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I quit Tinder in February. But I downloaded it again six weeks later. Tinder gives me something that I ardently crave and, for now, something I can’t live without.
When I joined Tinder, I didn’t have any expectations. I’d just heard friends say, “Tinder is fun. You should try it.” So I did. And it was indeed fun–the millisecond-long buzz of getting a match, the hour-long giddiness of exchanging flirty messages with someone. But, of course, when the messaging was that good–if a guy and I had a good writing rhythm, if he was impressing me without trying to impress me, if he used his commas and apostrophes in the right places, if he was making me laugh–well, then I couldn’t help but wonder about the real person behind the carefree wit and proper punctuation.
If you ask me, meeting people who you only “meet” on Tinder is the one thing that’s wrong with the app.
I’ve been on good Tinder dates and bad Tinder dates. I’ve even been on one unbelievably bad Tinder date, during which the guy spent the first 20 minutes talking about a woman on whom he had a crush before excusing himself from the bar when the woman happened to call. He spent the next 20 minutes standing outside and talking to her on his cell phone. (When he returned to his seat, I promptly left without finishing my drink.)
I averaged around one Tinder date a week between August and February, so that’s about 28 dates. But let’s round that up to 30 (which is still a modest calculation, considering that there were times when I had three or four dates a week and/or two back-to-back dates a night). Thirty dates in seven months is nothing to sneeze at, but 80% of those were first dates. And, let me tell you, there’s nothing like going on 30 Tinder dates (and feeling like you have nothing to show for them) to make you reassess what you truly want from the app.
So I quit Tinder cold turkey. And, for a while, I didn’t miss it at all.
About six or seven weeks after I deleted the app, however, I got an itch. No, not an itch. A pang. My stomach was wringing and twisting itself like a tightly wound rope. The discomfort wasn’t so painful that I couldn’t bear it, but it was painful enough that I wanted to do something to stop it. What did I think would end the discomfort? The short answer: Attention. The specific answer: Male attention. (And you know the kind of attention I’m talking about–attention from a guy you’re actually attracted to and not, say, from a well-meaning toothless fellow who’s confident enough to holler when he sees you, but who, quite frankly, doesn’t stand a chance.)
Sometimes you just need a quick fix, a moment of brief yet significant male interaction. Well, for me, Tinder works specifically to supply this kind of quick fix. I’ve found that Tinder is, in fact, the world’s fastest and most reliable dealer of this kind of quick fix.
Let’s not confuse “quick fix” with a quickie (or any sexual euphemism for that matter). Yes, Tinder has a reputation for being a digital pimp. Yes, it’s the e-home of the hookup and the one-night stand (though you may not know it’s a one-night stand until you find yourself not seeing the person ever again).
Yes, Tinder is all those things. Tinder is also kismet’s slot machine. It stimulates the “jackpot!” high you get when you’re face-to-face with potential romance. Or, for an IRL equivalent that’s not gambling related: It’s the moment you make eye contact with the cute guy standing by the DJ booth; it’s what happens when you and Handsome Stranger share a smile as you pass each other on the street, and then both of you turn around at the same time to see if the other is still looking; it’s the initial rush you received in high school when you found out someone you had a crush on liked you back.
There’s nothing like the feeling you get at the moment of mutual attraction (which is essentially the moment when you “match” with someone on Tinder and, minutes later, he sends you a “You’re gorgeous!” message). Even before Tinder came around, I was addicted to that rush. The suspense and wonder that it carries, thinking, for a second, “This could be it….” It’s not that I was always conjuring up daydreams about marriage or a boyfriend or The One with every guy I liked who also liked me. It’s just that…well, for a second, there was hope. There was hope for nothing in particular, yet there was still hope. Call it the Could be! Who knows? anticipation that Tony sang about in West Side Story (something’s coming, something good…maybe tonight).
That Could be! Who knows? buzz was the quick fix I needed on the day my stomach was having a fit. It’s also the high I have been chasing the f**k out of for all my dating life. Little did I know that when I signed up for Tinder, I’d found the ultimate pusher man. And not even two months after swearing off any dealings with the app, I desperately wanted to reconnect.
I didn’t immediately return to Tinder that day, but it wasn’t long before I was reloading the app to my phone. When I did, I felt the same guilt as when I’ve lit up a cigarette after quitting smoking for a while. It felt shameful yet inevitable. In the back of my mind, I knew I’d turn back to Tinder, but it would’ve been nice to have stood my ground.
Part of me feels like a junkie who can’t get clean. When I first joined Tinder it was out of curiosity, then it turned out that I liked Tinder, so I kept using the app for the fun of it (the high, the chase, the buzz). And the more I used Tinder, the more dates I went on. But the more dates I went on, the more my dating expectations shifted and the less fun Tinder became. So then I quit, but, now, I’m back again. And I’m back on Tinder because I was craving the fun of it (the high, the chase, the buzz) and….
Well, if you’re wondering: Yes, I do see how this may be the beginning of the cycle repeating itself. But I’m not worried. (“Worried,” of course, is a relative term and I use it for lack of a better word. Paying my rent on time is something to worry about. Downloading an app, deleting it, then downloading it again is not.)
I’ve been back on Tinder for a little more than a month now, and I’m much more casual about it this time around. I typically only open the app after I’ve had a few at happy hour, like the person who only smokes cigarettes when she’s drinking. I’ve been on two dates so far, but, in general, I’m trying to do the app-dating thing with very little actual dating this time around. Dates are where the Tinder game changes for me (from giddy excitement to edgy expectations) and I’d rather just be in the Tinder game for the quick fix.
If you also have the app, then maybe you’ve figured out your own rules for winning the Tinder game. If so, what are they? Are you in it for dates? Are you in it just for the fun of matching? Can you relate to being hooked on the quick-fix feeling that I talked about? If you’re a former Tinder Roni who’s now living a successfully Tinder-free life, how was your experience quitting the app?
All addicts swear they’re not addicts. It will be different this time. I personally don’t think I’m addicted to Tinder. If I was/am, then quitting the app cold turkey in February helped to tame the hungry beast. I like to think that I’m now weaning myself off of Tinder, that one day I’ll be completely Tinder-free. But while the need for a quick fix of male attention still prevails, sometimes I gotta “Tinder while I taper.“
