JUST WINGING IT: THE ONE WHERE THE PROFILER GETS PROFILED

It’s that time, Wingman faithful. Your chance to turn the tables on me and make the advisor the advisee. See? All those quips about man jewelry and wearing bad shoes are about to come back and bite me in the ass. Somewhere, scorned dudes everywhere are lining up to give their two cents.

Be nice, y’all.

So below you’ll find the “About Me” section of my Match.com profile. I found it unexpectedly stressful to sum up who I am for the male online dating population at large. Way more difficult than writing my editorial bio for Miss Wingman…or my grad school thesis, for that matter.

Let me know what you think. Do I sound normal? Overly dude-like? Sarcastic? I consider that last one a compliment, by the way. Also this is my profile photo that appears with the accompanying text.

There’re other photos, too, but they’re all similarly framed – from the waist up. I realize that not having full length shots may make people wonder if I’m a size 2 up top and a 12 on the bottom – or if I have, like, a wooden leg or something – but this chick doesn’t take many head-to-toe pics. Not without other people in them, at least.

RenataNov1

Don’t forget to keep it right here for more of Miss Wingman’s Good Man Experiment, aka “Where Are All The Good Men In NYC?” so that you can play along at home with my version of Choose Your Adventure: Dating edition. Sigh.

Until then, as per usual, I’ll be Just Winging It.THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Profile name: WRITERCHICK**** (digits omitted)

Headline: “Headlines are way too much pressure.”

The first rule of being on a dating website is don’t talk about being on a dating website in your profile…or maybe that was Fight Club.

Nothing I write here could adequately describe who I am (ironic, since I write for a living), but here’s a stab at the Cliffs Notes version of me:

-I fall asleep most nights to SportsCenter.
-I have an unnatural addiction to Fresh and Co salads and guacamole.
-People who eat on the subway repulse me.
-I’ve interviewed most of my musical idols.
-I don’t like anything as much as I love my family.
-My knowledge of pop culture borders on embarrassing.
-I find my zen through a heavy bag or running shoes.
-I wanted to be a Huxtable growing up.
-Getting my Masters in Journalism was the best decision I ever made. Hoya Saxa!
-I live by the mantra, “Don’t listen to anything they say, just pay attention to what they do.”
-Hearing my nephews’ feet bounding down the hall and them exclaiming my name as they run to answer the door is my favorite sound of all time.
-I will probably never give up cheese, carbs or scotch. And I’m OK with that.
-People who make me laugh have a leg up on the rest.

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AND TODAY’S WINNER IS…

tinderphoto

Whilst perusing the never-ending dude army that is Match and Tinder, Miss Wingman recently found this dude. Yeah. 

And though sadly, no, my type does not involve abs that look like your diet consists of 50% tuna, 50% Met-Rx, 0% carbs (seriously, bro?), I felt the need to share this with you. Why? Because this is the type of thing we’re dealing with here, kids.

Even more ridiculous than the married guys with profiles who give zero fucks about unabashedly showing their wedding rings in photos are dudes like the above male.

And the only acceptable comment on him comes courtesy of my tot nephew, who upon seeing this screenshot saved in my phone asked me wide-eyed, “Is that Superman?”

To be fair, he has an obsession with superheroes.

Incidentally, to the abs guy, wherever you are…there are no words. But to the aforementioned group of married men, consider yourself targeted. Yup, every time I come across one of you, don’t be surprised if your screenshot doesn’t end up on public display. Not a fan? You should’ve thought about that before. The app’s called Tinder, after all. Not “Adulterer.” Happy hunting! –MW.THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID

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JUST WINGING IT DATE #3: IT’S GOING DOWN, I’M YELLING TINDER

Cosmopolitan.com

You’re not officially involved in the New York dating scene until you’ve sacrificed your profile photo (and, in some cases, your dignity) at the altar of a GPS-based dating app. But Miss Wingman finally pulled the rip cord, and recently went on her very first Tinder date. This is what happened.

