dating apps

I tried to write about this topic back in 2023 and yet didn’t get very far. I wrote:

I first downloaded Tinder roughly two weeks after my ex and I split up. Since then, I’ve downloaded, deleted, and re-downloaded Tinder and other various dating apps in the hopes that I meet someone different. Each time is the same. I swipe and swipe and swipe until I realize that it is all for naught. While I could whinge about how the algorithm is rigged against me simply due to it being a numbers game (more men on the platform than women), I think what upsets me is how inhuman it feels.

Firstly, there is making a profile. For most of the apps, you get a max of six photos (though they do encourage adding a video or two) along with a bio and some other options. While I usually took the time to fill in all possible descriptors, a lot of accounts present on the apps are sparse. It is these sparse accounts that make me so confused.

Most of what I wrote back in 2023 hasn’t changed, but I think I have had enough experience now to put down more of my thoughts.

Let’s start at the top, where I talk about the algorithm and the swiping feeling for naught. I frankly don’t care about the algorithm anymore. It is simply an excuse for why I’m not performing well on the apps. At this point, “doing well on the apps” and “swiping for naught” feed into the idea of it feeling inhuman.

I try to start my diatribe by talking about creating a profile. It is, effectively, a resume. A market valuation page. The images are for instant decision making and the rest of the text information is for if you get past the visual inspection. I won’t lie, this comes off as very cynical, but I will be the first to say that physical attraction to someone is deeply critical for a relationship to succeed. If you are not attracted to your partner then I almost guarantee that it won’t go very far. It might just end up with you and the other person being better friends than anything else; that isn’t a bad thing, but it doesn’t equate to a life partner or even a long-term relationship. For the other categories of relationships, it might be okay, but for anything that is attempting to last, it is a foundational element.

Remember: beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

That is where my original 2023 draft begins and ends. The profile creation process. I think it was the first thing I mentioned because I was so uncomfortable with speaking about myself and building a representation of what I thought I was. I’m still not too keen on doing it, nor am I good at it, but it phases me less. It really is a matter of confidence while building it. It is still inhuman. Did I mention it feels like making a resume already?

So you make your resume. You fill it with witty quips or earnest statements with the goal of capturing the attention of a pursuing passerby. You have, quite literally, a first impression to sell yourself. Off you go to the races.

For me, now, when I start swiping, is when the feelings of disgust and slime come crawling in. I know I don’t want to be judged so quickly, so harshly, and yet here I am doing the same thing to people who (usually) exist. They are deserving of love and they are people with feelings.

It’s just business though.

I don’t want it to be business. I want my connection with my person to be earnest and genuine. I want to be able to meet her and look into her eyes. Seeing someone smile is a treat to me. Corny, cliche, whatever. It is how I feel.

Sitting on my couch, slouched down and with my double chin fully present, I use my pointer finger to silently judge. In market terms, it’s selling and buying. There are human beings who I am deciding if I want to try and invest in.

In the back of my mind, though, I know that my dollar isn’t worth much. Recall that whole algorithm thing? Yeah, it is part of the problem. My buying power is low. I’m an “asset” that is better once you see it than online. Kind of like a piece of clothing. You get to feel the texture, experience the fit, and check if the color matches the image online. No euphemisms meant to be here.

So I have some self-confidence issues here, as you can see, but I know that as I look at the likes I send and the likes I receive, it makes me feel like I’m part of a machine that will grind me to a dust. It is not real.

I think I might be losing the plot a bit and starting to wax poetic. Let me distill it down a tiny bit: dating apps, to me, make me feel like a commodity.

I know that dating is a game, but I’d prefer it to be a game rather than a thing that can be boiled down to market and game theory. Even saying that, though, it does make me feel naïve.

My girl friends have stated that simply having a woman help organize the profile will help and get me more matches. More matches means more dates and more dates mean more chances of meeting someone that I can call my own.

I’m resistant to that though. I’d rather have them introduce me to a friend or invite me to a party where I can meet people. I don’t need them to help facilitate connections on an app.

Or am I being a Luddite here? Maybe I need to adjust my perspective and come to terms with the way the world is.

At least with the apps, it means that I am on the same page as the people I am attempting to connect with. I don’t have to play the guessing game or take the risk of getting rejected in person.

Life is filled with risks though and rejection. In fact, the app is one big rolodex of rejections. The difference is that the rejection is abstracted away. It does not impact me as much as the response of a person. The app simply brushes it away and never brings it up again. It mitigates it because it needs me to be on the app.

Did I mention that the apps are, fundamentally, businesses? You are their customers and they don’t want to let you go. You are revenue. By having you delete the app, they lose a user, they lose ad revenue, or a paying customer if you subscribe to their services.

Why now? Why bother bringing this up now? Simple: I had downloaded Hinge again. I felt like it was futile to attempt to meet someone in person. I was hoping to add another avenue. I hopped onto the App Store, typed in “Hinge” and hit download.

I created an account, selecting the photos, filling out the prompts, and then did a few swipes. Making certain to carefully consider each profile that I come across. I was doing my best to consider the photos, the written responses, and the other pieces of information they had provided. I didn’t want to “swipe right” on every profile. I refused to make this a numbers game.

My heart pounded with anxiety each time I sent a “heart” along with a little message commenting on the prompt that had pushed me over the edge to send that like.

I had the app installed in less than 24 hours. I got one like. It wasn’t the lack of likes that made me install it though, but it was the person who liked me. I saw her profile, and her response to my own prompt, and, deep in my heart, knew I didn’t really feel the desire to meet this person. It felt horrible. I didn’t want to say no.

I feel like a bleeding-heart romantic saying that. Someone who is too sympathetic. I doubt it means much to the person simply saying no, but I couldn’t shake it from my head. The feeling of being in a supermarket, viewing a piece of fruit, and deciding to put it back. Or scrolling on DoorDash, looking at all the restaurants that offer delivery. Or being on Instagram and mindlessly viewing the Stories that people posted.

It reminded me why I had sworn off these apps in the first place. So I deleted it. Maybe it was too soon. Maybe if I had steeled myself and continued, I would’ve found a match. I mean, I know a few people who have met on dating apps and they’re quite happy. Some are married even.

That’s not me though. It might not ever be me.

The takeaway from this, though, isn’t “dating apps bad” and that’s that; my takeaway is that I need to be more comfortable with accepting the risks of asking people in person if they want to go on a date. If I’m refusing the comfort of a digital abstraction of this fundamentally human desire–companionship, romance, partnership–then I need to be comfortable with the beautiful, confusing, irksome process of being vulnerable.