I Won’t Let Dating Apps Decide Who to Love
There is more to me than my face
Call me jaded, call me secretly romantic, but I simply can’t bring myself to use dating apps anymore.
I’ve sung the praises of single life before, and it’s a life I enjoy greatly; but that does not mean I am opposed to sharing this world with another.
Just as it took me years to sign up for Facebook, I resisted Tinder for a similar period of time, even though it excluded me from so much office banter and exchanging embarrassing stories with friends. If I’m honest, creating an account filled me with dread.
Knowing that the dating world is at your fingertips might be exciting for some. What a relief to no longer be wasting time sitting in restaurants and wracking your brains thinking of something, anything, to say to someone who leaves you numb. No, I had far greater objections.
Compared to first-date social awkwardness, the idea of swiping left or right to include — or exclude — a complete stranger from your life seemed, to me, more than a little cruel. Mostly, I took issue with the idea that such rejection was based purely on someone’s photo.
As someone who is — let’s be polite — unattractive, my empathy is perhaps turned up a notch higher than others. Beauty may be subjective, but in a world where Instagram has become most people’s version of reality, it’s increasingly hard for anyone who doesn’t let a filter wash them away into a generic ocean.
Pre-apps, I’m sure that people have long been discriminated against based on their appearance. The social pages of newspapers and magazines world-over were always home to the beautiful. Unless there is the need for a villain or monster, television and film rarely dared deviate from carbon-copy bodies (and, even then, actors would be subjected to hours of make-up beforehand).
I am an acquired taste. My gauche personality oscillates between bitter and bland; neither enjoyable nor easy to digest. I am celery juice with a side of cauliflower. In pretty much every workplace, I have been disliked almost immediately until, over time, either Stockholm Syndrome set in or colleagues realised that, once I relaxed a little, I really wasn’t that awful to be around. In most cases, close friendships followed.
But on Tinder, Hinge et al, people like me simply don’t get a chance. And that makes me wonder: might I have found a partner had someone else been made to stick around in a Beauty and the Beast-style scenario that required them to see past my face? I understand that in a romantic relationship, physical attraction will always exert some influence, though I struggle to accept the idea that this can be one’s only worthwhile quality.
On every app I tried, I failed to match with a single person, not a one. Maybe it was because I wasn’t willing to pose in an infinity pool, to take off my shirt or stare pensively into the sunset with a cocktail in hand, or — in the case of Hinge — to answer the cheesy question stems that are meant to pass for being cute and quirky.
I feel lucky that I can see through apps for what they are. I’m too ugly to date? Not if I upgrade from a free to premium membership that will provide access to the 99-plus members who all like me. 99 admirers? I’d rather roll Cruella de Vil for her 101 Dalmatians. Sadly, I know so many people would fall for such a scam. Love, in a climate of cold-hearted capitalism, takes our heart and bleeds it for every cent; yet love and money have become synonymous, soul mates that have embarked upon a lifelong affair.
It isn’t all bad for some, I hear. One gay man told me that apps had eased his loneliness, explaining that before their existence, he was reliant on someone talking to him at a club or gay bar. On nights of silence, he felt completely alone.
But a close female friend of mine insists that if the choice is apps or nothing, she happily chooses the latter. The reason? The men, she told me, were bottom-of-the-barrel in a sleazy, unsafe kind of way that made her welcome solitude and realise she didn’t need a relationship at all.
So, what is left for those who do but don’t want to use apps?
Last year, I chipped away at the sturdy wall of solitude which I had spent years building and went on a date, much to the relief of my best friend who cried: “At last! You’re showing some vulnerability.”
In truth, I was just waiting for something that felt right, not forced. The date came about after connecting with someone in an online group for people of similar interests. And we had so many similar interests that to not meet seemed ridiculous.
About an hour in, we were having a meal when I noticed my date’s hand moving furtively over the screen of their smart phone. A cautious glimpse revealed that, the whole time we were together, they were using Tinder. The search for someone better than me began before we had even started. Time for me to swipe and move on too, it seemed. But I couldn’t do it. Instead, I listened attentively, asked questions, smiled politely.
After that, I vowed no more apps ever again. I left the café feeling remarkably strong and stoic, not even needing to tell myself the old fairy tale that there was still someone out there for me. Because, unlike my date, I had just given a stranger a proper chance.