The set up: Mutual right-swiping, Tinder style.

The guy: A sensitive ponytail man-type, only without the ponytail. Clad in a cardigan and rocking at least a 3-day shave stubble, we’ll call this dude Soft-spoken Sean.

In what can only be called a supremely small metropolitan world, when Soft-spoken Sean initially chatted me up on Tinder, the first thing he said was, “Do you have a friend named *Marni?” (*yeah, that’s not her name either.) I do, in fact, have a friend by that name, and he proceeded to tell me that he’d only ever met one other person with my first name, and that person was at his then-girlfriend’s birthday party nine years ago. Yes, 9.

He told me that at the time he’d thought I was cute, and when I popped up in the Tinder-sphere, he had a hunch it was the same person. I didn’t know whether I should be very flattered that this relative stranger remembered me, or mildly creeped out. But, after texting with her to confirm that he was normal, we agreed to meet for coffee in Brooklyn on a Saturday afternoon.

Age: 33

Hometown: I suck, but I completely forgot what he said. I’m sure it was something in the tri-state area though.

Occupation: Film and television producer. Er, Production Assistant? AP? Fuck if I know. Dude had left a job in finance in his late 20′s to get his masters at a prestigious NYC university specializing in journalism, and since he’d only been in the production game a few years, I assume his job was support staff. But props to him for making the jump. Miss Wingman’s a big proponent of finding your passion.

Height: Tall – at least 6 feet. Arguably the most manly thing about him, in fact.

The date: It doesn’t get more placid than a coffee shop in DUMBO in the middle of the day, with someone to whom you already have overlapping social connections. So needless to say, I was expecting things to be pretty low key. Just not quite like this…

The date was really sedate. Like, they couldn’t have been more cozy or platonic if he was curled up on a sofa with a cup of tea and a cat in his lap, sedate. And speaking of tea, that’s what he ordered. Not joking! And no, he’s not British.

Um, yeah. I think you can probably see where this is going already.

Fahhhk, I can’t say enough good things about this guy, either, but once again there was no spark on my end. Maybe it was because Soft-spoken Sean and I spent so much time talking about our production backgrounds and being caffeine-driven film & television gurus who work until 2am and never have health insurance, but it felt like he was a friend. Or maybe it was because he just didn’t seem like a guy’s guy.

In any event, something was missing (his masculinity, perhaps?) and I felt like I was the dude at the table, not him. I can’t emphasize enough how sweet, intelligent and pleasant he was, but it seemed more like an afternoon you’d have with your aunt over a cup of camomile than a Tinder date. Where was the flirting? The “You wanna get out of here”‘s? Much like my coffee, I’m afraid, it was all a little too vanilla.

Postgame analysis: Soft-spoken Sean has a lot – and I mean alot – of good qualities…for some other girl. Some vegan, Rachel Maddow-watching, cat-owning Williamsburg girl. Just not this chick.

The takeaway: Alas, I need more of “Smartass Sam” than a Soft-spoken Sean.

Final score:Webout of 5. I enjoyed talking to him, and I liked him immensely as a person. I’d actually be friends with this guy, and I don’t mean that in the bullshit, disingenuous way that most people do. Still, getting Friend Zone’d is the kiss of death. I suck, I know.

Next up Miss Wingman’s sorting through a mountain of Match emails, though the front runner seems to be a 39-year-old Oxford grad who moved to Brooklyn after several years abroad and, if his profile photos don’t lie, enjoys tennis, having good hair, and fairisle sweaters. What do you think, Wingman faithful, should I give it a go?

Weigh in on what you’ve read so far, boys and girls, and in the meantime, as usual, I’ll be just winging it.THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID

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JUST WINGING IT POST #2: THE OPPOSITE END OF THE SPECTRUM

Nerve.com

Nerve.com

Sometimes we’re shown the left limit and then the right limit, just so that when we find the sweet spot in the middle, we’ll know it. Such is the case with this next date – a far cry from F Train Bobby, for sure.

