Love in the Time of Tinder

WHY I HATE (BUT STILL USE) DATING APPS

WORDS BY Kiera Eardley @kieraeardley ART BY My Tieu Ly @alruin_de

Hi, my name is Kiera, and I’m your perpetually single friend. Welcome to the world of singledom in 2021! There are plenty of options, not a lot of commitment, and the drinks aren’t exactly flowing (thank you, 10 months of lockdown).

First things first: modern dating is hard. It’s a phenomenon unique to our generation, for better or for worse — and if you don’t believe me, try explaining Tinder to your nearest octogenarian. We don’t have the Friday night dance halls of our grandparents’ youth, nor the reliability of a weekly drivein movie date or the reassuring formality of ‘going steady’. For everyone before us, the line between friendship and relationship was clearly defined, the process of crossing that boundary both well-documented and well-trodden. But for us? It’s all grey area. A lot of photos, a smattering of vapid texts, and very little substance. To be frank, I hate it all.

Alas, modern dating is a necessary evil. You have to put yourself out there to meet people, and — especially during a pandemic — apps seem like the only way. Dating apps promise us instant gratification and an ostensibly fast path to love, but it’s a path littered with ghosts, catfishers, and commitment-phobes aplenty. Am I selling it to you yet?

If you’re as single as I have been for the past two-and-a-half years, you’ll be familiar with the culture of replaceability that characterises modern dating. We’re told we can find romance with a few swipes and some witty opening lines, but it feels more like trying to catch a fish with your bare hands in a river full of eels. And all the eels are looking for a girl who “doesn’t take themselves too seriously and has a passion for health/fitness/hiking”. And then when you do catch a fish, it often decides it can’t be bothered with you after all, so you end up wading back into the river again and again and again, with your hopes set a little lower each time.

If you couldn’t tell, I’m a reluctant user of dating apps. I avoided them for a year after my last relationship, worried that a profile would do nothing more than scream “I’M SINGLE AND I’M NOT THRILLED ABOUT IT” to every eligible male in my 15-kilometre radius. But then lockdown happened, and with it came boredom and a stinging, persistent loneliness. So I downloaded Hinge.

Creating my profile demanded so many questions. Which photos make me look good, but not too good? What bio makes me sound funny and laid-back and intelligent and fun-loving all at once, and within 50 words? How can I tell if the guys I match with are interested in a relationship, or something casual? How can I tell if I want a relationship, or something casual? A year later, one question still sticks: do I really want to meet my next boyfriend through an app?

The tangible lack of seriousness that underpins my every in-app interaction tells me I’m not the only one with this concern. While everyone on dating apps obviously wants to meet somebody, I don’t think many of us ideally want to meet their partner online. We’re all desperately trying to avoid embarrassment by appearing nonchalant and non-caring in a situation which, at its core, actually demands a lot of care. But the worst part? The small talk. The small talk. I will die a happy woman if I never have to ask another man on Hinge what he does for work, what he’s studying, what his dog’s name is, or about that one time he got robbed on a train in Barcelona because ha-ha he’s been to Europe twice so he’s really cultured. I’ve come to abhor the process so much that I actually dread opening the app.

My fondly monikered Hinge Doom Scrolls — which mostly occur on Sundays when I’m feeling lonely or bored or inexplicably optimistic — just confirm my simmering hatred for the entire state of affairs. The scroll occurs as follows: (1) unpause my profile, with fresh hope that my perfect male counterpart awaits me on the other side of the screen; (2) scroll through ever-worsening profiles for five minutes, hope dwindling with every swipe; and (3) re-pause my profile, feeling worse than when I started and wondering if I’ve set my standards too high or if I’m just doing something wrong.

I’m describing dating apps as a breeding ground for self-doubt and a place to wallow in eternal romantic solitude, for sure, but it’s not all bad. None of them have stuck, but I’ve actually met a handful of great guys on Hinge. Most importantly, dating apps can provide a hit of fleeting optimism to distract from dreary pandemic life — although the odds are against me, who’s to say I won’t find someone amazing the next time I open Hinge?

So, that’s that: it’s not always pretty, and my positivity about modern dating has taken countless hits, but dating apps can be fun! Deep down, I’m definitely hoping to meet the right guy in a bookstore (à la Notting Hill). But for now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m due for another Doom Scroll.