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There comes a time in every man or woman’s life where they get drunk on whiskey and decide to make regrettable decisions. This is a near-weekly occurrence in my life, but in this specific second the spirits are slightly swankier, and the stakes slightly superior. Tonight, I’ve decided to use my prestigious (or as some call it, “candy-ass”) Ivy League degree to bluff my way into a place I have no business being. A dating app for those above the general masses- a tool for people likely more respectable and certainly more sober than I am right now.
For those of you with any semblance of propriety who consequently may not have heard of this, The League is a dating app for the ambitious and successful. One that supposedly caters to those above the humdrum of Tinder and Bumble. As someone who looks amazing on LinkedIn (Dave I tried to add you but “he touches my base twice a week” apparently isn’t a good enough reason to connect), but like millennial trash in person this seems like the adventure of a lifetime. Upon finding the correct listing in the App Store, I read the first line of the description:
“Equalist. Not Elitist.”
Oh, this will be fun.
After installing and opening the app, I’m greeted with a prompt as to my relationship status. I can choose “Single,” understandably, or “Not Single,” which I assume has all the stopping power of an age verification on a 90s porn site. After confirming that I am indeed a single person on this dating app, I’m wowed by promises of no voyeurs, fakes, games, shame, noise, or randoms. As someone who is at least three of those six at any given time I sink further into my bed of lies and plow forward.
Setting up my profile proper (first being asked, once again, if I am single or not), I fall into the familiar territory of statistics: height, location, ethnicity, desired age range. I breeze through with my typical lack of preferences given my unabashedly low standards. Ain’t no mountain high enough, ain’t no self-esteem low enough. Suddenly, I was done. Or at least locked at the undesirable end of a waitlist of approximately 15,000 people deep. To be fair, I could move up on the list by referring friends (too much work), editing my profile (definitely too much work), or paying about $180/year to get on that premium level. Needless to say none of that happened.
So for now, our story has reached an intermission. Am I drunk enough to believe that I will certainly get an invite and be able to produce more ~content~? Yes, as evidenced by the unfortunate person who has to proofread this in the morning. Do I anticipate not being able to continue this series due to a rejected application or column? No, I have the unique and unassailable confidence granted by bourbon, and besides- content always finds a way.
So my friends, let’s take a journey. We’ve all dabbled in the online dating life. Now let’s see how the other side lives..
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