At the Tinder Mercies of My Family
Don’t let them swipe for you
“Is that Tinder? Let us see.”
My aunts take my phone. A cold chill floods my veins and the sunny day outside turns suddenly dark. Adrenaline spikes. I’m in full-on survival mode.
“Actually, I think I just got a text. Can I have my phone back?” My voice shakes.
They laugh at me. “We’ll just make a few adjustments. How do you get into the editing mode?”
“You press the power button for a few seconds.”
“Very funny. We’ll just make a few minor tweaks. A little fix here and there.” They’re lying. I can see it. I can’t predict what sweeping alterations they’ll make. But my carefully curated bio will be no more.
Any chance for refusal is lost as grandma leans in to get a look. Her face twists in horror. “Why is she naked?”
“Grandma, she’s got a swimsuit on. It’s no big deal.”
“She’s not the right one for you,” my aunts agree. They’re like sharks on a blood trail. So united in their editing frenzy that their voices begin to blend. They’re literally forming into a single entity bent on destroying my dating prospects.
“You don’t have to do this,” I whisper.
“Unfortunately, we do. How do you go to the next one?”
“You swipe right.”
“Nice try. We know we must swipe left.” The swimsuit girl disappears. The next profile appears and is rejected too. And the next. And the one after that. Too much skin. Too little written in their bio. Some for no reason at all.
“She has unkind shoulders? What does that even mean?” I’m pulling my hair out at this point. Actual great clumps that land on the table and blow back into my face, even though there shouldn’t be any wind. Tears are leaking from both the hair in my eyes and the sheer frustration.
“You need better standards, nephew. Half these girls are in their underwear.”
“That last one was wearing a burka!”
“Hm. Alright, how do we go back and find her again?”
I slump in my seat. Put my head in my hands. “You can’t. It doesn’t work like that. And we don’t need to. It was just an example. Please, let me see my phone again.”
Grandma speaks up. “Why is this girl sending you messages?”
“That’s Sandra. We matched already. Don’t say anything to her, I’ve already been sending too many messages, I don’t want her to think I’m desperate.”
Grandma’s eyes narrow. The breath hisses between her teeth. “No one ignores my grandson.”
“Grandma, no. Just ignore it,” I plead.
“‘Love my grandson, you hussy’” Grandma reads as she types. She frowns. “I hate these touch screens, the keys are too small.” She shows me what she’s written.
Lubmy Grindsin, you hubbyy. Message sent at 1:43 pm.
“Grandma, why did you write ‘sent at 1:43 pm?’”
“Hang on, what’s this?” my aunts say. They take the phone back. Their combined brow furrows.
“What’s what?”
A smile spreads across their face. “I think we’ve found the perfect girl for you.” They show me. It’s a picture of a brick wall. Someone spray-painted a smiley face on it. Not even a good one. It looks like the artist tripped partway through so that one of the dots for eyes became a line that descends and crosses out the mouth. Half the face is a giant red X.
“Her name’s Bertha.”
The profile reads, I only date guys my height. I’d put her at least ten feet tall. Out of my reach.
“What exactly makes you think this is the one?”
“Look at her. She’s not like the others. Just look at that smile. You could do worse.”
“I could also do way better.”
“Ian, how dare you. This girl is doing the best she can.”
“That girl is a brick wall with a face drawn on it.”
My aunts fold their arms. “Well, it didn’t’ seem like you had options lining up around the block to meet with you.”
“I had one until Grandma got to her.” I point. Grandma’s made a voodoo doll in the likeness of Sandra and is busy stabbing its eyes. “Holy crap, Grandma. It looks just like her. How’d you do that? You only looked at her picture for like a second.”
My aunts tire of their editing. “Here, have your phone back. We won’t bother if you’re going to be ungrateful.” They toss me my phone. I screw up the catch and it collides with the wall. The screen shatters.
The last of my hair comes out easier than anything else I’ve ripped out.
“Don’t pick at your hair,” Grandma scolds.
I sigh. “Thanks, Grandma. You know what? It’s fine. I was going to delete the app anyway.”
