What life is like when you’re addicted to Tinder
Call me Tinderella
Tinder is possibly the most addictive of vices, combining lust and pride in an app where you judge potential partners in true Paddy McGuinness style. I’ve been a “Tinderholic” for three long years. I’ve been at the receiving end of ridiculous chat up lines and had many an awkward moment with someone who shares many mutual friends.
I’ve deleted the app more times than I can count, mostly in response to obscure vegetable related lines such as “paint me green and spank me like a naughty avocado”, or the classic “cutecumber” compliment. And yet, as Valentine’s Day looms, I find myself mindlessly swiping left and right once again. We all know it’s ridiculously superficial, but there’s something about swiping away that’s bloody addictive because there’s no real consequence. Either we both like each other and I find myself faced with the possibility of meeting my future husband, or we will both get on with our lives being none the wiser.
I’ve seen all the great chat-up lines
The hilarity of chat up lines only improves the experience, as although often disgusting, they’re often so ridiculous you can’t help but laugh. There’s the classic “Putlocker and chill, can’t afford Netflix” – a personal favourite. Honest, succinct and witty, what’s not to like?
Super liking seems weird
Tinder have recently introduced super liking, an idea fraught with danger. I would never superlike someone: it just looks a bit weird and stalkerish. Then when you get superliked, it’s met with an inner conflict of whether to feel honoured or afraid. It’s scarily easy to swipe it by mistake on a guy who you were hardly attracted to, only to quickly delete the match to cope with the embarrassment. Fucking Tinder politics.
Matching with people you know will always be awkward
Then there’s the timely debate over what to do when you come across a familiar face. You recognise them from your seminars, reminiscing about that one time they borrowed your pen. Maybe it could be fate, perhaps you’re destined to be together. Or, more likely, they don’t have a clue who you are and so you’re left feeling lonely and rejected when you don’t get a match.
On the other hand, you do match with them – solely so you can swap notes when you skip out next time you have a hangover, but the awkwardness soon descends. You make shy glances and god forbid you make eye contact. Your seminar will never be the same, and you vow never to match an acquaintance again in order to avoid repeating this experience. You can almost hear them discussing the likelihood of a pull with their flatmates and then you will inevitably bump into each other outside Revs and whichever way you swiped, it will be fairly uncomfortable. Or a great night.
Being addicted to Tinder means downloading every other dating app too
Life as a Tinderholic is met with regrettable decisions, such as 3am swiping sessions which are unlikely to ever result in finding a Prince Charming. Fed up of the search for a diamond in the rough, I downloaded Bumble. A new kind of Tinder, Bumble puts the girl in the limelight as she has to make the first move, otherwise the match is terminated. I now realise how difficult it is to come up with anything to say past “Hiya”, and I even resorted to looking up best chat up lines to try and make my self sound slightly more interesting.
But ultimately for me nothing else will ever beat the satisfaction of Tinder. The intoxicating anticipation and excitement of who will pop up next. Yes it’s superficial, yes I realise I won’t meet the love of my life, but damn it if it isn’t fun. At least I haven’t got Tinder Plus…yet.