I blame Miles Davis for my vinyl hoarding habit—and my obsession with unraveling the small, quiet mysteries of relationships. Hear me out. Listening to jazz feels like diving headfirst into chaos before swimming into something smoother, something harmonious. Dating? Pretty much the same. My life is soundtracked by the persistent hum of vinyl spinning, every sound a reminder that unexpected beauty comes when you lean into your quirks. And let’s just say I’ve learned to lean hard, whether it’s through flipping records, collecting rare hot sauces (yes, that’s a thing), or decoding why someone prefers “read receipts off.”

And trust me, there’s a reason this isn’t about dating apps. Those profiles never account for the real “obsessions” that make us human. Let me unpack mine—because who you love is often tangled up in what you love.

Side A: Vinyl, or Why I Can’t Just “Shuffle” Feelings

The first time I played my dad’s dusty vinyl copy of Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue, my world stopped. The cool, deliberate rhythm felt intentional. Physical. None of the passive streaming that glosses over melodies. I wanted that kind of deliberateness in life—and also, apparently, in love.

Vinyl does this weird thing where it forces you to sit down and listen, no skips, no shortcuts. That’s a perfect metaphor for dating, especially when everyone wants the SparkNotes version of your emotional history. “So, why is pressing your coffee a personality trait for you?” someone asked me once. I laughed, knowing I deserved it. But isn’t that the point? People are like albums—you can’t just fast-forward to the single. The depth is in the B-sides.

What Vinyl’s Taught Me: - Pay attention to the pauses. Just like the spaces between notes make music, moments of silence in someone’s story might hold as much weight as what they actually say. - Start with a question. Instead of asking someone about their dream vacation, how about asking them what they hate? Debate is an excellent icebreaker (even if it’s over which Miseducation of Lauryn Hill track deserved the Grammy most). - Commit to the moment. No phones, no texting three other people at the same time—just be where you are.

The Heat of It All: A Hot Sauce Manifesto

Confession time: I own 37 bottles of hot sauce. Names like “Death Rains in Carolina” or “Midnight Mango Inferno” might not scream subtle romance, but there’s something special about walking into a local shop and asking, “What’s your best bottle for scrambled eggs?” Here’s the thing: hot sauce, much like relationships, is about balance. Too much heat? Disaster. Too little? Bland.

There’s a parallel in how we layer depth in food and people. That fiery kick is just one part of the equation—the magic comes when it’s paired with something sweet, surprising. A friend once suggested I bring hot sauce on a first date, and though I laughed, I do think we need to treat curiosity like a condiment. Asking “what makes this person interesting?” instead of “are they a 5 or an 8?” changes everything.

Spicy Rules of Engagement:
- Experimentation isn’t failure. Some sauces (and conversations) are just “meh,” but even those teach you what to look for next time.
- Know your limits, but push close to them. Can’t handle ghost peppers? Cool. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try a habanero once—it’s like sharing a vulnerable story on date two instead of date ten. Scary? Yes. Worth it? Usually.
- Share the experience. Bonding over trying something new together—whether it’s a hot sauce challenge or cooking a homemade meal—sticks with people more than small talk.

Jazz and Flirting, or Why Scatting Isn’t Just for Saxophones

Here’s how I explain flirting: it’s improvisational jazz. It’s not about having the perfect line lined up; it’s about how you riff when someone hands you the unexpected. I grew up watching my dad groan lovingly over my mom’s recipe misfires or my uncle’s long-running joke about Brenda from payroll. Those were lessons, even if I didn’t know it at the time. That kind of banter—the kind where both people add to the tempo? That’s the magic.

I bombed hard at flirting for most of my early 20s. I blamed my awkwardness on being too “old school.” While everyone was perfecting their emoji game, I was writing mixtape playlists for the one I liked, complete with D’Angelo deep cuts. (For the record, yes, it’s corny. But it worked!) Flirting got easier once I realized it’s less about trying to “be” someone else and more about riffing on who you truly are. Jazz doesn’t apologize for its weird notes; neither should you.

What “Flirting Like Jazz” Taught Me:
- Read the room. Not everyone loves an over-the-top Miles Davis “screech.” Gauge how playful or serious someone feels and match their energy level. Translation? Maybe don’t lead with your karaoke rendition of Ginuwine’s “Pony.” (Unless it’s that kind of date.)
- Give them space to solo. A solid flirtation is 80% listening, 20% clever zingers. They need room to shine, too.
- Be a little unpredictable. Spice up the standard “what’s your favorite TV show?” with something a little offbeat, like “What’s the worst job you’ve ever quit?” You’ll learn a lot quicker—and probably laugh a lot more.

Final Track: Stay Weird, Stay Open

Whether it’s my crate full of dusty albums, a hot shelf of intimidatingly spicy bottles, or a fondness for late-night Baldwin rereads, I’ve realized these obsessions aren’t distractions—they’re introductions. They’re the stuff I lean into because they remind me that connections come out of specificity, not sleek universality. Maybe someone will think it’s weird I bring Miles Davis metaphors to a first date (and they’re probably not wrong). But more often than not, it’s that exact “weird” that sparks something real.

So if you take anything away from this—whether you’re messy and improvisational like jazz, fiery about your passions like hot sauce, or something in between—let it be this: quirks are where the good stuff is. Lead with yours.

After all, “Kind of Blue” didn’t sell millions because it followed every rule in the book. It sold millions because it rewrote them.