiently waiting for me to abandon dating altogether…

I went on an actual first date.

With Airica.

And I have some numbers.

Four hours.

About 250 miles of driving.

Brussels sprouts.

A half-and-half—which I learned is half sweet tea and half unsweetened tea. I thought Airica was getting an Arnold Palmer.

Shrimp & grits.

A ribeye, medium-well.

A walk for candy.

Some laughs.

Some transparency.

More laughs.

And…

A mug.

Yes, a mug.

And somehow, that mug feels like a significant development in The Hinge Experiment™.

My First First Date With a Parting Gift

This may have been the first first date where I left with something other than a broken heart, cash out of pocket to help someone pay her rent, or an overwhelming need to review some of my life decisions.

This time?

I left with a mug, a full belly, and a smile on my face.

Progress!

Before the Date, I Tried to Get Us on Dateline

Full transparency.

Yesterday morning, before Airica and I had ever actually met in person, I asked her if she wanted to take a drive with me to Tampa Bay to watch the Yankees play.

There were tickets available.

I didn't want to go alone.

Seemed perfectly reasonable to me.

Apparently, from the perspective of a woman who has never met this man before, getting into his car for at least seven hours is a slightly different proposition.

She was confused.

Concerned.

Cautious.

She may have considered that accepting this invitation could eventually land her on an episode of Dateline.

I get it.

Although, come on.

A bald dude with one leg, failing kidneys, and eyes that don't work particularly well?

I'd be skeptical, too.

Maybe the real concern should have been whether I'd wake up in a bathtub full of ice with a bunch of stitches and discover that the few functioning organs I have left had been harvested.

There isn't much good inventory here, Airica.

Either way, Tampa was wisely removed from the agenda.

We decided to start with lunch.

She Still Didn't Tell Me Where She Lives

I arrived at our meeting location in Columbia.

And no, at this point I apparently had not yet achieved "You May Know Where I Live" status.

Also understandable.

I did, however, get a nice hug.

I'll take it.

Then we headed into downtown Columbia.

I've been around there before because of a failed job interview.

See? Everything happens for a reason.

I didn't get the job, but years later I knew how to get downtown for a Hinge date.

Career development.

Airica picked The Grand, and it turned out to be a great choice.

The food was awesome, the place had a nice feel, and the company was fantastic.

There was only one problem.

I couldn't see a darn thing.

Nothing Says "Smooth" Like Almost Falling on Your Butt

The Grand was dimly lit.

Maybe romantically lit.

With my eyesight?

Basically a cave.

They showed us to a nice, almost circular booth.

I went to sit down.

I misjudged exactly where the seat was.

And for one brief, beautiful moment, gravity attempted to bring me as close to the floor as physically possible.

Now, over the years, I’ve wondered what makes a man appear smooth and confident on a first date.

Apparently it's almost completely missing the point.

Ladies, try to control yourselves.

Somehow, I recovered.

Physically, at least.

In my head?

I'm burnt toast.

Date over.

Thank you for playing.

Please collect your complimentary mug on the way out.

Except…

It wasn't.

Then We Just Talked

We ordered food.

Brussels sprouts.

Shrimp & grits.

A ribeye cooked medium-well.

And the mysterious half & half.

When Airica ordered it, I thought she meant an Arnold Palmer.

Nope.

Half sweet tea.

Half unsweetened tea.

I learned something new.

More importantly, we talked.

And talked.

And talked.

There really wasn't an awkward silence.

Well, except when we were actually eating, which I think is acceptable first-date behavior.

I assume.

I don't really know what people are supposed to talk about on first dates because I haven't had many of these recently.

But we figured it out.

If we're being statistically accurate, Airica probably did about 60% of the talking.

Which means I did 40%.

Yes, I know.

For anyone who knows me, that may be the most unbelievable part of this entire story.

I Got to Know Airica

I learned a lot.

I learned about what Airica wants to be when she grows up.

I learned about her passions.

I learned more about her life and why she is where she is.

And by "where she is," I mean Columbia, South Carolina.

Because obviously Columbia is the hippest place in the entire universe.

Why wouldn't someone want to be there?

The more we talked, the more things we seemed to have in common.

Of course, there are some important differences.

She's female.

She has two functioning kidneys.

She has a full head of hair.

Show-off.

But we both have bad eyesight.

CHECK!

Finally, common ground.

Then She Yawned

Airica had already had a longer-than-normal day, and eventually I caught a few yawns.

Message received.

I told her it was time to get her back.

Preferably with all of her original body parts still attached so she could report to everyone that she had survived her encounter with the one-legged Hinge guy.

But she wasn't ready to leave.

She wanted candy.

Wait. What?

The date continues?

Apparently I hadn't completely screwed this up.

The 200-Foot Second Act

We walked about 200 feet to a general store that smelled like leather and sandalwood.

We bought candy.

I went with saltwater taffy.

Airica selected an assortment of gummy concoctions.

Nothing extravagant.

Nothing complicated.

Just walking around, getting candy and continuing the conversation.

And I liked that.

Eventually, we made our way back to her car.

There was a great hug.

A kiss on the cheek.

And then I started the long drive home.

And Then My Phone Started Getting Updates

On the drive back, I heard from her.

She updated me that she hadn't taken a nap.

She asked how far away I was.

And apparently…

I may be getting a Boo Basket.