The set up: Met through mutual friends at a happy hour in midtown. Eventually met for drinks in my neighborhood on a Monday night.

The guy: After our initial meeting – in which we spoke for only about 15 minutes – this next guy, who we’ll call Serious Steve, emailed our mutual friend. He offered an editorial recommendation for me and told her to pass it along, so I emailed him back a thank you. So began our back and forth.

For the record, before I even met this guy I’d seen him do two very considerate things: bring a present to his female friend for her birthday (seriously, what hetero man does that without his wife or girlfriend orchestrating it?), and email an unsolicited helpful career suggestion. So I went into this date with high hopes, to say the least.

Age: 38. Ironic since the date I’d had right before this could’ve been his son.

Hometown: Can’t remember, but we spent most of our time talking about a city in which we both used to live.

Occupation: Not finance. Something with product design, software, or that generally requires that he be exceptionally smart. Which he was, in an unpretentious way.

Height: Enough inches taller than me that it was a non-issue.

The date: We met for after work drinks at my neighborhood pub, and had a light dinner. He was dressed nicely, well-mannered (you know how much this matters to Miss Wingman) and gentlemanly. He picked up the bill without hesitation.

Not long into chatting, I realized how reserved this guy was. Not just because he’s Serious Steve, but because there was something so measured about his demeanor. These are hardly bad qualities – the last person I dated was similarly methodical – but I couldn’t help but think how much my personality seemed to bowl his personality over. He didn’t make me laugh, and I’m not sure I got more than a smile out of him either.

We chatted for about two hours, during which time we had several things in common, but there was no discernible spark. And I really, really wanted there to be. I knew how great he was, but I couldn’t avoid the voice in the back of my head that said, “This isn’t your guy.”

When we eventually parted ways, I had every intention of giving him a second chance, just to confirm my suspicion. But as it turns out, I wasn’t free the next time he emailed, and after the holidays he didn’t follow up and I didn’t revisit it. For the best, I suppose. Perhaps he sensed the disconnect.

Postgame analysis: Now before you all cry wolf, or rather “See! Nice guys DO finish last!” hear me out. Miss Wingman’s dating history has always been in direct contrast to that stigma. I only ever date respectable, mature, sweet guys, and I’ve been blessed with a steady stream of anti-jerks (well, for the most part, at least.)

So my lack of chemistry with Serious Steve had nothing to do with him being too nice, or boring, or whatever other adjective you’ll hang this on. It has to do with a general feeling that there’s a difference between being an adult, and being too grown up. Just like there’s a difference between being immature, and being young at heart.

I know myself, and I need someone who strikes a balance between having his act together, and not taking himself so seriously that he can’t dance to Kesha at a bar with my friends and I (which is all I feel like doing these days) and take a Fireball shot…or three.

It’s nice to balance each other out, but sometimes this extrovert finds that her energy and/or sarcasm overwhelms my counterparts. And when it does, that’s my cue to put my hand up and say, “Check, please.”

Figuratively, but sometimes literally, too.

The takeaway: While I have an enormously high opinion of this dude (seriously, single ladies, if anyone wanted his number I’d endorse him), I just know that he and I didn’t par. It goes to show that, much like the last relationship I had, even though it looks good on paper and there’s mutual admiration, there has to be enough passion on both sides to keep it afloat.

Final Score: 4 Web out of 5. Like I said, he’d be an outstanding catch for some woman – the right woman – but I’m just going on instinct that the lucky lady isn’t me.

Next up, Wingman faithful, my first ever Tinder date. And a chance to choose which of my Match.com suitors (please don’t let it be the 41-year-old from Forest Hills who can’t spell) will get a shot at the title. Remember to keep it right here for more of Miss Wingman’s “Where Are All The Good Men In NYC?” Experiment, get your friends in on it if you’re so inclined, and until then, as always, I’ll be just winging it.THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID

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JUST WINGING IT POST #1: F TRAIN DUDE

F train bobby

You know you’re keeping an open dating mind when you meet a guy on the subway.

