My pure hatred of dating apps only intensified when I realized the sheer trenches of the selection on Hinge as I was scrolling this past Friday. As I swiped through numerous insufferable profiles while thinking about how mine was obviously fundamentally different, I saw someone I’d seen on Hinge four years ago. Cringe!
The fact that they hadn’t managed to get off the apps in four years was incredibly embarrassing. I can’t believe that out of all places, they were still looking on Hinge. Four years of no action? Four years of mindless swiping ? That could not be me. I observed their dog photos and their futile attempts of humor in their prompts, feeling a sense of pity and disdain while marveling at how ingenious my hiking photos were in comparison. I wondered what had kept them here for four years: commitment issues? Bad in bed? A nagging feeling that you’ll never be good enough no matter how you present yourself to the outside world, and no matter how much time passes? That last one is too realistic; there’s no way someone who has that many introspective thoughts is still on Hinge, I thought, as I reminisced about my latest diary entry.
As I continued to psychoanalyze their profile, I felt a pang of connection, even nostalgia. In a sense, I was in a committed, long-term relationship with them – I’d seen them through their freshman days to us both now as seniors. I watched as they gradually replaced more family photos with DigiCam shots from Tap Haus or Raleigh’s, and as their prompts gradually reduced in quality and in hope. How interesting it is to witness the downfall of a romantic. I’m way too cool and full of love to do anything like that.
Out of curiosity, as I laid in my bed at 1 in the morning, alone, on a Friday night, I picked a slightly tasteful photo on their profile and sent a feeble “heyyy”. People on Hinge suck. Couldn’t be me!
amen sista