I don't know exactly where a Boo Basket ranks in the traditional progression of modern courtship, but I'm assuming it's somewhere between:

"I don't hate you"

and

"You may eventually be permitted to know where I live."

I'll take it.

I also let her know that I opened the gift she'd given me.

The mug.

And yes, Airica knows I'm writing this.

See?

I'm learning.

So… Will There Be a Second Date?

That's the question.

I heard on the TikkyTokky that a first date is basically an audition to see whether you get a second date.

If that's true, my audition included nearly falling onto the floor, misunderstanding a tea order, discussing my collection of medical problems, and making jokes about organ harvesting.

Strong performance.

But here's what I know.

I drove roughly 250 miles.

We spent about four hours together.

There was good food.

There was candy.

There were serious conversations.

There was transparency.

There were laughs.

There were more laughs.

There wasn't that uncomfortable feeling of trying to manufacture conversation.

And when I got back into my car, I was smiling.

That's enough for today.

I'm glad we met.

I'm glad she didn't take me up on Tampa for our first meeting.

I'm glad neither of us ended up on Dateline.

And I'm particularly glad that after everything I've written about dating over the past few months, I finally got to write this:

The Hinge Experiment produced an actual date.

A good one.

Now I wait.

Will there be a second?

Will I get the callback?

Will there really be a Boo Basket?

Will I eventually reach the coveted "You Can Know Where I Live" level?

I have no idea.

But for the first time in this experiment, I don't need to make a joke about an empty Hinge inbox.

I left with a mug, a full belly, and a smile on my face.

I'd say that's a pretty damn good first date.

Stay tuned.

Steve the Iguana may need to cancel his plans.

The Hinge Experiment: Wait… I Have a Match!

Well, this is awkward.

When I was considering whether The Hinge Experiment™ had run its course, Hinge apparently heard me.

I got a match.

Her name is Airica.

And even more shocking?

We're already talking about meeting Sunday.

Steve the Iguana may have to unpack his bags. 🦎

From Zero Matches to Airica

My last Hinge update wasn't exactly optimistic.

My match queue was empty.

Matches: 0.
Conversations: 0.
Dates: 0.

Meanwhile, traffic to NielFlamm.com was doing considerably better than my dating life.

I was legitimately starting to wonder whether it was time to delete Hinge and move along. After all, there's only so much entertainment I can squeeze out of screenshots saying:

“No matches right now.”

Apparently, Hinge took that personally.

This morning, I liked one of Airica's pictures.

Five minutes later?

💋

Well, hello there.

A response!

From a human!

This changes everything.

Okay, probably not everything. Calm down, Niel.

And We Already Have Something in Common

I noticed that Airica had lived in Las Vegas.

I lived there for about ten years, so I immediately had something to ask about.

My opening wasn't Shakespeare:

“Good morning! Where did you live in Vegas? I lived there for 10 years…”

But I've already established during this experiment that I don't exactly spit mad game.

I'm more of a:

“Hello. Here is a relevant question based upon information you voluntarily provided. Would you care to discuss?”

kind of guy.

Somehow, despite this irresistible charm, the conversation continued.

And now we're making plans for Sunday.

Yes.

An actual day.

For an actual potential date.

With an actual person.

WHAT IS HAPPENING?

There Is One Small Issue

Airica is in Lexington, South Carolina.

That's about a 90-minute drive for me.

Some people might look at that and immediately say:

“Too far.”

I don't.

I like driving.

An hour and a half isn't exactly a commute I'd want to make every morning, but for an opportunity to meet someone I'm interested in?

That's manageable.

Besides, I've spent longer than 90 minutes scrolling through dating profiles with absolutely nothing to show for it.

At least this drive has a destination.

And if we meet and discover there's chemistry?

Then we figure out geography.

If we meet and discover there isn't?

I had a Sunday drive.

There are considerably worse outcomes.

Let's Not Get Ahead of Ourselves

If you've followed The Hinge Experiment, you already know I've learned this lesson.

A match isn't a date.

A conversation isn't a date.

Making plans for a date isn't even necessarily a date.

Until two human beings are physically sitting in the same place at the same time, I'm keeping the champagne firmly corked.

Actually, let's make that Coke Zero.

But this already feels different from some of my previous matches because we're actually discussing meeting.

That's what I've wanted all along.

I'm not looking for an eternal Hinge pen pal.

I'm not trying to collect matches.

I'm not interested in exchanging “Good morning!” messages until Social Security sends us both birthday cards.

Let's meet.

Have a conversation.

Laugh.

Eat something.

See whether we enjoy being around each other.

Dating apps are supposed to be the introduction—not the entire relationship.

So Much for Deleting Hinge

And here is perhaps the funniest part.

I was asking:

Is it time to delete the app?

Hinge apparently responded:

“Not so fast, Baldy.”

Fair enough.

The experiment gets an extension.

As of right now:

Matches: 1.

Active conversations: 1.

Potential Sunday dates: 1.

Distance: About 1½ hours.

Niel's expectations: Cautiously optimistic.

Steve the Iguana: Furious. 🦎

Sorry, Steve.

You're back on the bench.

At least until Sunday.

Because if this date actually happens, The Hinge Experiment will finally accomplish something I've been trying to make happen since I started it:

A date from a dating app.

What a concept.

Stay tuned.

This could get inter

esting.