I know, I know. Who does that? I’ve lived in NYC forever and never so much as made eye contact on the train, let alone talked to someone on the platform. But this past encounter (Miss Wingman has to backdate some of these adventures) left me challenging my previously-held belief that you can’t pick someone up on the subway.

So without further ado, here’s how it all went down.

The scene: F train platform on a Friday night, post-friend’s birthday cocktails in midtown.

The guy: *Bobby (*Obviously his name’s not really “Bobby.” But I do enjoy that this makes him sound like he should be one of Jan’s crushes on “The Brady Bunch.”)

Age: 24. Yup, you read that right. I could’ve practically babysat for him. Hometown: Somewhere in Massachusetts.

Vocation: Something finance-y for a well-known company I won’t disclose, but he was dressed well and appeared normal and clean cut.

Height: At least 4″ taller than me. And yes, that usually matters to us (sorry boys.)

The approach: Thanks to a very unusual subway platform performer who was playing music seemingly without an instrument (long story), we both stared at her in confusion for a minute, made eye contact and started to laugh. This broke the ice enough, small talk ensued, and it came out that he was just at the gym. Due to our location, I asked if he went to New York Athletic Club. He said yes and with that common ground (my grandfather was a fixture there once upon a time), we ended up chatting the whole ride downtown.

When we eventually got off at the same stop, he hit me with, “We should get a drink sometime.”

I’m pretty sure I laughed in his face and said something like, “Did you seriously just ask me out on the F train?” He replied with, “I’m going to meet friends for a birthday, so if you met me 15 minutes from now I’d be ‘The Guy You Met At The Bar’ and not ‘The Guy Who Picked You Up On The F Train.’”

He had a point, and that – coupled with the fact that he seemed normal and harmless – clinched it. I gave him my card.

The date: Fast forward to him being surprisingly charming over text message, so we agreed to meet in the East Village for drinks on a Friday. At this point, I knew he was 24 (yes, you definitely Google dudes you meet on the F train) but he didn’t realize how much older I was than him. When I broke the news, he said I was the only one hung up on it – he didn’t think I looked or acted older. Game on, apparently.

(*Miss Wingman note: While that’s sweet, and I’m often told how young I look, no one wants to be the novelty story you tell your friends about the time you took down a cougar. This was never going to end well…)

Drinks turned into a late dinner, and though I never had any intention of seriously dating someone who graduated from college in 2012, at this point he was winning me over.

Flag on the play: All this changed at the end of the evening when it became apparent to him that he wasn’t going to close the deal (again – my parents read this, so no further detail) and he showed his true age – by pouting. Hardcore. And then it got really, really awkward.

Postgame analysis: To his credit, he followed up with some casual banter text messages in the days following, presumably so he wouldn’t look like a dick. I haven’t spoken to him since, and although he did impress me by being surprisingly mature for MOST of the night, the end of it was telltale. LET THIS BE A LESSON FOR ALL MEN: if you’re going to put in the work and the time, don’t throw it all away by showing your was-just-trying-to-get-laid cards in the final stretch. We assume that anyway, but there’s no need to tip your hand.

The takeaway: Don’t date boys who were born the year you were old enough to get your own phone line. Also, shared humorous/awkward circumstances (Tall Dave, anyone?) make for the perfect introduction. It’s an easy in.

Final score: 3 out of 5 Web‘s. Normally, I’d give a dude a score of 1, but F Train Bobby deserves serious credit for pulling digits on public transportation.

So that’s it for the inaugural post of Miss Wingman’s Good Man Experiment, aka “Where are all the good men in NYC?” aka sweet-Jesus-what-have-I-gotten-myself-into? Obviously these initial ones will be on rewind, but stay tuned for upcoming chances to roll up your sleeves and get involved. Until then, as usual, I’ll be just winging it.THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID

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JUST WINGING IT: ONE GIRL’S SEARCH TO ANSWER THE QUESTION, “WHERE ARE ALL THE GOOD MEN IN NYC?”

