Blind Dates, Biceps, and the Tragedy of Dating Men in 2025

I don’t want to alarm anyone, but I recently went on a blind date... and I liked it.

I know. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I’ve been in the trenches of modern dating long enough to know that the only thing most men bring to the table is the audacity. And gaslighting.

We are victims of men’s gaslighting beginning with their birth names. 

Dudes be named Phil but leave you empty.

Dudes be named Max but do the bare minimum.

Dudes be named Harry but they’re balding.

Dudes be named Will but they won’t. 

Dudes be named Rich but they broke.

If dating in New York teaches you anything, it’s that a solid skincare routine and low expectations are your best defenses.

We live in a world where “I have a podcast” is considered foreplay, and emotional availability is a rarefied, not a baseline. So no, I didn’t expect much when I agreed to go on a blind date—aka willingly put my romantic fate in the hands of an algorithm that probably also recommends Andrew Tate videos to someone out there.

I got set up through an app called Duet—which, to its credit, didn’t immediately make me want to throw my phone into the Hudson. It has this little feature where they match you with someone based on your interests, not your cheekbone symmetry or how well you fake a hike on Hinge. No photos upfront. Just vibes, voice notes, and the deep hope that you’re not walking into a three-hour conversation about crypto. Or Burning Man.

The plan? Blues bar. Classy. Low lighting. Easy to ghost if he shows up in flip-flops and tells me he “doesn’t believe in labels.”

Reader… he was normal. Not “normal” like “he eats vegetables and isn’t rude to waiters.” I mean normal like “has a full-time job, made eye contact, actually funny.” He laughed at my man-hating jokes. He listened. He was assertive yet gentle. He even—brace yourself—asked follow-up questions.

It felt illegal.

We talked for hours. Not once did he try to trauma dump or say, “You’re not like other girls,” (which is usually code for “I’m sexist and possibly own a sword collection”).

The craziest part? I wanted to see him again.

Fast forward a month: we’re still dating. No love bombing. No disappearing acts. Just texting, laughing, and him occasionally showing up with coffee and a croissant like some kind of mythical creature known as “a man who gets it.”

It’s weird. I keep waiting for the catch. Like he’s secretly married. Or worse, a DJ.

Until then, I’ll give Duet its quiet little round of applause for being the only dating app that didn’t lead me into a swamp of shirtless selfies and unsolicited monologues about “grindset.”

So yeah. Against all odds, dating might not be totally doomed. Just mostly.

Oh, and he's 6'5" ;)