How I Met My Fiance: A Hinge Success Story In Three Downloads
I’ve been engaged to the love of my life for nearly five months. We’re getting married next year, and I have a million and a half wedding things on my brain, including how I met my now-fiance.
Almost five years ago, I moved to Vermillion, South Dakota, for my Master’s in English Literature at the University of South Dakota. Like most big decisions made during early pandemic life, this one involved a lot of blind trust and a touch of delusion. I hadn’t visited the campus—because, well, lockdown—and I didn’t know anyone in the area. I figured I’d bury myself in books, attend my hybrid seminars, and occasionally stare out the window in search of the swallows that called my attic walls home.
Naturally, isolation set in. I’d been on dating apps before, but always from a safe distance, and I never took them seriously. They felt like a digital stage play where everyone read a script they secretly hated. But one night—out of boredom, curiosity, and the vague hope of meeting someone who could spell—I downloaded Hinge.
That’s when I matched with Andrew for the first time. My profile included the prompt "What are you too overcompetitive about?" to which I had boldly answered: "Mario Party. I’ll break your arms." That kind of profoundly unhinged honesty was attractive to him. We exchanged a few messages, made each other giggle and kick our feet, and then—true to form—I deleted the app.
A few months later, I found myself in the same place: overworked, overstimulated by grad school, and needing a break from academic reading. So, I downloaded Hinge again. And wouldn’t you know it? Andrew and I matched for the second time. We had a little more conversation this time, and he was still just as attractive, kind, funny, and engaging. But I still wasn’t confident that dating apps like Hinge even worked, so I deleted the app… again.
Eventually, I re-downloaded Hinge (round three, for those keeping track), and there he was. I have to give him kudos for matching with me so many times. At this point, it felt less like a coincidence and more like a romantic comedy plotline. I finally gave Andrew my number and agreed to go on a date.
Andrew drove to me from Sioux Falls, and we met at Café Brulé in downtown Vermillion. I lived across the street at the time and remember feeling ridiculously nervous the whole morning, like to the point where I was meditating on my bedroom floor before he came to pick me up. When I stepped outside to meet him, a flurry of butterflies started swarming in my chest, and I almost forgot my first, middle, and last name. Andrew had this indie-film energy about him—gray beanie, piercing blue eyes, devastatingly handsome. I was so nervous I kept forgetting basic facts about myself: why I was in Vermillion, where I was from, my parents’ names—all vanished from my brain.
Despite my overt awkwardness, the conversation flowed. We talked over sandwiches and fries and eventually returned to my apartment—not for anything scandalous. I just didn’t want the conversation to end, and it felt weird to loiter at the table any longer. I suggested a movie. In a moment of profoundly questionable judgment, I chose The Impossible, a visually stunning, emotionally devastating drama about a family surviving a tsunami.
For the record, it’s a brilliant film—but arguably not first-date material. Andrew made two decisions after that: 1) I would never be allowed to pick the movie on date night again, and 2) we needed to balance the emotional devastation with The Great British Baking Show. We watched several episodes, slowly relaxed, learned about choux, and ended up spending seven hours together on our first date.
When it was time for Andrew to drive back to Sioux Falls, we stood awkwardly at my apartment door, both clearly unsure how to end the night. He kissed me goodbye—and I immediately FaceTimed my sister to tell her about the very cutie, very kind guy I just went on a date with. For the fourth and final time in my whole life, I deleted Hinge once and for all. Hey, it’s the app that’s designed to be deleted.
It’s also worth noting that before moving to Vermillion, I had a mental list of three dating dealbreakers: 1) I didn’t want to date a farmer, 2) I didn’t want to date a frat boy, and 3) I definitely wasn’t ready to become a mom.
Andrew checked all three boxes: He grew up on a farm, was the president of his fraternity in Rapid City (30 minutes from where I went to undergrad—we later learned that we briefly met at a party several years prior when he denied me entry because I forgot my ID), and came with a four-year-old daughter, Sutton, who is now my best friend, future bridesmaid, and the best bonus daughter ever.
Sometimes, love doesn’t look like a grand revelation. Sometimes, it looks like three deleted dating apps, a sandwich at a local café, and a wildly inappropriate first-date movie. Sometimes, the best stories begin when you break every rule you made for yourself—and find someone who makes you want to rewrite them all.
