Dating In The South: SATCC- 10 Horrifying Things Tinder Has Taught Me About Myself

Oh Blair, she has so many valuable life lessons in her articles. This one definitely caused for some…. self-awareness. For sure.

 

Which one of these numbers is you?????

 

And now I present, my friend Blair, of Sex and the Classic City- originally posted on The Broad Collective:

 

Tinder. Or as I like to call it my self esteem app.

Oh, how my sardonic little heart swoons every time the bubble indicating some random hot guy thinks I’m pretty pops up.

Seriously — why didn’t this exist sooner? When else in life can you traipse around wearing nothing but the Machine Head sweatshirt you stole from that gorgeously soulless guitar player you used to hook up with while judging the absolute crap (based on naught but appearance) out of a never ending supply of total strangers AND do something entirely judgement-worthy yourself like, say, eat half your body weight in tacos in said sweatshirt and underwear? WHEN, I ask you?

It’s literally glorious.

Here’s the catch with using the romantic technologies and not being an entirely vacant emotional cripple (despite your best efforts): you start noticing patterns. In yourself. They tend to be massive bummers.

Ever one for self reflection and over-sharing, here’s a list of ten horrifying things I’ve learned about myself since using Tinder. Not to ruin it for you, but I bet you can identify with at least one. My girlfriends all hate me now because they sure can. You know what they say though, “Misery loves company.” Strap on your crash helmets, kids. Here we go . . .

10. I am the shittiest feminist EVER. Like, whoever is in charge of these things should actually just revoke my lady bits now because, clearly, I don’t deserve to even have a vagina. I objectify myself. Was that my degree hanging in the background of that headless boob selfie? Because it may as well have been a Lil Wayne poster. What am I doing? Who AM I? How much male attention does one person need? Somewhere Gloria Steinem is weeping and it’s all my fault.

9. I have a superiority complex and am a snob over the dumbest stuff ever. Example: I assume anyone who uses the limited space provided to regurgitate any commonplace axiom like “work hard, play hard” to be a complete and total idiot. I’m sure you do work hard. And I, for one, know no other way to play than balls-to-the-wall hard. But at this stage is it absolutely imperative for you to say so? Whenever I read a stale catch phrase in lieu of self description like that, I have PTSD flashbacks of every lame date I’ve ever been on with a guy who couldn’t carry a conversation even if I had just handed him my Rebecca Minkoff satchel in which to do so. WOW. Mom and Dad must be so proud right now.

8. I am (unjustifiably) really, REALLY, super, ridiculously shallow. Apparently, I’m attracted to only about .00000000023% of the population. They all look exactly the same. Great — I’m a vapid, predictable asshole. Good to know.

7. I hate me because I hate you because of your stupid car selfie. Maybe you used to restore old cars with your dad. Maybe something happened to him (I hope not) and you built this sucker from the ground up in homage of some sort and are, rightfully, really proud of it. Maybe that is the reason that two of the three pictures you posted are of your ‘whip.’ In the moment though, I don’t care. At all. When instead of seeing a picture of your face, I see a picture of your freakishly maintained 2007 Mustang I honestly just assume you’re compensating for a mean case of baby dick. Then I get all sad. A) because grown man/ baby dick is sad and B) because now I hate you because you practically forced me to have bitchy thoughts.

6. I have FOMO like a MOFO. (That would be Fear Of Missing Out.) I have been genuinely distraught for, like, a solid ten minutes over accidentally left swiping a guy I then convince myself totally could have been ‘the one’ save the fact that we’ve never met, I know absolutely nothing about him, and he lives a geographically undesirable 167 miles away. Picture of mental health over here, folks.

5. My attention to detail is shit, i.e. I thought you were your much hotter friend even though that guy only appeared in one of your photos. Now I regret. Swiper’s remorse is a real thing, people. This is why group photos are just a terrible idea. ESPECIALLY on a platform that is as instant gratification driven as Tinder. I don’t have time to figure out which dude you are. I’m on Tinder for Christ’s sake. I just assumed the best possible case scenario. Because I’m an optimist like that. I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. I wanted to believe you were the handsomely chiseled guy at the center of that one picture. If you were the hot guy equivalent of Tinkerbell I’d totally be clapping right now because I BELIEVE. Alas, you have deceived me. We can never be for we can’t build a future on all these liessssss . . . but can I get your friend’s number though? No seriously. He’s pretty.

4. I have a grammar fetish and hold suitors to a grammatical standard I, myself, flout constantly. Ew. Really, self? We’re that girl? Possessing a commanding grasp of the English language denotes intelligence. Intelligence is sexy. Highly sexy actually. That much I’m fine with, but have you ever been cock blocked by the improper use of a gerund? Because I have. Fail.

3. I’m still an obnoxious, sullen, overly-entitled teenager when I don’t get my way. And even when I get my way I’m still a brat if takes longer than 3.4 seconds. From “Ugh. How dare that guy have not right swiped me first?!”  to “Really? This guy?!? Why the eff hasn’t this lame messaged me yet??! I threw him a boredom like.” My internal dating dialog more than occasionally makes me want to punch myself in the face.

2. I am fickle on a damn near super-human level. Or, perhaps, unbeknownst to me I have multiple dating-personality disorder. Either way, even if you made the cut from horrifying discovery #8 I still can’t decide if I think you’re actually cute/funny/bangable and I’ll ruin your day trying to figure it out. Five minutes ago — yes!!! Now? Meh. Let’s just add this to the Everest sized pile of reasons I’m single, shall we?

And the worst of the worst. Drumroll please.

1. My vajay is racist. I’d elaborate but literally nothing I can say about this realization is going to make me sound any less like a Hitler youth. I’m a terrible person. Legitimately. Just. Awful. I comfort myself with the notion that we’re all just attracted to what we’re attracted to, but realizing this sincerely bummed the humanist in me out. Gross.

So now I can’t un-know this stuff about myself. Lovely. Don’t mind me, guys. I’ll just be over here in therapy. Indefinitely. Thanks, Tinder!

 

 

Everyone knows someone, who knows someone, who knows who I might be. I’m smart. I’m funny. I’m reasonably attractive. I’m willing to spend more on shoes than, say, the gross national product of Uruguay.  And yet, I am deeply, deeply, single. Read my other posts on The Broad Collective.

These posts are graciously syndicated from The Broad Collective, please consider donating to their fundraiser for their new makers space in Athens, Georgia.