This year, I’m going to start dating again. Since I’m a grizzled millennial, you know what that means: online dating.
Cue the weee-oowwwww reality-TV sound effect that conveys a dire warning. The apps can cause depersonalization, converting real human beings into little bursts of dopamine. The apps can offer a paradox of choice, where you’re tempted to keep swiping forever because, surely, there will always be someone hotter, cooler, a flick or two away. The apps can enable cheaters, players and con artists to expand their network not only locally but globally. The apps can reduce motivation to Actually Leave The House And Do Things With Other People.
But, in my opinion, the apps can also be … magic.
This may sound like I’ve had a small stroke, but hear me out. Rather than “wildly delusional,” I like to think of it as “hopeful.” Because I think that dating apps still have a lot to offer us.
First of all, where else are you going to meet such a wild cross-section of people from distinct social groups, age brackets and interest level in craft brews? The problem with meeting love interests organically is that similar humans tend to clump together: by hobby, by profession, by social class. Online, you can encounter all ages, all backgrounds, all different kinds of enthusiasts.
And all different dating styles and goals. One of the biggest buzzword trends of our time is being intentional about everything. And one of online dating’s biggest selling points is that you can state your intentions right up front, in writing! (Sure, some people may lie about what they actually want, but that isn’t unique to dating apps.) Looking for a Wednesday hook-up? Great! Only interested in a long-term relationship? Awesome! Solely want to lick armpits? Valid!
This type of transparency is a blessed relief. IRL, unless someone is wearing a wedding ring — which isn’t always foolproof; some people just happen to wear jewelry on their left hand — or their partner is lurking nearby, it can be difficult to tell who is available and who is not. This results in having to Columbo someone’s relationship status in a way that doesn’t telegraph home-wrecking predator. Queer folks also have to figure out if our crush is straight or not, let alone single. Exhausting! Add in neurodiversity that may make it harder to pick up on social cues or express interest in a chill way, and the entire operation can quickly turn from whimsical meet-cute to gruelling crucible of cringe.
But meeting the person of your dreams in line at the coffee shop is more authentic, you cry! And sure, it would be romantic to have your next relationship begin like a Glen Powell rom-com, but places to interact with dreamy strangers are dwindling at a troubling pace — especially once you age out of your 20s and 30s and go out less. Crippling inflation has curbed discretionary spending, making many hobbies harder to sustain. The sober trend makes bars unappealing to many. Church attendance is way down. Bookstores and queer bars are rapidly disappearing. Most wellness businesses like saunas and gyms discourage flirting to maintain a safe space.
Men don’t want to hit on women for fear of being seen as creepy; women bemoan the lack of flirtation from prospects (Toronto is especially notorious for this). So what’s a single person to do? Join a run club, apparently. (Absolutely not.) Or the proverbial cooking class. Or volunteer. All these things are great, but the irony is that doing this stuff explicitly to meet people isn’t any more organic than going on an online date. You’re actively “putting yourself out there” for the purpose of meeting potential partners, making it just as manufactured as matching on an app.
The last time I was single, I was in my early 30s and had a very busy social schedule. One of the deciding factors of whether I’d attend an event or not was whether cute potential dates would be there. Sometimes I wouldn’t be in the mood to go to this art opening or that house party, but I’d drag myself there, scope out the talent and shift my focus from the art or the music to my frantic mission to meet someone. Now, that — that felt transactional.
Now, at 42, I, like many others, am slightly baffled as to where I would meet people al fresco. I’ve been enjoying my self-care era, spending more time at home, hanging out with my pets, reading, having friends over for dinner. When I do go out, it’s to spaces that don’t engender tons of stranger interaction, whether it’s the movie theatre or the aforementioned sauna or intimate suppers with pals.
But there is somewhere I’ve met lots of people: online. Six months after a traumatic surprise breakup, I wanted to ease back into companionship, so I’ve spent the last year and a half having fun flings with folks I’ve met on Feeld, a queer-friendly sex-positive dating app for folks into things like ethical non-monogamy, casual encounters, and kink. Here in Toronto, I’ve had many meaningful encounters, from a jacked warehouse worker to a sassy little dad.
There’s another great thing about online dating; you can also meet people while travelling with very little effort — perfect for lazy people and introverts. When I landed at Newark, I beelined straight to the Bed-Stuy brownstone of a tattoo-covered cheese-cave manager; in Marina del Rey I left a dinner early to canoodle with a lanky blond hippie on a sailboat. I invited a hot teacher over to the Four Seasons in Montreal, and whiled away a lovely evening in Lisbon with an energetic student. In Ireland, a queer food stylist fluttered my heart, as did a pair of sweet London lads. I sent a thank-you note to my genteel-Southern-manners three-way couple in Nashville. They were all so different, so fascinating — and I never would’ve met any of them if it weren’t for online dating.
Now, I’m hopeful a more long-term match or two may await me in more traditional apps, too. There’s that word again: hope. The wide world beckons.
