Tinder Failure

I have come to a conclusion that is undeniably sad - I am bad at online dating.  I, Harper Waverly, am a Tinder failure.  I do not know how people develop real life relationships based off of a profile with all the best pictures of themselves and an unrealistic assessment of how many times they drink/work-out a week.  In person I dazzle, but via dating app, I am a complete flop.  

I don’t know how to be witty without being too flirty, to show interest without coming off as only wanting to hook up.  Part of the dilemma is the pervy mindset of the opposite sex when they message me on said dating apps.  When trying not to give the wrong impression, I fear I come off as boring.  It’s disheartening to try to get to know someone before deciding to meet up, and be met with radio silence. It’s important to figure out where you are from, whether you went to college, and if you’re basically a normal human being and not a serial killer.

Some of it might be that I really don’t know how to be flirty without being sexy (See Bombshell), especially in messages.  Maybe that says something about me as a person, and the types of guys I attract.  I also believe that guys push the envelope with curvy women because many of them expect us to have lower self-esteem, and therefore have lower standards.  I could show you several examples of the same guy asking a thinner girl on a date and a curvy girl to his bed.  Also, it’s unbelievable how stupid some guys will talk to two girls at one time when the girls are in each others’ pictures.              

If one more guy starts off with “DTF?”, I might explode.  I guess it is men just playing the odds, but in all honesty, I don’t know what self-respecting girl actually responds to that.  Maybe it is just me, but if you really want to “make my panties drop” then take me to drinks or dinner and engage me in meaningful conversation.  Ask questions about me, and at least pretend to care about the answers.  In short, be a man, not some douchy boy-man-lazy-pervert whose idea of making an effort is sending an uber.  

I know many of you are probably thinking, come on it’s Tinder what do you expect.  And some of you are probably wanting to remind me of my own Tinder Adventures, but my mindset has changed.   But I am asking how else am I suppose to meet someone?  Match.com?  I tried that, and men are just as shallow there, so I threw away money for 6 months with no dates.  The old fashioned way?  Well, if you can explain to me how this even relates to our society today then sure I would give it a shot.  I know happy couples who met through Tinder. Apparently it worked for them, so why not me?  

As bad as I am at Tinder, I am going to keep trying.  Why you ask?  Well, I don’t really have any other option do I?  I will never meet anyone if I don’t put myself out there.  Getting a match is a bit of a confidence boost, even if 90% of my matches never talk to me.  At the very least I have seen some of the most hilarious/ disturbing pick up lines, of which I have screenshots for future entertainment.  A friend of mine put it best when she said, “It feels like we have two options, Tinder or dying alone.”  So, Tinder it is   

Social Pariah or Self Confident

You can’t hide forever.  Eventually there is going to be that thing you can’t run from anymore.  I have the sneaking suspicion that my running days are over.  Whether it’s from Hadley or D, or both, I am not entirely sure.  This weekend, while rocking a sexy red cocktail dress, I was informed that I am a social pariah.  I was aware that it was a possibility, but to hear it out loud was a different thing altogether.       

I thought it would bother me more, to know that people are practically getting shunned for talking to me.  It is actually kind of liberating.  I don’t have to care, and I know I shouldn’t anyway.  I have nothing to hide or be ashamed of, I did nothing wrong.  For the first time in maybe forever I feel comfortable in my own skin.  I don’t feel the need to please other people if it means doing something that I don’t want to do.    

As for D, I know it is my choice to go back to that weekly social gathering for the last month it ever exists.  It has been almost a year since we have been in that rather small room together.  I think I can handle it, but tonight will be the test.  It is bigger than him, it is a place I used to call home, my Cheers, closing down.  My heart is still racing out of anxiety, out of fear of what I might feel.  He is not worth my time and it isn’t about him.  Still, I can’t help but be nervous.  For over a year we have been skillfully avoiding each other. I can’t hide forever.  Not from D, not from Hadley, not from the fear of irrelevance.  

Maybe that is why I enjoy the idea that I am a social pariah, the idea that being despised is better than being unnoticed.  I know I am better than that, have come to far to fall into that trap again.  I don’t need to be liked, but I don’t need to be hated or even noticed to be happy either.  As long as I am being myself, it doesn’t matter if people acknowledge me.  The people who are worth my time will like me for me, be there no matter what, and won’t be scared off by other peoples’ feelings about me.  But to be true to myself I also have to stop making my decisions based on who may or may not be somewhere.  My decisions are my own, not affected by anyone.  I will not be controlled by fear, I will not hide, and I will not be weak just because someone expects me to be.  

