unhinged by ‘hinge’
I don’t preach about many things in life. Priding myself on being open-minded and eager to learn from others’ opinions, I’m rarely scathing of an idea or approach. The exception? Dating apps.
With seven million users in the UK, and one-in-three relationships now starting online, my abstinence from the apps felt a lone venture. But, after years of ranting and resistance, I have now tentatively dipped my toes into the pool, and I might just agree that the water’s not so bad once you’re in.
It was not that I have ever held myself above them, or placed any judgement on those that chose to use them, but I couldn’t ever comprehend the idea of using one myself. The vast majority of my friends use the apps, and I admittedly relish both the glorious and the ghastly tales of their dating experiences; but, I was still determined to keep this one aspect of my life away from the screen. I was adamant that love would strike me in front of my favourite Basquiat painting at an exhibition, or in a crowded jazz bar in Hackney.
With the whole word shifting into the cyber, relationships were the element of my life that I didn’t want influenced by algorithms. Having spent years trying to ween myself off this ubiquitous social-media addiction, I am wary of any more reasons to spend time staring at a screen. This seemingly blind conquest for online love didn’t seem worth the the stresses and anxieties that accompany social media and tech culture.
What’s more, I have not been actively looking for a relationship. My heart has always felt so full with incredible friendships, family, passions and interests, that I couldn’t quite fathom the idea of there being any room for such a demanding measure of love. Working as a contemporary dancer, constantly travelling or training, I never felt I had the time to date, particularly without the pre-filter of having known them beforehand. The little spare time I did have was spread amongst my pre-existing relationships, and all of the exciting culture and experiences that London has on offer. With my phone wallowing in the unreachable depths of my bag on ‘airplane mode’, texting tends to take a backseat; notorious for my 3 day delay on a text reply, the idea of “chatting” with multiple strangers online, felt an incomprehensible task.
Dating apps have always felt dangerously like online shopping for a partner; the degree of selectiveness we have, scrolling through 2D representations of humans, doesn’t feel far from buying a new dress from ASOS. The gnawing feeling that there might be better options on the other pages; the greed and compulsiveness that forces you to put all of the tempting options in your basket at once, and decide later. There always seems to be a foreboding of infidelity that comes along with such a bottomless catalogue of choice; or it feels like a game — flicking and swiping at the screen just as you would in ‘Temple Run’. What’s more, making rash judgements on your possible future life-partner from a sprinkling of photos and words has never seemed quite fair.
Whilst enjoying a picnic with some female friends during Lockdown, talk turned to their love prospects as facilitated by Hinge. I was struck with a sad realisation that my river really had run dry — along with my nether regions. Possibly intensified by the social isolation of Lockdown, I felt an unfamiliar yearning for a different kind of company. With this new abundance of time, the lack of work, and no future plans in place, the idea of dating suddenly felt enticing. The wise words of my friend Lily: ‘you won’t know what you’re missing unless you try it’, combined with my principle of always trying things at least once, pushed me over the brink.
Later that evening, I downloaded the app. I felt a traitor, disloyal to myself, a hypocrite. Next came the ordeal of trying to encapsulate who I was into a Hinge profile. How was I to distill my multi-faceted self — with nuances, imperfections, a history and complexities — down into a set of five photos and three sentences? How do I let these men know about my obsessive rituals; about my infatuation with ginger hair; that it takes me forty minutes to eat breakfast every morning; that, although I come from South-West London, I am definitely not a ‘South-West Londoner’; that although my profession says ‘dancer’, I will not do so on your lap.
The mission of selecting the five photographs left me scrolling back through the rust-clad albums of 2016 on my laptop, fishing for the best depictions of me — or rather, the depictions of the best me. Sprawled out across my bed — hair begging to be washed and sweat dripping down my forehead in the thick summer heat — the illustration of myself reflected back at me from my phone screen felt near laughable.
The first ten minutes spent looking through the catalogue of nearby singletons left the landscape of love looking dishearteningly barren. I went to bed convinced of my destiny as a single lady — no doubt shroud in the unfaltering love of friends and family, but most probably living in a house crawling with pet tortoises, and the owner of a dusty, cob webbed under-carriage.
