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The Blog

Tinderoni Comes To Town

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F-R-E-A-K-I-N-G W-E-I-R-D.

I was packing up my bag for at least an hour.

Packing, unpacking, then packing again after brunching and browsing the books at Busboys and Poets, my new favorite place in D.C.

Tinderoni Returns The sun was more than shining when I got here.

Now, 8 hours later after substantial people watching, it was dinnertime and I was hungry.

I asked my friend Bellamy for restaurant recommendations and as he rattled off a few I glanced at the door. That’s when my mouth fell to the floor.

Is that? There is no way! What in the—

I was saying all these things out loud, of course, and Bellamy was getting alarmed.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

I pick up the pace and start repacking my bag. I had to get out of there. But not before I made sure that the man I was staring at was who I thought he was. The small birthmark on his right cheek became clearer as he walked in my direction and around the bar to order from the waitress. He didn’t see me. But, I saw him. I knew it was him.


You may not remember my rendezvous with this guy so here’s a quick refresher…

Around this time last year, I went out on my first official love jump with a guy I met on Tinder in Las Vegas.

We had cocktails, made out in the hallways of the Cosmopolitan and (previously undisclosed confession) we went back to my room where we spooned and snuggled (no, seriously) as Jimmy Fallon joked in the background. A decision I neither regret nor recommend.

Over the few weeks that followed, we swapped text messages about a follow up date in Reno.

Our conversations were flirty, witty, and rhythmic even. Until, well, things got a little offbeat.

Turns out my Tinderoni was a self-described free lover. You can read about how he broke the news to me here.

Now, a year since we first met, I still remember the final cryptic–and corny– text he sent me:

You’ll be back; they always come back.

Well, I never did. I never called, texted or contacted him. Nothing.

In a fun twist of fate, he came back.

He walked right back into my Saturday afternoon.

So I did what anyone in my place would do. I walked over and stood right in front of him. He glanced at me and said a quick hello thinking I was just a passerby. But I stood right in front of him with my arms crossed in confidence.

“Hi,” I said with a snarky smile.

“Uhh… Hi. Whoa. Hi. I mean. Uh. What are you doing here?”

“What are YOU doing here?”

“Well, I live here now.”

“I live here now. I moved here in November,” I told him.

“When did you get here?”


“January? You mean January, January? As in January 2015?

“Yes, January.”

He moved to D.C. from Nevada, like I did.
He was going to move to Miami, but decided D.C. was a better fit, like I did.
Now, he is open to whatever D.C. has to offer, like I am.

Except him. I was not open to Tinderoni.

Uninterested and overcome by his smell—a mix between train station and old French fries—I kept it short and carried on.


My friend Bellamy had just finished reading my recount of my first date with Tinderoni.

I gave him the rundown and he shook his head, smiling.

“You know what this means, right?” he asked me.

“What do you mean? No, I don’t know what this means.”

“It’s confirmation. You’re on your path. Just keep jumping.”

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