When I last wrote my not so anonymous article about dating in Chicago, I was only just ramping up my dating life status post recruiting. Sure, things were great and I had all the time in the world—I was only taking three classes and I wasn’t doing informational phone calls, drafting dreaded thank you emails or walking second years through my mediocre resume. This was it: full of hope, full of matches. Carpe diem—I was going to go out there and seize what was mine in the third biggest city in the U.S..
I was going on anywhere between three to eight dates a week. While I haven’t taken any strategy or operations classes, I knew that I was developing an operational process and improving my efficiency with mechanical precision. I found out that economies of scale and perpetual right-swiping were finally starting to pay dividends. Even if I am batting .100, all I had to do was keep swinging away and I would eventually hit dingah’s and go yahd, even if that meant I had to steal a base or two.
One of the girls I was seeing was a nursing student that I met on Tinder. I liked her enough that I even drastically scaled back my dating to one or two dates a week and I would even go on missionary tours to the West Loop, where she lived, to spread the gospel. One morning, she asked me to make her breakfast with poached eggs. She kept insisting that I make her poached eggs, so I searched YouTube for some person poaching an egg, made her eggs and never talked to her again. Why? I’m not a fancy eater, I eat when I’m hungry and I like my eggs scrambled. She kept calling and texting but I remained resolute—I knew that poached eggs are a gateway drug to other concessions.
A week before finals, I went on a date with a Kellogg grad who was working in marketing (go figure). Things were going well—little PDA here, little shots there, love was in the air. Later on, she suggested we go meet up with her friends at the River North lounge, Untitled. We went in and she waved at her friend who was waiting by the door—the nursing student. A shouting match immediately ensued. The nursing student started yelling at her friend saying that I am THAT jerk from Booth that she was seeing, and her friend was screaming that it’s not her fault that I am such a dating junkie. I told the ladies that they should work it out and politely excused myself.
I left wondering how on earth this could have happened. Was it karmic retribution? Have I officially dated every single girl in Chicago? How did I suddenly find myself in the intersection of the social venn diagram of Chicago? In my first Strategic Leadership class, Professor Yenkey explained how social networks are actually small and that everyone is related within 5.5 degrees of separation, on average—too bad for me, it was not an average night. Anyhow, the lesson of the evening was simple: some are hunters and some are gatherers, but some are definitely not poachers.