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.