Over the last 8 months I have become the strongest version of myself.  I look in the mirror and don’t just see my flaws, or the extra pounds I want to lose.  I find the features that I love about myself.  I love mouth, the cupids bow of my top lip and the poutiness of my bottom lip.  I love the way my blue eyes give away exactly what I am feeling if someone cares enough to notice.  I love the natural arch in my lower back right above bubble butt.  I love my strong calves and the way they look in my sky high heels.

I now also really believe that I deserve more from men than what I have settled for in the past.  I believe I deserve to be asked out on a date, and have made it a requirement before I will even kiss someone.  Before I always wanted more, to be treated better, but I never demanded it. It is ok to weed out the frogs because I am not 22 anymore.  I don’t need to find a prince, but it is not too much to ask for someone that wants know how my day was.  Standards show that I love myself, and that I deserve someone else’s love.  

Loving myself is not easy, it is a constant struggle that I don’t always win.  I still am too quick to judge myself, but then I realize that the only person that hurts is me.  When I think I look fat in a dress instead of thinking it is unflattering that is just me giving into my insecurities.  No one is perfect, I am far from it myself, but even with my flaws I am a much better version of myself.  Social pariah or not, I am finally starting to see myself as a person of worth.  

Bombshell

I feel like because I am curvy, I have to be sexy.  If I am not sexy, then I am just fat.  Society has very distinct images of what is sexy.  They even photo shop already thin actresses to set unrealistic expectations for women.  But there is an exception to that stereotype - the bombshell.  

When you hear the word bombshell, you probably think of classic beauties like Marilyn Monroe, Sophia Loren, and Elizabeth Taylor.  If you were to google the term you would be directed to also: pin-up girl, sex symbol, super model, blonde stereotype.  Hollywood bombshells of 1940s -1960s were recognized for their hourglass figures, their large breasts, sex appeal, and originally their blondness.  

The bombshells of today like Kate Upton, Sofia Vergara, and Christina Hendricks are beautiful, curvy women. They epitomize the busty, sassy idea that the bombshell has become.  The question is, what makes an average girl a bombshell? Is it boobs and an ass? Is there a certain demeanor needed? What is the factor that makes a women a bombshell because she is curvy, instead of just being overweight and invisible?

I asked some men what they thought a bombshell was.  One said, “Someone who is genuinely beautiful, both inside and out, and has the personality to match. Also, is someone everyone wants.”  Another gentleman described a bombshell as, “someone who turns heads, lights up a room, and is usually a smart ass.  Oh, and has big boobs.”  I have to say I was a little surprised that the men that I talked to thought that attitude was just as essential to being a bombshell.  In the end they both referenced sex appeal as well, but it is obvious that to men a bombshell has oomph both in her bra and her personality.    

To be a bombshell is to be sexy. But there is a dilemma, to be overly sexy is to be undateable. As a curvy woman, you have to decide - would you rather be sexy and wanted, even if it is just in bed, or be considered undesirable?  Society overly sexualizes what it means to be born with breasts and hips.  Victoria’s Secret even has a bra named the Bombshel,l which adds 2 cup sizes to your shape.  

Marilyn Monroe once answered a question about being a sex symbol by saying, "A sex symbol becomes a thing, I just hate being a thing.  But if I’m going to be a symbol of something, I’d rather it sex than some other things we’ve got symbols of.”   You become a thing that people want to use and discard, an experience they must have. When you lead with sex, which is what bombshells tend to do, you eliminate the image of the girl underneath, the one who, above all, just wants to be loved.  A symbol doesn’t have emotions, but a bombshell isn’t a symbol, she is a woman.  

Am I a bombshell? Do I even what to be?  I have been trying to write about the modern day bombshell and my feelings about it for over a year. I guess it is hard for me to cope with my only viable options.  Wrapping my head around the idea of the bombshell, the fine line between a bombshell and a fat girl.  You either embrace the bombshell, or you embrace being invisible.  I was never meant to be invisible.

So, I hide behind the fake confidence of red lipstick and sky high heels and sway my hips when I walk because that is what bombshells do.  I smile, bat my eyelashes, and say flirty things.  I pretend like things don’t hurt me, because a bombshell is carefree.  Sometimes I wonder, am I being who I want to be or am I being who I think I should be?

As a bombshell, will I ever get the guy?  What is the saying?  You marry a Jackie and you fuck a Marilyn.  When does one stop being a bombshell?  When they are all used up and the light has left their eyes?  Who will want them then?  Who will want me?  

“Being a sex symbol is a heavy load to carry, especially when one is tired, hurt, and bewildered.” - Marilyn Monroe