On January 8th, I went on what seems like my thirtieth Tinder date. Like the preceding 29 other dates, we met up at a bar for a few quick drinks during happy hour. The evening went as well as a first date could (nursing your vodka tonic so they don’t think you’re an alcoholic, accidentally interrupting each other when you think their story about an 8th grade field trip is over, lying about loving your job and friends, etc).

After two hours, we were both buzzed, tired, and ready to call it a night. We walked to the train station, making casual conversation about the weather, “Man, it’s cold” he said as we walked down the stairs to the 59th and Lexington subway. He had to go downtown while I had to go uptown, so we stood on the platform, waiting for someone to initiate the goodbye.

Me: I had a lot of fun.

Him: Me too. Let’s do it again sometime.

Me: You got it (pulls right hand out of jacket pocket and extends it over head for a high five)

Him: (Keeps both hands in his pockets and does not accept the hand gesture)

Me: (Cries the entire way home)

I thought for sure I would never hear from him again, and I wasn’t too bummed. I mean, there would be other matches on Tinder, and at least it was a funny story to tell my friends. But then , something weird happened. Something crazy. Something that has rarely ever happened before: He asked me out on another date.

And if that isn’t wild enough, he asked me out for a third, and then a fourth. By the last week in January, I had gone on seven dates with this guy…and I had no idea what to do with myself.

For the past 10 years, I have been a serial dater and the one single person amongst my friends. And you know what? I loved it! I enjoyed meeting new people every week. I loved the excitement that only going on a first date can bring. And I loved that I didn’t have to text someone “Goodnight.” I had gotten so used to being dependent and on my own, that seeing someone for three weeks gave me anxiety.  

I needed to calm down.

I also realized that I would have to work on some major adjustments. For starters, I would need to be less independent. I would need to take someone else’s feelings into account. And yes, I would need to start sending the “Goodnight” text message before my NyQuil kicked in. All of these things, plus grooming my body hair, is essentially what relationships are all about, right?

This past Sunday, he and I “celebrated” our one month anniversary. Now, I use the word “celebrated” extremely loosely. There was no gift exchange. There were no poems or sappy cards. Just a simple text message that read, “#onemonth” with the high-five emoji. Or are they praying hands. Whichever it is, it was pretty relevant.

Not too long before I even opened Word to write this article (yes, I use Microsoft Word…) I changed my relationship status on Facebook; a button I never thought I would be clicking, and it felt great.

And that’s where I am today.​ Hopeful, scared, and adjusting.