I Slut It Up When I’m Bored

It’s usually the same song and lap dance: I sit on the couch, Macbook on my lap. Ready to work. Except that my focus bounces between work and a slough of Google searches that last a lot longer than they should.

Just planning ahead for the next movie night.

My attempt to get “back on track.”

What? Girl’s gotta eat.

I need to meet like-minded people.

I need to get out of the house.

A soft buzz draws my attention towards my iPhone. An email. I can’t just leave it in there. I go in to check it. Junk email. I knew it. I erase it and exit my inbox. I’m in the main menu now.

I look around. No new notifications. No text messages. No emails. No missed calls. Ugh.

And that’s when it happens. I’m drawn to the tiny blood-orange flame that sits in front of a white background. This icon at the bottom right corner of my screen, it beckons me. I give in easily. I touch it, opening myself up to the world of Tinder.

In this world I am invincible. I can dismiss you with a flick of a finger, and you wouldn’t even know it.

Swipe left, swipe left, swipe left.

I impose harsh judgment on every member because — Whatever, who cares? Meanwhile, I sit, shoulders slumped, on a couch marked with the indent of my body. I’m wearing shorts with a worn out elastic waistband, and an over-sized t-shirt that belonged to one of my exes. I can’t remember which one.

Swipe left, swipe left, sw — oh.

I stop. This one’s cute. But I’m not yet convinced. I go through his other photos. None include other women. His eyes are not hidden behind sunglasses. A possible good candidate. So, on to the next round.

Swipe right. We match. Of course.

A knock on the door. My pizza. I jump off the couch and run over to answer the door. Less than five minutes later I’m back in my spot with two slices of pizza in front of me, the box just at arms-length. My attention is on the TV, a Law & Order: SVU marathon. I’ve seen most of these episodes more than twice.

Buzz, Tinder calls. I wipe pizza crumbs off my hands before picking up my phone.

And so we embark on an impersonal exchange of words, similar to that which we would have had in person — if this were the beginning of the millennium. We do not take advantage of the digital distance between us to become more direct. We cruise safely through what-do-you-do and where-do-you-live. The conversation turns monotonous. Soon, I’m ignoring the buzzing and only check my messages during commercial breaks. I yawn. It’s time for bed.

The next morning I wake up to a heap of incoherent messages, probably the aftermath of too many weeknight pints. A few of them fall under the TMI category. And the shame sets in. I remember the night before: the indent of my body on the couch, the SVU marathon binge, the empty pizza box, and my Tinder one night stand.

Unmatch. There, like it never happened.

Until it happens again. The next time I get bored.