Adventure dating new york city

Here was the plan: I'd go out with anyone I'd normally swipe (i.e., consider to have a modicum of potential) on dating apps like Hinge, Bumble, or Tinder.

I'd inform friends, family, and colleagues that I was looking for quantity—and rely on them to vet the quality (hence Ben, the "ironic" Trump advocate).

(A word about online dating etiquette: This is what the "About Me" section is for, people! En route to an out-of- town wedding, I space and forget to send a polite "Thank you, but no thank you." Oops! I half-roll my eyes: This fastidious dresser with his high-maintenance haircut is mansplaining the city to me.

Photo captions of youngsters are typically identified with "Kid is mine," "Kid's not mine! " Ben's "About Me" is devoted to his love of beer and a hashtag comparing himself to a secret agent.) I tell him I'm not so sure where I stand on having kids or dating someone with them. Monday morning at , I get a text: "No response from Cotton. But it turns out he applied for a job there when he first moved from Milwaukee, where he had a high school job in a sausage factory.

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Recovering over scuzzy sports bar beers, I find myself oblivious to the passage of time, engaged, and completely unselfconscious about how I look. So that night I line up date 21 with an ex-coworker's brother, an environmental lobbyist in town for the weekend.

Then he asks me to dinner and cards with friends, but aborts the plan the day of: He's off to Vegas, will get in touch when he's back. He is clearly looking to be in a serious relationship, ASAP, but by end of the date I guarantee he cannot tell you what I do for a living or even pronounce my last name, because he butchers both. Later, I hear he's telling people we are seeing each other pretty seriously. I arrive straight from my all-day ice-skating date with Ben, so exhausted I have to call it quits after a (lovely) drink.

But since moving to New York City three years ago, I've developed some, er, patterns: Either I fall quickly (fireworks!

Within five minutes, he offhandedly finishes a story about a football game with "and, as I'm sure you already know, I have a son." I'm sure I didn't. Less so, the vaguely threatening texts he follows up with telling me he revealed too much and I'd better keep it to myself (who knew decades-old underage- drinking escapades required -level secrecy? In an effort to break up the monotony of the bar-bound "get to know you"—already I'm exhausted by the effort of talking about myself—I suggest we meet at the new Whitney Museum of American Art.

He and his ex-wife share custody of their two-year- old. Outside the museum, he points at what he says is the last working meatpacking plant in Manhattan's Meatpacking District.

The version he heard casts me as a sort of modern siren, lining up men to knock 'em down—but he's got the gist right. In truth, dating multiple people—and writing about it for my job—does feel vaguely deceitful, even though I'm not going out with anyone I wouldn't normally go out with, nor am I lying about it.

I tell Ben the truth: He's the only one I'm "dating." Then I guiltily pay for drinks while he's in the bathroom.

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