Tinderised
We had the latest ‘Dolly’ magazine open in front of us. Jane was eating snifters and I was reading. “Sex tips for beginners”; “Shorts for all sorts”; “Fun ways to burn fat”; “I got called a fat bitch every day at school”; and “Could you be addicted to chocolate?”.
Goddammit, I was addicted to chocolate. And I was fat. No shorts. I pressed my face against the black mesh of the trampoline; it smelt of hot plastic and dry summer grass. The weave made odd visual effects when I lay with my cheek against it.
We pored over the sex tips and did the multi-choice quizzes again and again.
There was lots of advice about how to be beautiful and love myself. The more I read, the emptier and uglier I felt. Same as Tinder; tells me its going to find me connection and intimacy but instead makes me feel the lack of it more intensely than ever.
I’ve been shocked to find myself insidiously becoming addicted to the little rush of pleasure and affirmation when I check my phone first thing in the morning and see a fresh little flame icon. And when I check my phone second thing in the morning. And third thing. And when the little flames peter out I want to go back, fan the flames and generate some more.
Now I’m a mother myself, I know that my own mother loved me more than anything in the world, and that she taught me all that she knew about how to be happy. But she never had to navigate a path through the relational and the digital worlds of love.
On Sunday, Lena and I were laughing like crazy about this guy she met on Tinder. So, where’s he from? I said, and she said he was from Estonia, and that was the only thing she knew about him.
He sent her little messages every day. For more than a year now; a different one every day. Like today: “There is nothing more beautiful than someone who goes out of their way to make life beautiful for others”, or on Wednesday, “The best and most beautiful things in this world cannot be seen or even heard, but must be felt with the heart”. Or last Friday “When you see the world through serene eyes, you generate peace wherever you go.” She’s come to like it.
At first, she replied with questions, but “Estonia” was the only reply she’s ever got. Otherwise its all inspirational messages.
She used to reply every time, so he wouldn’t feel bad, like “you are so right” and “true dat” and sometimes, if there was a religious flavor about the quote of the day, “amen!” Now she generally doesn’t reply, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference to him; he keeps sending them regardless.
It’s been staring me right in the face, but it feels amazingly freeing to realise that I’m addicted to Tinder, and it’s designed that way. Tinder is gamified — designed to be addictive, designed to make me spend money. Not designed to find me long term love. In fact, Tinder doesn’t want me to find long term love because then I’ll have no need for the app.
I get a dopamine hit while using the app, then it drains away when I put it down, making me crave the app again. Each ‘like’ I get gives me an endorphin rush.
The intermittent, unexpected matches light up the reward centres of my brain just like a pokie machine. It’s a reinforcement schedule deliberately designed to drive compulsive behaviour. Except I know to watch out for pokie machines.
The research says that the more choices we feel we have, the less likely we are to be able to make any choice at all. Is this endless stream of supposedly available men actually reducing my chances of finding love? After a few hours of swiping and bantering, I feel cognitively overloaded, kind of sick like I’ve had too much of something like Coke; that has no taste-memory and so never leaves me satisfied.
The volume makes it harder to choose, and harder to be chosen.
Anyone I exchange meaningful words with on Tinder tends to hate Tinder as much as I do. The conversation usually goes something like “hi”… yeah I’m getting out of here so if you want to keep talking, here’s my number.”
It feels very random. The speed of the swipes, and the sheer numbers of faces I pass by just reminds me that I’m only an image myself; getting swiped away.
By being here, I’m doing the very opposite of how I would be done by. I want to have someone take the time to get to know me, to appreciate my uniqueness. I want to be slowly explored and finally known. I want to have a loving witness to my life, and to witness the inside of someone else’s life, too. It’s a gift; to be trusted to see it the way a partner does, well, the way the kind of partner that I want does. It is the thing that makes life wonderful, and I want it again.
I’ve identified a few Tinder ‘types’, which I will now share with you for sociological research purposes:
- The secretly married type. This profile has no selfies, only artfully composed romantic landscapes.
2. The un-secretly married type; “I’m in a sexless marriage and staying for the kids”. Naively seduced by nature photography as an online dating beginner, I tried talking to a variation on one of these:
So, why is there no picture of you in your profile? Are you really ugly or something?
Actually, I’m married.
Whaaat? What are you doing here?
I’m just lonely, looking for a conversation
Have you tried having a conversation with your WIFE? Maybe about the problems in your relationship?
I’ve tried talking to her; she doesn’t listen to me.
Maybe you don’t need a Tinder date; maybe you need a friend. Where is your wife now?
Sitting across from me.
3. The heartbreakingly sincere and honest man, unskilled in the art of selfies, not the best speller, who is just looking for a nice, caring lady for friendship and hopefully more one day.
4. The tattooed surfer listed as working at ‘self-employed’ and educated at ‘university of life’ who loves travel, enjoys burgers, beer and strawberries and excessive emojis.
5. Then there’s the selfie of the tanned torso with the face lopped off, looking for no strings attached entertainment. 420 DTF ONS LOL. Investigate further and there’s a dick in silhouette in one of the other pictures.
6. There’s the kind, normal looking project manager who blurts out “so, I’ve been trying this for a while and got no hits so I’m gonna try something different — are you up for a one night stand?”. My diagnosis is that a one night stand isn’t really what he’s after, but his anxiety and desperation feels as infectious as Covid.
7. The unpreposessing man standing in an arrogant pose in his undies (in bad lighting), with the tagline “You could be the lucky one. Are you DTF? Cause this is a hook-up app, right?”
8. The mustachioed, polyamorous hipster whose photos are artfully posed and lit; one photo in a well-fitting suit, another in a batman mask, another as a best man at a wedding, with his arm carelessly around the bridesmaid; flower in his buttonhole and flirtatious smile.
9. Pale, grim-faced, dark eyed close-up. The depressive whose second photo is in black and white zombie makeup and downright frightening. No smiles here.
10. The good looking, normal looking science teacher who is in an open relationship, “happily married, the wife knows I’m on here, in fact, this is our shared profile. we’re looking for a number three to spice things up.”
11. And then, very occasionally, there’s a normal, kind, single man who is willing to smile, (apparently) wants an actual relationship, and is willing to meet in person.
Wish me luck.
Louise Rutherford
Loves information, art, science and technology, hot cross buns and complex organic forms