Favim.com

Favim.com

Alright, Wingman faithful, I have a confession.

Even though I’ve been writing relationship content on this site for nearly two years, I’ve typically shied away from putting my own dating specifics directly in the spotlight. Sure, I mine my life, my conversations and my friends’/readers’ dating stories for inspiration, but I never threw the shutters open to expose the sordid details of who I’m dating and how it’s all playing out. Partly to preserve the privacy of past boyfriends, and partly to avoid sabotaging my own romantic prospects. I may be brave enough to write about sex even though my parents are reading, but I’m not crazy.

But that all changes starting today. In the spirit of full disclosure, I’m in my thirties and just got out of a relationship. It’s for the best, trust me, but that doesn’t make it any easier to acclimate. So what’s a recently single relationship blogger back on the market to do? Why throw herself at the mercy of her audience and allow them a portal into her dating life AND a chance to sit in the driver’s seat, of course.

That’s right, this content will be interactive. But I’ll come back to that later.

So why am I doing this? Because I hate that I know so many smart, beautiful, amazing women in NYC who are unattached. And yes, though some of it is by choice, many of them have essentially been priced out of the market by an ever-soaring standard of male expectations.

I need only look around a recent Barre Method class to illustrate my point. It was brimming with fit and seemingly successful women who were literally killing themselves to maintain a standard that yes, may be just for them, but also might be an attempt at keeping up with the (Bridget) Jones’ in this city. We’re killing ourselves to stay competitive, to remain optimistic and yet not do ourselves the disservice of lowering the bar. And we’re drowning ourselves in cocktails with our girlfriends while we figure it all out.

If I had $1 for every time I’ve been told, “I know a guy who would be perfect for you…if only he could stop being a dumbass and be a boyfriend,” I wouldn’t have to write this blog. Or at least, I could afford to shop in the expensive cheese aisle at Whole Foods. Whatever.

Back to my point. It’s like men here figure, “Why hang onto that 8.5 when there’s the possibility of a 9.5 just around the corner?” Or settle down at all! Not when the shelf life of the Metropolitan ManBoy doesn’t begin to spoil until at least their late thirties. The Peter Pan Syndrome isn’t new to the New York lexicon, but that doesn’t make it any less disappointing.

peterpan

So I implore you, gentlemen – and specifically men of NYC – prove me wrong. Show me that there’re guys out there who are smart enough to know a good thing when they see it, and are willing to set down all of the other BS while they get to the bottom of it. Or at least, come along with me during my process of elimination – it’s sure to be a fun ride.

I’m hopeful that such a dude exists. The question right now, however, is where to find him?

Actually, there are lots of questions. So let’s start with the basic parameters of the Holy-shit-remind-me-why-I’m-doing-this-again Miss Wingman Good Man Experiment, shall we?

First things first: What defines a good man? For the purposes of this experiment, it’s a man who’s charming, outgoing, intellectually driven, mature (but doesn’t take himself too seriously), reliable, witty, committed and who – for lack of a more elegant way to put it – has his shit together.

How does one go about finding him? The fuck if I know! Amirite ladies? But I’ll be comparing all of the different ways a woman dating in New York may stumble upon her game changer: through mutual friends, sites like Match.com, dating apps like Tinder, coworkers, and good old fashioned happenstance. Read: encounters in the grocery store, coffee shops, the gym, bars – even on the F train. And yes, that actually happened to me.

Are the guys going to know they’re part of this experiment? Initially no. Not on the first date, at least. I’ll tell them I’m freelance journalist, which is true. However, if we hit it off or if I think there’s potential there, on the second date I’ll disclose that I’m a relationship writer, and that any men in my life are fair game for content. That should go over well.

