How Did the Date Go?

Remember the big news?

After weeks of The Hinge Experiment™, endless “Good mornings,” unanswered questions, Kelli being sent to the unmatched graveyard, and Steve the Iguana patiently waiting for his opportunity to become my wingman...

I HAD A DATE!

Well, potentially.

Sort of.

Maybe.

Okay, fine.

So, Niel... How Did the Date Go?

Great question. I would like to know.

Because...

She never responded.

Yep.

Welcome back to online dating, everybody!

Last time we checked in with “Missing Me,” things had taken an almost unbelievable turn.

I asked:

“Whatcha doing this weekend? Can I take you out?”

Eventually, she responded:

“That would be nice.”

Holy crap!

We did it!

Two people matched on a dating app and were potentially going to use the dating app for its alleged intended purpose:

GOING ON A DATE.

I asked about Saturday.

She couldn't do Saturday.

But then came the magical words:

“Sunday I could be.”

SUNDAY IT IS!

I suggested Tydz because it kept appearing in my algorithm. I'd never been there. I've barely explored Myrtle Beach or Surfside. It seemed like a fun place to grab something to eat and actually meet each other.

And then...

Nothing.

Houston, We Have Lost Contact

Saturday evening arrived.

Still nothing.

So I decided to eliminate another obstacle.

I sent her my real number.

Basically:

Here's my number. If you'd like to grab a bite, call or text me.

Easy.

No pressure.

No carrier pigeon.

No Morse Code.

No requirement to solve a CAPTCHA proving she could identify all the motorcycles in nine squares.

Just...

Call or text.

And then I waited.

Sunday morning came.

No response.

Sunday afternoon?

Nothing.

Sunday evening?

Still nothing.

At some point, Schrödinger's Date stopped being both alive and dead.

The cat was dead.

Wait... Weren't We Going Out?

This is the part of modern dating I genuinely don't understand.

She said:

“Sunday I could be.”

I responded:

“Ok, Sunday it is!”

That seems like progress!

Now, yes, we hadn't agreed on a time. She hadn't confirmed the restaurant. Technically, we didn't have a fully confirmed date.

But I wasn't exactly being subtle about my intentions.

Would you like to go out?

Yes.

Are you available?

Sunday.

How about this place?

...

Hello?

Anybody?

Bueller?

One Last Message

Yesterday morning, I sent one more message:

“I hope you are well. If you aren't, what can I do? When you are ready to meet, you have my number. Hope to hear from you.”

And that's where I'm leaving it.

She has my number.

She knows I wanted to meet her.

She knows I was willing to drive.

She knows I wanted to take her out.

There really isn't anything else for me to do.

I'm certainly not going to keep sending:

Good morning!

Good afternoon!

Good evening!

Good night!

At some point I'd stop being a potential date and become a talking grandfather clock.

Maybe Something Happened

I also want to be fair.

I don't know what happened.

Maybe something came up.

Maybe she got nervous.

Maybe she changed her mind.

Maybe life happened.

Maybe she's talking to someone else.

Maybe she opened Hinge, saw the message and thought, “I'll answer that later,” and then forgot.

So I'm not angry.

I'm not offended.

I'm mostly...

confused.

Because we're right back to the question I've been asking throughout this entire experiment:

How do people actually date anymore?

If you're not interested, that's okay.

If you've changed your mind, that's okay.

If you're not ready to meet, that's okay.

Just communicate.

Even:

“Hey, I've changed my mind.”

That's a complete sentence!

I'll survive.

The Hinge Experiment Continues... Somehow

So, for anyone eagerly awaiting the first official date report from The Hinge Experiment:

There isn't one.

No dinner.

No awkward first-date conversation.

No debating who pays the check.

No wondering whether there will be a second date.

No opportunity for me to completely overshare and tell her about this blog.

Nothing.

“Missing Me” lived up to the name.

She went missing.

And somewhere along the South Carolina coast, I can only imagine Steve the Iguana staring out toward the ocean, thinking:

“You should've called me from the beginning.”

You're right, Steve.

You're right.

The Hinge Experiment continues.

But the reptile plan is looking better every day.

BREAKING NEWS: The Hinge Experiment May Have Produced an Actual Date

I don't want anyone to panic.

Remain calm.

Please keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times.

Because after weeks of conducting what has increasingly resembled a federally funded research project into why people on dating apps refuse to actually date, something extraordinary has happened.

I MAY HAVE A DATE.

Yes.

A date.

With another human being.

In person.

I don't think cryptocurrency is involved.

“Missing Me” Is Apparently Not Missing Anymore

Those following The Hinge Experiment™ may remember contestant number three, appropriately named “Missing Me.”

