Dating : The Tinder Chronicles: The Guy Who Loved Shoes

After months of Tindering without much success, I decided it might be in my best interest to switch up my Tinder profile picture. I had recently been to a gala at the Georgia Aquarium, and with my hair freshly styled, my fanciest red dress, and my I-only-wear-these-if-I-absolutely-have-to heels, I was really looking my best in the photos from that night. With more than a touch of excitement, I changed my main picture to my glammed-up shot.

My first match after my profile refresh was Dane, who, in his business suit and tie, looked both professional and capable in his photo. According to his bio, he was a clothing and footwear entrepreneur. That could mean a lot of things, and I was curious to learn more. When he asked me out for drinks the following week, I didn’t hesitate to say yes.

I should have realized things were going to get weird from the moment I stepped out of my Uber. The bar he’d chosen was on the casual side, so I dressed accordingly — cute jeans, an elegant but attractive top, my leather jacket, and patent-leather flats that I thought were both comfy and cute.

Dane, apparently, did not agree. At all.

Before I even had a chance to introduce myself, he blurted out, “Seriously? You’re wearing those shoes?”

At first, I thought he was joking, and I walked over to him (comfortably, I might add, in my sensible flats) with a smile. “This is more of a casual spot, don’t you think? I wanted to dress for the occasion.”

He sneered, catching me completely off guard. “Well you chose very, very wrong!”

Now I was just confused. “I’m sorry?”

He sighed, an exasperated, pouty sound. “I don’t get it. You were wearing high heels in your Tinder photo!”

Something was starting to dawn on me, but I wasn’t ready to reach out and grasp it just yet. “Yeah,” I said slowly. “That photo was from a gala I went to. A black-tie gala.”

He just shook his head disapprovingly. “I can’t believe it. I feel totally catfished.”

“Excuse me?”

“I asked you out because of that photo. It showed me everything I needed to see.”

“I don’t understand. Did you only like me because of my outfit?”

He sighed again, so heavily it sounded like he was a deflating balloon. “No! Don’t you get it? I liked your shoes!”

“Um, okay,” I said, unsure of how to respond. I have no problem with fetishes, people should embrace whatever it is they’re into, but I’m definitely not here for people foisting their own preferences on an unwilling party. He wasn’t being vulnerable in sharing his interests with me — he was just being rude.

“Why don’t you go home and change,” he said, his voice softer. “I’ll wait here.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Are you kidding? In this traffic, it’ll take me at least a half hour to get home. Then a half hour to get back. That’s absurd.”

I thought he would get pouty again, but instead he just leaned in conspiratorially, which I didn’t care for at all. “Trust me, it’ll be worth your while.”

“What does that mean?”

“Just change into those other shoes and come back. You’ll see.”

I’d had just about enough. “I’m not going to do that for some mysterious reason you won’t reveal. Tell me, or I’m just going to turn around and go home, period.”

His eyes took on a pleading look, and his voice started to turn into an unpleasant whine. “Come on…ugh, fine. I pay good money for hot girls’ shoes.”

There was no denying anything now; it was very clear who this guy was and what he wanted. Which, of course, was not a real date, much less a real relationship. “No, thank you,” I said, trying to sound polite and nonjudgmental.

I must not have succeeded well enough, because he grew snarly. “What? You think that’s creepy?”

“I didn’t say that. You do you.”

“I will! You know, I make excellent money reselling those shoes. There are a lot of guys out there who pay top dollar for shoes like yours! It’s not like I asked you for your panties. But hey, if you’re interested in that…”

“I am definitely not interested in that. And maybe you should consider a Craigslist ad instead of a Tinder profile, if you’re only after women’s shoes.”

His gaze softened, and he looked a bit defeated. He sighed again as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a discreet little business card. “Here,” he said, gesturing for me to take it. “I realize this rendezvous did not go how I had hoped, but in case you change your mind, give me a call.”

I was going to respond, but he didn’t give me a chance. He disappeared back into the noisy bar, and I pulled out my phone to call an Uber. On the ride home, I managed to make out the words on the card thanks to my phone’s flashlight. It read:

Dane Baskin. Purveyor of Fine Pre-Owned Women’s Clothing & Shoes.

Discreet. Simple. Easy.

There was a phone number and an email, too. Even though he’d seemed genuine about his shoe offer, a part of me had still thought it was all too unreal. The card dispelled all my doubts, though. Plus, the more I thought about it, the more I realized how much I’d rather have a couple hundred dollars than a pair of cheap, painful heels, anyway.

I may not have made a love connection that night, but a business connection looked like a serious possibility.