How will they be evaluated? Think player stats, like Fantasy Football for dating. They’ll also be rated on Wingman scale of 1 to 5, with truly outstanding bros receiving five Web‘s.

How is it interactive? In this Choose Your Adventure: Dating Edition, readers will be helping me decide who to set up dates with or chat up based off of biographical information. And yes, names will be changed to protect the innocent (I’m not that much of a dick.) I’ll also let you help me decide which of my photos to post, or what to say in my profile. It’ll kind of be like Romantic Mad Libs, only instead of your little brother filling in the blanks with scribbles, you can fill them in with potentially awkward suggestions for me. Yayyyy.

Is anything off limits? I reserve the right to omit someone with whom I’d like to preserve a potential friendship (or with whom our lives are too intertwined), in the interest of not committing social suicide. I’ll still be a mostly-open book though, promise.

Can the guys be from outside NYC? All five boroughs, Long Island and especially-close areas of CT and NJ are fair game, since I’m considering them to be in the “Greater NYC area.” Congratulations on becoming newly relevant to me, Jersey. Let’s hope your male talent is more impressive than your professional sports teams.

Will Miss Wingman still be posting other, unrelated content? You bet. It was just high time that my female readership got in on the action, too.

So that’s it, amigos. Yes, the revolution will be televised (figuratively, at least), but if you don’t want to miss out on any of it, subscribe to Miss Wingman or follow along on Twitter. Consider this me kicking the door to my life wide open (yikes), inviting the crazy in (hopefully not), and setting out the welcome mat (God help me) in search of good men in New York.

Until then, if anyone needs me, I’ll be just winging it.THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID

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AN OPEN LETTER TO THE MEN OF TINDER

tinder2

This past weekend, surrounded by booze, basketball and friends who were singing the praises – and pitfalls – of Tinder, Miss Wingman finally broke down and installed the app that all the kids are using these days. And yes, that statement makes me sound like my parents (“What is this, the Tinder?”)

In the ensuing days, I’ve spent more time than I’d like to admit down the Tinder rabbit hole, perusing the man-ventory and taking stock of the culture. And what I’ve learned, in the words of Jay-Z, is “That shit cray” (in a good way.) Still, I thought it best to provide a Public Service Announcement to the men of Tinder, for your sake and for the sake of all the females out there who may or may not be suffering from Swiping PTSD. Here goes…

Dear Dudes of Tinder,

Congratulations on completing the rigorous task of downloading a mobile app in your pursuit of some female companionship! How very gallant of you. I’m sure you’re having a blast, but just in case you’re finding that your courtships aren’t as fruitful as you’d like them to be, I thought I’d provide you with some do’s and don’ts to aid you in your search. Sorry to be a Negative Nelly, but let’s start with the Don’ts, shall we? Boys, kindly avoid these types of photos:

The Group Fake Out - Every shot has more dudes in it than the first string of a football team. Which one are you? Who of this group looks like a Doug? The fuck if I know.
Photo Disappointment - This is what results from group shots. It’s not a good idea to surround yourself with your hot friends, FYI. It just bums us out when we realize you’re not the one with the cute dimples, but the one rocking the Jeter fade.
Weaponry - I love shooting, too. But what part of seeming approachable to total strangers who are smaller than you involves a .38 or a .20 gauge? Confused.
Foreigners - Just curious, “Englishman in NYC,” Irish dude or ambiguously South American guy, is there anything other than soccer in your country? Nice jersey.
Cats - So many guys posing with cats! Why why why? Least sexy visual ever…unless it’s a jungle cat.
Wounds, gore or blood - I don’t get it, are you trying to pick up a triage nurse?
Profile shots of objects/landscapes instead of, like, you – You’ve just told us that there’s a strong likelihood that you may or may not be a total mutant. Thanks for the heads up!
Girlfriends, wedding rings - Seriously? Not interested in being a sister wife, sorry.
Visibly f**ked up - Just a thought here, but you might want to try to appear sober in at least one of your photos. Maybe?
Eating – nay, inhaling, food - Things I’ve never thought: “Damn, that guy looks really sexy destroying that Big Mac.” True story.
“Look At How Manly I Am” shots - Ironmans are badass, fine. Tough Mudders? Ever since your little sister and her friends started doing them, eh, not so much.
Excessive muscles and/or tattoos - Sends the same message as the above. Also, a surefire way to half your female prospects. Giant lats aren’t for everyone.
The Hot Girl Heram - Congrats. Being surrounded by 9′s showcases your extraordinary ability to… be in close physical proximity to attractive people. Impressive, bro.
Extreme landscapes (read: the desert, bottom of the ocean, atop a mountain or in front of one of the 7 Wonders of the World) – There’s a fine line between being adventurous, and being a one-man National Geographic. Your living room would’ve been fine.

