I Don't Hate Dating Apps—I Hate This Aspect of Them
As seen in my newsletter.
I DON'T HATE DATING APPS. I NEVER HAVE.
That's had more to do with not wanting to direct hate (i.e. energy) towards something I had little to no capacity to change or control. The only thing I've ever had control over was my relationship to them. So anytime I downloaded Hinge or Bumble or what have you to my phone, I went in with beyond low expectations. I assumed the experience would be nothing short of shitty. That conversations would dead end left and right. That people I swiped on wouldn't swipe on me. That most initial chats would be mediocre at best. That way when anything went down that was mildly better, I was always pleasantly surprised.
But that was also when dating in person was more feasible. When I could use the apps as an occasional springboard, but focus my primary efforts on mustering up the courage to ask the cute guy at the coffee shop what he was reading. Truth be told, all of my partners across the last 13 years, from multi-year relationships to five-month stints I've met in person. When that's been your track record, it's a whole lot easier to not feel the disappointing burden of the apps.
But then, a global pandemic. (Though side note: I actually don't think meeting people in person is entirely impossible right now. If you're able to get ballsy and creative with it, MASK INCLUDED, there could be some pretty great outcomes.) And so, as I've already shared here, girlfriend had to get on the apps. Well, not "had to." Rather, I felt called to because I felt ready to begin the process of meeting my next partner this spring.
Last week I was catching up with a friend who's going through a breakup. In discussing the larger landscape of dating, she defiantly uttered:
I'm by no means getting on a dating app anytime soon.
Rightfully so. She's not ready. And more importantly, she knows it. She has enough self awareness to know she's got a sizable road of processing and healing ahead, before she dips her toe back in the proverbial dating pool.
But the ease of the apps—the quick download, slapped together profile, tantalizing swipe—make it all so easy to gloss over those feelings of loneliness and discomfort. Of pain and waiting. Of processing your past. Of even looking at your past. It's so much easier (initially) to mute all those messy feelings and just say "Fuck it. Maybe I'll meet someone?" Even though you know in your bones you won't. You just won't right now.
I'm not judging this person because I was this person. So few of us can gauge when we are or aren't ready to date. Or maybe it's that we can and we just choose to ignore it out of fear of being alone. Maybe you can. And maybe you don't choose to ignore it. But with the apps, you're still swimming in a sea of people who don't operate with such intention.
I'm not one to lament this reality, or really any reality I have little jurisdiction over. I find much of the frustration we experience in dating stems from the energy we devote to feeling victimized by the apps. Hate them? Get off of them. Feel helpless without them? Like there's no other way to meet someone? Get curious about that feeling versus plotting the death of the founders of Tinder.
I don't mean to sound so harsh. And I'm not, really, I'm quite a doting momma bear. I do acknowledge it's a frustrating landscape. But I'm much more interested in saying "Ok, this is what I'm dealing with. How do I work with this? How do I work this to my advantage as much as possible?"
That's the very spot I found myself in mid-March when I reentered Hinge-land. And without in person dating at my disposal, not to mention folks using online dating in general to quell the pandemic-flavored feelings of uncertainty and loneliness they were now facing, I found myself having to prime my mind (for lack of a better phrase) for dating in this fashion. Why go to such great lengths? Because in the same way, permitted we have a strong sense of self, we can know we're NOT in a place to date, we can also know we're very much IN a place to bring someone new into our life. I was in the latter camp.
Excited but still apprehensive about navigating murky online waters, here were my guiding principals. So far, it's lead to numerous wonderful conversations, two wonderful but ultimately not right when we connected in person guys, and one stellar match I'm in the midst of exploring:
Back to those pandemic-flavored feelings—I anticipated dealing with an onslaught of folks who just wanted to chat. That were juuuust looking for someone to keep them company whilst biding their time at their parents house or alone in their apartment. Instead of getting frustrated with those folks, I simply quickly ended the conversation when it became clear they were only interested in temporary virtual company. There's nothing wrong with solely wanting that. It was on me whether or not I decided to fall victim to it.
I realized, too, I'd likely experience some odd behavior I'd never experienced before simply because we're living in such unfamiliar times. Just people being, well, weird in a new way, I suppose. And not even weird per se, just grappling with this jarring time. Instead of letting it jostle me, I consistently worked to separate myself from their behavior. Again, it was my choice whether I decided to take it personally or not.
I didn't waver on what I actually wanted, which was a committed relationship. I've heard it both ways: It's impossible to meet someone right now! When will we ever see people again??? And OMG dating is AMAZING right now. I chose to believe the latter. Not in a white washing sort of way, but more so in a this-is-how-I-want-to-live-my-life way. I want to believe, even in uncertain times, including ones I've never experienced, it's possible to connect deeply with someone. I just do. That is my choice. It doesn't mean it will be a cake walk. Pandemic or not, it never is. But a possibility? Yes. Without a doubt.
It feels important to clarify that the above mindset is accessible to me because I've done a whole lot of work on myself in the last 18 months. I've spent most of that period not dating. In that way, it's just as important to date as it is not to date when it comes to the quality of your experience. It also doesn't mean the last four months weren't without disappointment or hardship. I learned some hard lessons about myself. I matched with some people I really did not like. I got my feelings hurt. I was pleasantly surprised. If that's not dating, what is?