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I wondered how I managed to get here — as a something married mum-of-two. Our date had started harmlessly enough. We had a beer in town, and then went back to my cabin to smoke. It got late, and I told him to leave. He tried to kiss me, and I demurred. He begged to sleep over. I said no, so he tried to kiss me again.
I quickly slid inside the cabin, locking the door behind me, in an attempt to escape. Instead, I felt unsafe. I curled tighter in the fetal position in my bed and cursed the heavy rain that had brought down the internet earlier in the day.
And I also cursed Tinder. Handsome and 10 years younger than me, he easily lured me into bed after a beer at the bar. The experience left me feeling disgusting. He gaped at me like I was the sleazy one. The whole encounter was gross — but in my humiliated state, I decided to blame it all on Tinder.
But the truth was, I was the problem. I should have been spending the time alone, trying to decide if I wanted to stay married or not. I know this makes me sound like a terrible person, but I needed to divorce my husband. I was desperately unhappy.