By Nicole Schnitzler
It’s been nearly a decade since I’ve given up anything for Lent, and after squashing my slacker makeshift resolutions — “No alcohol, but weekends are OK” or “No House of Cards, except for reruns” — only one vice at once important enough and possible enough to give up came to mind: Tinder.
As a two-year Tinder user, I had begun to regard it as a crutch, a device that I would find myself leaning on for moral support and an ego boost in the most unnecessary of times. At a stoplight? Swipe right. Taxiing before takeoff? Left, definitely left. At a bar surrounded by cute guys? Hide the screen with your left hand in between sips of your G&T, and swipe right incessantly. I was disturbed, too, about just how much time I had devoted to a process whose aftermath left me with feelings not unlike those provoked by a Bachelor episode: guilt, with far fewer minutes in the day and even fewer brain cells to help me process it. I realized that quitting Tinder wasn’t just something I could do; it was something I needed to do.
I ensured that my photos and one-liners were solid enough to last the next 40 days and offered a mental goodbye to my future queue of unsolicited selfies and lies about height.
I ensured that my photos and one-liners were solid enough to last the next 40 days and offered a mental goodbye to my future queue of unsolicited selfies and lies about height. Meanwhile, I offered regretful, sailor’s-wife farewells to the established matches I had spent hours acquiring, questioning whether I was sabotaging the potential between us by going MIA for a month.
My past experiences had proven this hesitation to be unnecessary, however. I always admired the men steeped in mystery who prompted an unrequited swipe from me, only to return after weeks of inactivity with an ever so sly “Hey.” I considered being offline for a month a win-win — a purposeful restraint that would leave my hands free and my Tinder feed potentially full come Easter Sunday.
But there was a catch: timing. I had been chatting with a rather qualified suitor throughout February, and after a handful of failed attempts, we scheduled our first date for February 19, the beginning of Lent (i.e., the end of my online dating career). All my eggs were being packed into one heavy (from muscle and height, no less) pre-Easter basket, and his name was Elliott.*
We invested equal effort into sharing anecdotes and a strong appetite for two dates, each one begging for another to follow. The day after our third get-together, I awaited a text that never came. Within hours, the questions began to stockpile: Was it because I proclaimed Valentine’s Day as my favorite holiday? Or that I grew up traveling the country for productions of The Phantom of the Opera and Cats? No, no — surely it was because I had dill in my teeth. Screw those langoustines.
Three days went by without a word. I volleyed the prospects in my head as frequently as I argue the pros and cons of heels on a first date. He had initiated every date thus far. Was it my turn? No, the dill ruined all chances of eating together again. But we made out when he dropped me off. It was out of kindness. He clearly felt bad about the dill.
In the lonely hours that passed, Tinder was the form of familiar validation that I craved most. I looked at my calendar and tapped my toe fiercely, realizing that I didn’t have the luxury of getting innocuously cat-called through a screen for another 23 days.
By day four, I had to work intently to avoid the increasing magnetism of my phone. Was I being rejected? And if I was, was it because of the truths that I had revealed three nights prior, i.e., because of who I really was? I could handle getting passed over on Tinder, the app being rooted in physical appearances alone — though, frankly, that was only thanks to its ego-thrilling “notify only if matched” engineering. But being readily dismissed by a real human being — dare I say one I liked — made me feel like my training wheels had been ripped off, and the fall had impact. In the absence of a text from Elliott, Tinder’s red flame beamed brighter than ever, like a beacon I could recommit myself to in an instant. It was the first time in more than two weeks that I had missed it.
My thumb seemed to be shaking from swipe withdrawal, and my psyche was clamoring for the buzz of a 3 a.m. message along the lines of “Nice legs” or “So, do you like The Great Gatsby?” These were messages that, in their misogyny or mundanity, would occasionally lead to a blocked or unmatched profile — but not before granting me the same millisecond of validation I achieved from the bus driver’s giving me once-over on a day otherwise void of any male eye contact (even after a $100 haircut?). In the lonely hours that passed, Tinder was the form of familiar validation that I craved most. I looked at my calendar and tapped my toe fiercely, realizing that I didn’t have the luxury of getting innocuously cat-called through a screen for another 23 days.
Upon returning home, my roommate asked the question I had dreaded every day since the date: “Have you heard from him?” The answer had remained the same, but I noticed that my attitude had shifted drastically, from optimistic to hopeless to devastatingly confused.
“I feel like you shouldn’t have given up online dating,” she responded. “Right now you could be planning, like, three more first dates and could totally forget about this dude.” She was right. But my pact was strong, and as Elliott — and not just the idea of him — trickled into my thoughts, I realized I didn’t want the quick fix of more first dates. I wanted a fourth date, and I wanted it to be with him.
For the first time in a long time, I was committed to participating in something that could grow. From a landslide of former “pass” and “like” choices came one: to pursue or not to pursue.
For the first time in a long time, I was committed to participating in something that could grow. From a landslide of former “pass” and “like” choices came one: to pursue or not to pursue. The lack of dating-app distractions had necessitated an unforeseen shift in my motives while renewing a vital life skill: the ability to recognize something good when it was right in front of me and, perhaps even more importantly, the desire to want to do something about it.
Fortunately, pre-online dating days had left me with a decibel of primitive swagger along with another calling for my right thumb: a text and a backhanded request for another date in the form of a friendly — albeit far from sly — hello.
*Name has been changed.
