Before there was Tinder ….

I’m back in 1972, again, the week before I returned to Camp Hillcroft as a counselor/assistant dance instructor. I was catching up on sleep at home in Riverdale,  recharging after sophomore year. (That was when I took Chem 101 to satisfy my science requirement, and burnt a hole in my favorite maroon leotard as I clumsily titrated with sulphuric acid… the one time that I was dressed for after-lab dance club bra-less… The splashing acid made my right nipple tingle and that’s when the unflappable Berlin-born Dr. Ernst Berliner threw a cold wet towel at me to cool things off…. Dr. Berliner had some years back isolated the bacteria, bacillus thuringiensis, that killed a flour moth back in 1911, and now he chaired the chem dept.)

So, back to my story,  I was home for a week, sprung from my dorm, Pem East, listening to my favorite rock station, WNEW-FM, knowing that I’d soon be on my way to Billings, New York, assigned to the youngest girls bunk –about 15 third graders.  Bill Withers’ tearful song, “Lean on Me,” touched my heart, and I called up the station and asked if he’d play it again. We’d chatted a little and then he popped the question. We agreed to meet outside Bloomingdale’s on Lexington Avenue and provided quick descriptions so we’d recognize each other.

“I’m 6’2″, dark hair, and lean,” he lied to me … the way people do on their Tinders, sometimes. “Thanks, I’m 5’6″, brown-haired,  and … I’ll be wearing a pink pants suit.”  He told me that he had to be back at the station by 5 for his shift.  “We could see the new exhibit at MOMA,” I suggested, and though sounding a bit lukewarm, he said that would be fine, too —  after lunch.

As soon as I hung up, I got nervous. Lunch with a DJ was kind of exciting for a 19 year old, but it wasn’t like meeting somebody at a mixer, where you could ask around to get a little back-story.  But meeting outside Bloomingdale’s seemed prudent enough. I called up my savvy uncle, who taught math at Columbia, and who I’d promised to see before I took off for camp. “Could you please meet us at the museum, and help me out if I’m stuck with a creep?”  We agreed to “accidentally” meet at about 2 in the sculpture garden.

So garbed in my rather bouncy pink tie-dyed pants suit, I waited outside Bloomies, keeping an eye out for my tall, lean date.  Each time I saw a prospect that seemed about right, no tape measure in sight, I’d point to my outfit and say, “Pink pants suit…” I drew a few smiles, and one fellow actually pointed to his jacket and said, “Navy blazer…” No correct matches, at least ten minutes waiting, and then the deejay who was clearly not 6 foot 2 stopped and looked me over.  I can’t say he was paunchy but he’s wasn’t especially lean. “Should we get some lunch?”

So we sat down together and he ordered in the same baritone he used across the air waves. I wonder if he could tell that I would have been far happier if he’d just been a little more honest about his profile.  I wonder how today’s 19 year olds react to their first Tinder dates, after viewing sometimes photo-shopped pictures?

I don’t remember too much about the lunch except that I ordered vichysoisse.  He wanted to drop by his apartment to pick up something, and I could sense that it was grown-up territory we were entering. His easy manner on the phone was less relaxed now as he slipped his key into the door and I timidly followed. He lived in a studio in a very nice brownstone in the east 60s. Apparently, he hadn’t had time to make his bed, and sensing my chill, he showed off his mink-lined toilet seat, which made me wonder about his priorities.  He motioned to his unmade bed and I headed for the door reminding him that we had a rendezvous at the museum. If I had to guess … he’d perfected his accent in Cleveland, and was lucky enough to somehow get in the door at WNEW-FM.

My uncle was graciously waiting as he’d promised, and I told him all about the mink toilet seat cover and how nice it was to be back at MOMA.  He even acted a little surprised — as if our meeting hadn’t been carefully planned. The deejay?  He wasn’t too interested in art. My uncle, who also wasn’t 6’2″, gave him a robust look-over, and that was the end of my date.