Next came the inundation of promising candidates; I woke up to a dopamine-inducing influx of hearts waiting for me on my Hinge account. Inevitably, many were quickly passed as an unsuitable fit, however a fair few danced about in the realms of possibility, from as far as I could tell. At first, the novelty of the situation —of flirting with multiple strangers at once with no obligation —was quite enjoyable, though soon enough, I found myself flapping about frantically, trying to juggle twenty simultaneous conversations. I was drowning in a cesspit of meek one-liners and flirtatious remarks. My commitment to replying soon faded, my interactions simmering down to just two conversations, both of whose cyber-company I’d enjoyed so far.
I must say that, if Hinge is indeed an accurate depiction of London’s male-kind, then the level of humour and wit in this city is impeccably high and widespread. With a vast number of amusing profiles swaying me in their favour, I was left riddled with a scepticism as to whether this humour was indeed plucked from the depths of their minds, or from the depths of a google search. Common themes that arose amongst the London Hinge community: Ottolenghi, festival photos, “Yes” to alcohol, and photos that require an MI5 detective to figure out which of the three men in the photos is actually him.
I feel for the humans of Hinge, for they are caught in a real ‘Catch 22’: I’d like to be able to glean at least some useful information about them from their answers, however, too much sincerity and honesty sets off my internal “ick” like a fire alarm. It’s an unfair reaction, but it’s a natural reflex, and oh so loud. With perspective, the fact that they want a partner to “travel the world and cook with”, should really be nothing short of appealing, and totally acceptable, but somehow any answers that stray away from the banter-fuelled norm become off-putting. Honestly, I too am looking for a partner to “travel the world and cook with” — though I daren’t say so on the app.
The first message is an anxiety-inducing affair. The pressure to strike a good shot, to immediately win them over with a seemingly effortless, candid sentence. This one message could be the beginning, or the end, of the love of my life. One man asked me “how are you spending your day today Gaby?”, which sent me into a frenzy! The honest answer would totally repulse the poor guy — he was asking such question on a particularly unglamorous day. If I were to reply with the truth, that I’d just dropped of a stool sample at the doctors, I’m not sure I would’ve quite merited a second response. So, unable to muster the energy to create an elaborate, alternative answer, I ended up giving no answer at all.
I felt unhinged by Hinge. All of the good practices and self-security that I had worked hard to cultivate over the years flew out the window when the app flew in. Compulsive phone-checking, and scrupulous scrutiny of myself, and others, started to seep back into my subconscious. I feared that the app had totally undermined my core principles, in addition to clocking up my hours of screen time. Was the app indeed as insidious as I had feared? Catching myself mindlessly sifting through profiles whilst waiting at the Sainsbury’s checkout, made me think so.
Admittedly, it’s not all bad. Even with all of its pitfalls and plaguing, I have undoubtedly found positives in joining the dating-app epoch — as much as I’d like to proclaim otherwise. It has opened doors to a pool of fresh faces, in an age where it feels ever harder to meet new people — despite this supposed interconnectivity. Previously puzzled as to where all of the other singles were hiding, for I just couldn’t find them in front of the Basquiat paintings or in the crowded jazz bars in Hackney — despite my hopeful persistence — here they are. They do exist, and they are not too bad; in fact, some are quite wonderful. Four successful dates in one week, and the prospect of romance isn’t feeling quite so unfathomable anymore.
Though the question still lies, of why our generation needs to flock to these apps for help? What happened to glorious days of plucking up the courage to ask for someone’s number at the bus stop? I highly doubt it relates to a lack of bravery in our generation; arguably, we are more socially confident and comfortable than those that have come before us.
One explanation may be that caution has been the catalyst to this mass migration online. With the news teeming with stories of of sexual assault, rape and harassment, consent has been quite rightly brought to the forefront of our consciousness; the ‘Me Too’ movement has exposed traumatic tales of crossed lines and advantage taking; people are more cautious when it comes to making advancements, hence the culture of spontaneous approaches has dwindled.
On dating apps, intentions are laid plainly on the table for all to see, making it harder for them to be misconstrued. These apps have become safety nets, in an area laced with trip wires and booby traps. Yes, the cat-fishes and the creeps are still able to lurk in these online forums, but for the most part, people are just keen to find a safe way to meet new people, without being misunderstood as sleazy or inappropriate.
I’ve come to learn that the people behind these dating-app profiles aren’t all desperate, socially-inept, seedy or purely looking for a late-night bonking; they are the same as me: young, well-intentioned, tolerable humans, inquisitive about love, and baffled as to how to find it.
I am now trying to shed the shame that I associate with dating apps, having realising how normal it is to pursue this innate human desire to love and be loved. Together we remain, in the search for company, fresh perspectives, new ideas, and someone to cook Ottolenghi for.