i suck at tinder: a true story

I wake up after another night out.

            I feel a tad worse for wear. I try to figure out what I actually got up to.

            I lean over and grab my phone from near my lamp. There are no messages or alerts or anything to give me some notion of the last evening’s activities. I keep scrolling across.

            And there it is. The little red flame, like a distorted upside down heart.

            Tinder.

            Dammit, Dave. Not again.

            Oh well, now it’s there, might as well give it another crack. I open it up and begin the soul-sapping process of judging women based on a handful of photos (mostly selfies, pics with cats/dogs, picturesque poses in front of international tropical/cultural/desert settings, or partying group shots), some Facebook affiliated ‘Shared Interests’ (a lot of ladies, it seems, like Seriously Chuffed Goats), and a brief ‘About’ description, which can be boiled down to statements like: ‘I live to travel,’ ‘I live for the gym,’ ‘I live for funny guys,’ ‘Intelligence is sexy,’ ‘Extra points for beards and/or tattoos,’ ‘I’m not DTF,’ ‘Creeps need not apply’ (as if that will stop them), ‘Not interested in your gym selfies, your abs, or pictures of you with a comatose tiger’ (guys actually do that?), ‘New to Melbs, just wanna make some friends to show me around,’ and ‘[insert inspirational/ reflective/political/Anchorman quote].’

            Let the swiping begin. Let the initially careful analysis and consideration of each profile slowly descend into the furious action of just swiping right to a) see if it’s working, or b) see if there is anyone out there at all who has judged me worthy. Let another round of few, to absolutely no, matches follow in its wake.

Well, ‘real’ matches. I don’t count it when that curiously joyous moment of physical validation which accompanies a Tinder match is immediately undercut by a message that offers the ‘full GF experience’ at reasonable rates.

Yeah, thanks, but I can do my whoring on my own time. Without an app.

            See, every time I embark on this shallow quest of left-for-no, right-for-yes, I realise that although I’m good, even excellent, at a great many things, Tinder is most certainly not one of them.

            I know this from addict-like practice instinctively and rationally. Yet, there is still some part of me that will seek out the app store when I’m not really paying attention and then, bang, its back for another round.

            It’s probably a mix of interrelated things that keeps allowing it to catch me unawares. Sudden surges in confidence (my ego is a wondrously fluctuating beast) leads me to mistakenly think, ‘ah hell, I’d be stupid not to in my current form!’ Tinder then presents itself as a really easy and impersonal option to play the numbers game: you get to faux-approach a lot of women without the rigmarole of having to, you know, ‘approach’ them. Finally, it is the perpetual inquiry from people around me when they find out I’m single: ‘you on Tinder?’ To which I usually reply, ‘nah, I’m shit at it.’ The seed, though, is again planted.

Later, despite my proclamations of being done with it, I’ll download Tinder, because it seems like my confidence, alongside an ease of access and this random assortment (of usually committed) people give me some kind of permission, bypassing both the awkwardness of being on it in the first place and the simple knowledge that, for me, it doesn’t work.

I ask myself then: why not? What is it about me that makes me so terrible at Tinder? Or at least so unattractive a prospect?

Besides the fact that I cannot grow a beard and refuse to scar my porcelain skin with tattoos—both of which are apparently mighty attractive in our day and age—I take awful photos, which is of course not ideal for a dating app designed for immediate aesthetic, skin-deep gratification, where coupling success is achieved, and measured, by means of appreciating how good someone looks in a few pics.

For me, who has always struggled when stared down by a camera, this is both a conscious and unconscious problem.

Consciously, I will often make stupid faces. Contorting my mighty large head into a variety of rubber expressions designed to shock and awe. My mouth will usually be wide open, my double-chin out and about with full bravado, one eye slightly closed, and my nostrils flared. Impressive though these photos may be on some level, I wouldn’t say that they are attractive. And there are a disturbingly high number of them. I've mastered the art of the dumb face when someone catches me unaware with a camera.

Unconsciously, my go to smile for pictures is kind of vanilla and a little bit disconcerting in its rigidness. In these, I poke my head slightly forward, rip my mouth open into a grinning rictus to expose my clenched teeth, and then freeze. It’s still and slightly unnatural, and my eyes are never quite focused. There is such an underlying intensity and concentration to look natural, that naturalness has packed its bags and said, 'fuck this, good luck buddy.' Turning around, the naturalness then says, with sincere pity, 'sorry, but without me mate, you look like a lot like a slightly unhinged manikin. Like a ventriloquist doll.'

Even then, with all my flaws at the end of the lens, I would think that some lady out there would be able to look past a couple of odd photos and mutter to themselves, ‘actually, not too bad.’

But, no.

This leaves me with only one possible option for my failures at Tinder: I’m too attractive. So good looking that it’s actually intimidating. Even in my awful photos does this sheer, sun-blinding hotness reach out and, alas, transpire against me. For who could be self-assured enough to swipe right to this?

It is my blessing. And curse.

Anyway, I’m going to delete it again.

I’ll be back in a fortnight.