Tinder: Is It Really That Bad?

Two weeks ago, I joined the hook-up app Tinder. I expected it to just be a bit of shallow, slightly dirty banter – and it definitely was – but I did not expect it to change my perspective on dating.

It was Saturday night pre-drinks, and the raucous comment “that’s a lot of side boob” turned my head. Two of my guy friends were getting pretty animated over this app on their phones, and so, curious, I investigated. They explained that Tinder is location-based and linked to Facebook, so a profile is created for you. Then all you have to do is choose age, sex and mile radius preferences before ‘matches’ are pulled up for you to like or swipe. One of the guys set me up with an account. By the time I arrived in Jesters, I was getting friendly with strangers and had had to look up ‘DTF’ on Urban Dictionary.

From what I’ve since heard about Tinder, there is a clear split in people’s views, ranging from “it’s vile” to “it’s just a bit of fun”. I feel inclined to agree with the latter; the appeal was the entertainment factor, not the ‘shag a stranger’ premise. After adding someone I met on Runescape on MSN when I was thirteen, and discovering that he was a middle-aged man, I wondered why I was playing the stranger game again. But Tinder fast became amusingly addictive.

Initially, I made a point of ‘liking’ matches who I knew in real life or who had banter-guaranteeing profile pictures. One of my first such encounters was with a hipster Solent guy, who I managed to convince that I was psychic and could “predict who I was going to bang”. His response of “well, you do psychology, so that must make sense … you’re so confusing and interesting” did not disappoint. Of course, many people went straight to the ‘DTF’ point, while others attempted generic, polite conversation (which makes it awkward when they move on to hook-up suggestions). One match said “the mate who told me to get this is a douchebag”. He had a point; I got plenty of obnoxious, lacklustre, messages like “inevitably as we are a match and we’re both interesting people from our profiles, I will be asking you to go for drinks with me”.

But then I realised … Tinder is a no frills version of pulling culture. It is not that different to seeing someone in a club and approaching them, except with Tinder, the ‘liking’ is mutual and, instead of alcohol, the courage is technological. Of course, the inevitable topic of moving from cyber to actual reality came up. Some of my guy friends have met with Tinder matches in clubs and said it was just a bit of light-hearted fun with fellow students.  I personally rejected the serious invitations for coffee, yet toyed with the banter of a Jesters meet-up, but when my housemates warned me that I would essentially be signing a sex contract with a stranger, I reconsidered. I wondered if the Tinder glove only properly fit the ‘LAD’ stereotype.

That is the thing I dislike most about Tinder – as someone who considers personality a deal-breaker, I was unsatisfied by the fact that I was being voluntarily judged as a person on three silly photos.  A guy did correctly guess my height and bra size in one, but others were not so bang on. It felt strange having myself analysed by strangers in the bland words ’twenty, pretty girl, fairly intelligent student … tinder crisis?’ (the word ‘fairly’ was the fatal blow to that conversation). Someone else told me that I looked twelve, while another guy charmed me with “after a drink I would bang you”.

However, I did ‘meet’ some lovely people. There were people that I spoke to every day. I almost felt like I was making friends. One guy turned out to be a fellow North to South migrator, living close to me at home and had a strange amount of things in common – our Tinder chatting elevated to a Facebook friend level.  Not everyone on Tinder is there to get dirty; some people, particularly the older ones, expressed where they were in life and what they wanted out of it, even talking about kids – things felt eerily match.com.

My biggest Tinder revelation was that it is like a crash course in dating. As sure as I was that personality came first, the shallow limitations of choosing matches forced me to acknowledge that I vaguely had a type. I was doing what I hated: making instant assumptions; guys with pretentious selfies or beside children and apparent girlfriends were swiped away, while I had to ‘like’ every guy with a cute animal photo (except the grim leaning over a half-sedated tiger photos). The importance of the opening-liner also became clear; I could not resist replying to witty or ridiculous messages like “I’m a naughty boy”, while the generic “hey” openers were just not as intriguing.

After two weeks, the little red flame logo was a symbol of procrastination; one pre-deadline evening it got so bad that my housemate confiscated my phone, and I was grateful. Third year and Tinder are not a good match.  Tinder was even more than what I expected – of course, my opinion may change if I decide to actually meet someone, though, overall, I found Tinder to be an illuminating bit of fun.