Hinge, Tacos and the Crash of My Emotional Economy
In times like these, sometimes the healthiest thing you can do is let it all out.
It seems that women on Hinge in New York City generally want me to have two things: a very high emotional intelligence and a deep, spiritual connection to the outdoors. Unfortunately, in a mere 10 months, I have forgotten what either of those things means on a basic level.
There was a time when I would have described my emotional intelligence as “very high.” It really doesn’t feel like it was all that long ago, but the world was much different then. I’d bump into people I knew from time to time, and we’d chat for a bit, and they’d tell me about this new book they just read about the Enneagram that’s way better than all the other books about the Enneagram, and then each of us would take turns talking about our Enneagram number while the other person smiled and nodded, and then the two of us would part ways.
Then I’d go sit in a coffee shop to work, but first I’d read three different blog articles about the Enneagram book my friend mentioned before realizing I already follow the author on Instagram and have a pretty good idea of the content she’s slinging. Either way, it would still come up at a party two nights later, and someone in the circle of conversation would learn a thing or two about themselves thanks to my fun tidbits of Enneagram knowledge, tidbits of Enneagram knowledge that, while originally published in the book, were ones that I had discovered via the blog articles about the book.
All in all, that whole series of events provides a considerable emotional intelligence workout. In Part 1, my friend and I are engaging in authentic and playful conversation about self-discovery. In Part 2, I’m expanding my knowledge of a popular theory of human personality, or as Wikipedia calls it, “a model of the human psyche.” And in Part 3, I’m sharing that knowledge with others, which kind of brings the benefits of Part 1 and Part 2 together in a fun way.
Those kinds of interactions are now a distant memory, but for much of 2020, that seemed to be a positive development, emotional intelligence-wise. With the economy shut down, I found myself with more than enough time to reflect on my me-ness, plunge the depths of my emotionality and have intellectually stimulating discussions about the mind-body connection with women on Hinge. While the global economy was crashing, the inner economy of my True Self was booming.
Unfortunately, this wasn’t sustainable. There came a point during quarantine, sometime during the early fall, when the upside of constantly examining these inner architectures began to disappear. My emotional intelligence had peaked during the summer, and without a series of spontaneous dialogues with like-minded individuals on a daily basis to balance out my rapidly expanding self-knowledge, my inner economy began to go the way of the actual one.
So at this point, top-notch emotional intelligence is a lot to ask from me. I don’t exactly know what’s happening, but something’s out of whack. I’m hoping one of my Insta-therapists will shed some light on this issue at some point in the near future. In the meantime, I’d just like the women of Hinge to know that, um, I can make tacos? Many of you said in your profiles that you’re obsessed with them. Fortunately, something about my spiraling emotional state has resulted in me making the exact same chicken tacos five nights a week, with plenty of leftovers for breakfast the following morning. Do you like them that much? If so, maybe we can start with that little piece of common ground and work our way up to the whole emotional intelligence thing at some point down the line, once I’ve re-entered social sanity. I know tacos are probably lower on your priority lists than being with someone who’s fully capable of navigating their own feelings and expressing them well, but maybe we can look at the tacos as a pathway to those higher tiers of maturity.
The good news is, while 2020 was also a rocky year for my relationship with the great outdoors, we’re starting off strong in 2021. Yes, my dedication to exercise has taken a dive. And in the dead of winter, I barely even take walks to the park anymore. But there’s a man who lives on my street, and his name is Joe, and Joe has helped me renew my connection to the universe in a way that I never could have foreseen.
Joe was a screamer long before the world turned upside down, and he owned it, regardless of what it did to his reputation locally. He’s been screaming from his front porch once a week for seven minutes straight for as long as I’ve resided in the neighboring building. His weekly barrage of F-bombs became the church bells of our vicinity in a hellish year, much to the frustration of surrounding residents. He’s officially the neighborhood freak, and he has shown no signs of retiring this ritual anytime soon. So last month, in the midst of a weeks-long slide into intensifying paranoia and depression, I decided to join him. I can confidently say that it was the most life-changing decision I made all year.
So now, every Tuesday at 5 p.m., Joe and I stand side-by-side and scream at the sky together. And let me tell you, when I fist bumped Joe and skipped down the steps of his porch after emptying the depths of my soul this past Tuesday, I truly felt that the great outdoors and I have never been tighter. Sure, everyone thinks I’m insane. But honestly, I don’t care, which I think is pretty emotionally mature of me. In fact, I get the sense that these last four scream sessions have probably done more for my holistic well-being than the Enneagram, my lineup of Insta-therapists or spontaneous conversations about self-awareness ever have.
Given our global situation, it might even make for a nice first date.