We've had an interesting communication journey.

There have been messages.

There have been gaps.

There have been “good mornings.”

There have been questions I've asked that apparently entered the same mysterious dimension where missing socks from the dryer live.

But I continued the experiment.

Eventually, I decided to try something radical.

Something perhaps unprecedented in the history of online dating.

I asked a woman on a dating app to go on a date.

I know.

Crazy.

My message was simple:

“Whatcha doing this weekend? Can I take you out?”

Then...

Nothing.

Thursday passed.

So naturally, I deployed the internationally recognized symbol for:

HELLO? IS THIS THING ON?

“?”

Elegant.

Sophisticated.

Shakespeare would have been proud.

And then last night...

A RESPONSE.

“That would be nice.”

WAIT.

WHAT?

WE HAVE ENTERED UNCHARTED TERRITORY

I immediately asked:

“Are you available Saturday? Tomorrow?”

She replied:

“Sunday I could be.”

Ladies and gentlemen...

WE HAVE A DAY.

This is no longer theoretical dating.

We have moved beyond:

“Good morning.”

We have advanced beyond:

“How was your weekend?”

We have smashed through the seemingly impenetrable barrier known as:

Actually answering a direct question.

Sunday.

SUNDAY!

At this point, I feel like NASA Mission Control.

Houston, we have verbal confirmation of Sunday.

Of course, Sunday isn't enough.

Now we need a location.

I've never really been to Myrtle Beach or Surfside, so I suggested Tydz, which keeps appearing in my algorithm.

Because apparently the same technology that has spent months showing me scammers, bizarre Facebook Reels, and random videos I never requested may finally be useful.

So I wrote:

“Ok, Sunday it is! I have not been to MB or Surfside before. Tydz keeps coming up on the algorithm for me. Work for you?”

And...

Sent.

Now we wait.

Again.

Naturally.

Steve, Don't Pack Your Bags Just Yet

Longtime readers know I had already developed an alternative strategy for meeting women.

Steve the Iguana.

The plan was simple.

If online dating completely failed, I'd acquire an iguana and become that guy walking down the beach with a giant reptile on his shoulder.

You know the guy.

Everybody talks to that guy.

Nobody approaches a random bald man walking down the beach and says:

“Hi! Tell me about yourself!”

Put a four-foot iguana on his shoulder?

Suddenly:

“OH, MY GOD! CAN I PET HIM?”

Steve was going to be my wingman.

But Steve, I've got some news.

You may not be needed on Sunday.

Don't get too comfortable, though.

We still don't have a confirmed restaurant.

We don't have a time.

We haven't physically occupied the same ZIP code.

And I've been doing this long enough to understand that there is an enormous difference between:

“Sunday I could be.”

and

two people actually sitting across from each other at a restaurant on Sunday.

So Steve remains on standby.

What the Hell Do I Do Now?

Here's the really funny part.

I've spent so much time writing about trying to get a date that I haven't adequately prepared for the possibility of actually getting one.

What happens now?

Do I need clothes?

Obviously I need clothes.

But which clothes?

How early do I arrive?

Five minutes?

Ten minutes?

Thirty minutes?

Do I bring flowers?

That seems like too much.

Do I open the door?

Absolutely.

Do I tell her I've been documenting this entire dating experiment on my blog?

Probably not in the first seven minutes.

Do I mention Steve?

Steve is probably a second-date conversation.

And what do two people on a first date even talk about in 2026?

Maybe I'll start with something safe:

“So... how are you coping with the stupid heat and humidity?”

Wait.

I've tried that one before.

The Hinge Standings Have Changed

Let's review how far we've come.

Kelli: Unmatched. She has the Google Voice number. The phone has not exactly been ringing off the hook.

Gina: We communicated. Still part of the greater Hinge cinematic universe.

Missing Me: Has potentially accomplished the impossible.

A DATE.

Sunday.

Possibly Tydz.

Potentially two actual humans meeting face-to-face after initially encountering each other through a rectangle of glass connected to the internet.

What a time to be alive.

But I'm not declaring victory yet.

Until I'm sitting at a table across from her, this remains Schrödinger's Date.

The date simultaneously exists and does not exist until Sunday arrives and somebody opens the restaurant door.

So...

Will Missing Me become Meeting Me?

Will Sunday actually happen?

Will we have a great time?

Will she take one look at me and suddenly remember an emergency dental appointment?

Will I finally have to write a blog called:

“Holy Crap, I Actually Went on a Hinge Date”?

Or will Steve the Iguana receive an emergency call-up from the minors?

We'll find out.

For the first time in The Hinge Experiment, however...

I might actually need to make plans for Sunday.

Pray with me, Forest.

Pray with me.