Dating in the Modern – Who Are We Kidding, It's About Tinder

As an emotionally unstable 20-Something living in The Big City, I ask myself: What is dating these days? Well, the Webster’s English Dictionary defines “dating” as—lol jk. We’re not going there.

But seriously. Dating is no longer (and possibly really never has been) the boy picking the girl up in his Camero (is that even a car? I think I made that up) and buying her a well-portioned but filling meal at a restaurant with tablecloths, possibly followed by a movie, where he will pay for the tickets and candy of her choice. And to be honest, I’m glad it’s not that anymore. I went on a pretty damn traditional date the other night, and it was kinda awkward. It felt stuffy and high pressure and formal, which is the opposite of how you want to feel when you’re trying to get to know someone. Now, here is where life gets confusing, because before, after and during this “date,” neither of us actually used the word “date.” But it was a date. Below are the following reasons I knew it was a date:

1. It was literally dinner and a movie. The movie was a slightly romantic one.
2. He paid for everything. Even the $2 parking.
3. He was wearing a sweater. Like one that he could wear to church on Christmas. Or Easter.
4. I looked fucking great. And I don’t think I’m that great-looking of a person. Just on this particular night, I was like, “I’m going to look fucking great.” And I did, even though as a rule, I only ever do my make up in the car. (Only at stoplights, you know, so it’s safe.) Ain’t nobody got time to do that shit in a bathroom mirror.
5. We asked each other questions I would never ask my real friends. You know what I mean—“so, how many days out of the week do you cook yourself dinner?” is not something I just ask my friends, unless it comes up ~organically~. Because, frankly, I don’t give a shit. I learned a lot about this fellow on this date that never really cared to know, but what else are you gonna do when you have to wait to be seated for thirty five minutes?

Still, despite these very date-y characteristics, it was not the old Camero (is it a new car? This reference is even worse than I thought) and tablecloth business as usual. For example, I drove, creativity in restaurant choice was highly encouraged and appreciated (Korean BBQ), and I offered to split the bill for everything. I mean, I was denied, thank GOD. Just kidding. Kind of. (We’re only offering because #feminism and #equality and shit, but like seriously, turn the offer down. #chivalry…?) And of course, all plans were made via text. It started out with him casually suggesting we see a movie we both wanted to see. Then another casual suggestion that we “grab a bite” beforehand. Then yet another CASUAL SUGGESTION that we go out with friends after the movie. Have you caught my drift yet? It is the classic case of late teens early twenties dating—the person who cares less wins. And let’s be really real here, they don’t ACTUALLY win anything. In fact, portraying true attraction to someone is so rare in this day and age, when such a unicorn of expression appears in nature, the receiving party is often relieved and very, very grateful to hear a true and raw feeling coming out of another human’s mouth. And yet we play this desperately casualgame, suggesting rather than planning, only doing anything “if you want to.” “You’re welcome to stop by.” “Maybe I’ll see you there.” Le groan. No wonder it took my first boyfriend and I several weeks of seeing each other to finally admit—drunkenly, VIA TEXT, that we liked each other. OK sure, that could be chalked up to a few other reasons that I won’t get into now, but honestly. Why is it so hard for us to admit we like someone?

Last year, I had a tiny crush on this boy I worked with, and I made the mistake of telling an especially drunk friend at our holiday party. She, of course, walked straight up to said boy immediately after I confided this delicate secret and yelled and giggled at him, while I watched, horrified. Although I didn’t actually hear their conversation, the way he kinda looked at me differently afterwards was pretty solid evidence that she’d told him. Naturally, I was enraged. How dare she tell him such an obviously embarrassing thing, and how dare I like a nice, funny, and somewhat attractive human male??? The shame it would bring upon my family!

Obvious sarcasm aside, I was honestly shocked by my own feelings. Why was it so terrifying/humiliating/angering that he knew I liked him? Wasn’t this better for me, weren’t we all on the same page now? The short answer was no. Every time he attempted to speak to me after that night, I made a goddman fool of myself, and he probably wondered why I was slowly transforming into a tomato (that, ladies and gentlemen, was an extremely sloppy metaphor for my very intense and ever-increasing blushing. The best metaphors are the ones that need the most explaining, if I’m remembering my Rules of Writing correctly). For whatever reason, after that night I just felt super uber vulnerable, which, in spite of that fairly famous TED talk, can feel really shitty. I guess that’s why no one ever wants to admit they might possssssibly have a teeeeeeeny tiiiiiiiiny hint of a crush; when you don’t show your hand, you are not vulnerable, and when you are not vulnerable, you are in control.