Unabashedly douchey settings - The red pants, popped collar group shot with girls in tennis skirts = us not being able to tell if the theme of your party was “preppy white people of privilege,” or if you’re just like that.
The Peen - Dick pics, really? WTF is wrong with you people?
Selfies in your car, hotel room or (God help me) shirtless in the bathroom mirror - Do I even need to explain? Just. Stop.

I hope that helps clear things up a bit? Alright then. With regard to quotes, gentlemen, please avoid:

The “Don’t worry, I’ll tell people we met at Whole Foods, a book store, or fill in the blank location” joke - Wasn’t funny the first 5 times we read it! Also, what’s wrong with meeting people on Tinder anyway?
Philosophical bullshit - Thanks for that borrowed Nietsche quote. If I wanted to be enlightened, I’d have one of those black, framed Successories jawns on my desk.
Literary quotes - See above, and swap out Nietsche for Camus.
Being a Regulation Asshole - Saying, “Why does every girl I meet on here want to get married? Whatever, most of them are fatter in person anyway,” shockingly does not endear you to us. Crazy, I know.

But since Miss Wingman doesn’t love excessive finger wagging, here are some Do’s to serve as helpful tips to the slightly Tinder Challenged. Do:

Have more than 1 photo - Let’s face it, any 4 can get lucky and look like a 7 just once if the camera angle is just right. Prove it’s not a fluke. However…
Limit photos to 3 - More than that can work against you. As in, “Ooh, he was so close until I saw him in that deep V-neck tee and rosary necklace.” (Left swipe.)
Make your face actually visible - Because we’re not interested in the Here’s-what-I-look-like-as-seen-through-a-telescope-from-outerspace portrait. Sorry.
Add useful information - Like your (hopefully socially acceptable) height, and phrases like, “Not my kid.” Thanks for clearing that up, bro. Speaking of height…
Remember size matters - It sucks, I know, but if you’re vertically challenged, you’re in luck! We can’t tell until we meet you in person, when you’ll be in a solid position to win us over with your wit and charm anyway. You’re just not doing yourself any favors by standing next to two of your 6’3″ buddies (or, like, a petite chick) and tipping us off ahead of time.

Also remember, dudes of Tinder, this rule: Things that don’t automatically make us like you? Boat shots, saying you’re a “Princeton grad” and expensive cars. Especially if the car has “Maserati of Manhattan” stenciled on the side. But don’t sweat it! There’re plenty of possibilities to make a successful connection on Tinder. That’s where savvy messaging and a nice smile comes in handy.

In reality, no “About me” section is necessary, and frankly it sometimes works against you. When emailing, don’t be afraid to get to the “Let’s meet up” point quickly, since by swiping right we’ve basically already admitted that we’d entertain sleeping with you. Or at least, that we don’t find the idea to be abhorrent. Score! So go out there, have some fun with it, and find your next hot date (er, hookup. whatever.) Just don’t swipe left by accident.

Cheers,
Miss WingmanTHAT’S WHAT SHE SAID

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