A 33-Year-Old Man Asked If I’m Doing Anything Cray Tonight


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I made the mistake of going on Tinder last night. The notion that I might meet a person disguised itself as possibility, rather than fantasy. Online dating isn’t about finding company anymore. It’s about coming across a normal looking 33-year-old man, matching with him (what a sham of a word), saying hello, and receiving back, “Doing anything cray tonight?”

Cray. I can almost envision the tank top he’s wearing and the top of his right hand covered in smeared stamps. Cray. Fuck yeah man, let’s go do some shit that’ll completely destroy our chances of being taken seriously or smelling appropriate at work tomorrow. It’s Tuesday losers, you’re not staying home tonight, are you? Pass me the drugs and novelty glasses, this shit is lit.

I’ve long held the view that Tinder is a free source of sex work for men. Endless women you can browse through with your thumb, select, fuck, and then go on about your business with no detriment to your bank account or sense of freedom. I am not wrong.

I have a good grasp of the nature of things. I understand that if a couple actually forms from the bowels of Tinder or some such trash, it is more luck or chance than intended process. Now it seems the world of online face swiping has a fresh hell for me that I hadn’t savvied to before. Ah will its wonders never cease.

It’s all just kids.

It’s the untz untz electric rave-y dance forrest empty fridge dirty laundry doesn’t own a vacuum no 401K party party good time crew. Except now they’re not 23. They’re 33.

Sweet merciful Streisand does the world know no decency? Are 33-year-old men above adulthood? Have they cast it off? Third app to the right and straight on ’til you message a girl at 4 in the morning. They never, never have to grow up.

I take issue with the notion that growing up is bad. I’m 35 and my life is about 18 times better than it was when I was 25. My job, salary, living situation, sense of self, level of confidence, and taste in wine have all improved exponentially, showing me just how full of shit people are when think there’s something wrong with growing up. Don’t grow up, it’s a trap. Horse shit. Don’t stay young past youth, it’s embarrassing.

I know 33-year-old men with children. I know 33-year-old who own property. I know 33-year-old men who wash their sheets with regularity and own more than one hand towel. Thirty three is a grown up goddamn age at which you should not, under any circumstance, still be sleeping on a mattress on the floor, still only have beer and water as beverage options in your home, and still be asking a woman if she is doing anything cray tonight.

My point being–there’s nothing wrong with the grown ups. There’s nothing sad about my Tuesday night at home and there sure as shit isn’t anything sad about my work performance on Wednesday morning. There isn’t anything wrong with me not having “cray” plans to impress you with. There is however, something significantly wrong with the fact that you still speak like a second semester senior kinesiology major. You’re a grown ass child. And that’s insane.

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NPR once called me a humor essayist, let’s go with that. Host of A Single Serving Podcast. shanisilver[at]gmail

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