Swipe Right Into My Two-Week JSwipe Relationship

It was 3:30 in the afternoon and I had just sat down with my grandmother in the dining room of her country club. The waiter came by and greeted her as he had seemingly done many times before, and asked her what she wanted for dinner. As I was still digesting the laughable truth that old people really do eat way too early, my grandmother was able to strategically squeeze in the one question that I’ve been asked far too often over the last 5 years: *Cue Adam Sandler Jewish grandma accent* “Have ya found yaself a nice Jewish boy yet?”

My defenses were temporarily down so I had no choice but to stuff an entire half of my bagel and tuna in my mouth and nod in confirmation. As my stomach did it’s best to vacuum the dry pumpernickel from my throat so I could breathe again, I thought to myself, “Why the fuck don’t I have a boyfriend?”

I began to learn the hard way that trying to find the perfect piece of man candy any other way than via dating apps only happens in movies.

I’ve used Tinder before, but it basically consisted of creepy, uneducated men asking me things like“Do you have any experience with raising chickens?” Me, a girl who has never touched an animal other than my ridiculously good-looking shitzu, didn’t respond. Unfortunately, he was a persistent dude who followed up with “Well, I have a large c*ck I was hoping you could help me with.”

Thank you, Elijah, for contributing to the end of my Tinder career. And no, I will not be opening my door for you on Passover.

On the bright side, I still have other hobbies, like Facebook stalking my ex-boyfriend and Netflix.

 

Nine minutes into Season 4 Episode 9 of How I Met Your Mother, I sadly realized Ted is never going to show us the mother and I clicked the home button on my iPhone to see if anyone had texted me. I mistook the huge block numbers of the time for a text, and I accepted that I’ve hit rock bottom.

Fortunately, there was light at the end of the tunnel. Or more like another app hidden on the fifth page of my home screen: JSwipe. With grandma in mind, I opened the app, watching the blue heart swirl around before I realized it was turning into a “J.” And woah did some nice Jewish noses entirely take over my 4.7 inch screen. Discouraged with some dorky looking boys with pictures of themselves playing pick up basketball in their kippahs, I mostly swiped left with an occasional right swipe for the sole reason that the kid wasn’t balding. Quicker then I’d have liked, I went back to watching Barney fall in love with Robin. Just as he was about to confess his love for her, I felt my phone vibrate. My screen displayed, “Mazel tov! It’s a match.” Not gonna lie, I had a mini heart attack cause like what if it was my future husband, ya know?

And just like that, it was the start of my two-week JSwipe relationship.

 

Let’s call future husband “Matzah” because that’s what my lady parts felt like after this experience. It all started with a “hey, what’s up?” We messaged back and forth for a week making small talk about our internships, before we realized we’d be in the same place for the 4 of July.

This place was the most ratchet of ratchet: Atlantic City.  Anticipating our first date, both Matzah and I “ate too many sandwiches” to meet up, but then again we also ate too many sandwiches when we finally met at happy hour. Usually people let loose when eating a sandwich, but not this dude. The guy probably said a total of 10 words the whole date. Patience is a foreign characteristic of mine, so with that I slowly began giving up on Matzah.

It continued with a 1 a.m. “wanna come over?” and then with a rare 3 p.m. “wanna come over?” but just ended with me not responding.

Moral of the story, just because you swipe right, doesn’t mean he’ll be Mr. Right. And just because you swipe left, doesn’t mean he won’t fiiiind youuuuuuu a.k.a. stay off Tinder.

 

And if in the end it doesn’t work out with a boy, or a human being for that matter, I’ll always be in a committed relationship with my Netflix account. Sorry grandma.

P.S. If you’re reading this, Matzah, sorry it’s not you it’s me.

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