Here is the point where, in a well researched and well structured essay, I would bring up various counterpoints to the flawlessly executed argument above, and either acknowledge the coexistence of contradictory data, or shoot each counterpoint down like a rubber pigeon. (is that a thing? I feel like I’m inventing a lot of cultural norms tonight and I’m honestly to lazy to look them up #factcheckingisforlosers)

This is where Tinder inevitably has to rear its usually ugly, but sometimes decent-looking head. Tinder, and Hinge and Grindr and OK Cupid and Bagel Meets Coffee and Plenty of Fish and what I assume to be billions of more hookup/dating apps and websites out there (just did the #math on that, it checks out), are sort of a bunch of counterpoints, plotted against my main line of reasoning here. (Was that a #math joke? I think it was). See, a ton of fucking people use these apps (sorry for all of the #math tonight), whose sole purpose is to connect people with others so they can touch each other’s bodies (heh) and maybe sort of kind of be okay with each other’s company in the process. And real people, while matching with each other and chatting with each other on these various apps, are openly admitting to the world that they are looking for love, or just someone to put their crippling loneliness at bay. Sure, not everyone will admit to you in person that they have spent (carefully chose not to use the word “wasted” there) hours of their precious freedom swiping and liking and heart-ing and nope-ing and messaging strangers, but it’s starting to become a lot less stigma-y. I mean Tinder is pretty much the only fucking thing I talk about ever, even with people who have never touched a dating app. It shouldn’t be stigmatized, because fuck you if you don’t want to meet people in the MODERN WORLD. Granted, they might turn out to be total furtadas, but that is the risk you take when you put yourself out there. Oh and also, DIFS, bro. Do It For the Story. Bro.

But here is where I have to circle back on my own argument, again. (isn’t this such a treat to read??) Perhaps the reason Tinder (and the rest of them, but honestly, who gives a shit about the rest of them) is so popular is that it is a very low risk dating method. If you decide at any point after matching with someone you don’t like them, you can stop answering their messages. Or you can just go right ahead can unmatch them, no questions asked, and they have NO WAY OF EVER FINDING YOU AGAIN. Unless you match with them on Hinge like three days later. Awkwardddddd. You can even chat with them for weeks, agree to meet up, and then totally blow them off. I mean you shouldn’t, because that’s rude, but you CAN. And that, mis amig@s, is a lot of control, paired nicely with very few real world consequences. Like an Argentinian bistec and a hearty Malbec. So really what all these dating apps allow us to do is simultaneously announce to the world that we’re ready to date (or fuck) and that we want to put in the minimum amount of effort and time. And if we’re ever the slightest bit out of our comfort zone, we can bail. Everything is casual and no one cares and we’re all going to die someday.

Sorry, what? All I’ve eaten today is popcorn and chocolate chips and wine. Back on track here.

Honestly, I haven’t had great luck with Tinder dates. Or most dates. So it’s a high probability that it’s just me. Because my friends have met really cool and talented and fun and wonderful people on Tinder. So I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, but I like to think I just haven’t given it enough of a shot. Like many a male Tinder user has mansplained to me (as an explanation for swiping right to literally every girl), it’s a game of chance. The more people you bump into, the higher chance there is of you finding someone you connect with. I was going to make some kind of chemistry reference here, with like atoms or photons or protons, but I honestly couldn’t remember which of these little guys would be appropriate to reference, or how they interacted. I dropped Premed for a reason. Covalent bonds? Kinetic energy? There’s a metaphor here somewhere, I swear.

Anyways, this has been a very shallow and silly blog post and I’m happy I wrote it. Dating is fun and stupid and awful and exciting and boring and funny and I will never date again and I hope I go on a million more dates within the next year and a half. Remember ladies, boys ruin lives but they’re fun to have around at low-culture social engagements and Wiccan rituals. Happy swiping! I mean, dating.