Tinder, not kindling

My phone buzzes, and a small red-and-white flame icon appears. “Congratulations, you have a new match!” I examine my surroundings to ensure no one is nearby enough to catch me in the act and then cautiously slide my thumb across the screen. Sure enough, a UNC-Chapel Hill sophomore who likes coffee and is “mainly looking for friends” and I have decided that, based on our brief biographies and perhaps five pictures, we are vaguely interested in going on a date, or at least saying “hey”. To paraphrase Kesha, it’s going down, and I’m using Tinder.

My experience with everyone’s favorite swipe left/swipe right app began due to an epiphany I had while studying in Spain last semester. After two years of ill-fated involvements, each ending more tragically than the last, I finally realized that I had no idea how to actually go on a date. Until then, all the moments I had shared with my romantic interests had been casual, ranging from studying together in Perkins to getting brunch the morning after Shooters—each lacked any sort of formal planning, let alone a dinner reservation. Fearing this skill deficit could retard my personal evolution from college student to Westchester County soccer dad, I resolved to become a dater, someone who took people to coffee shops in undiscovered neighborhoods and had informed yet politely worded opinions on everything from the Eurozone crisis to the struggles of being an American in Spain. Determined to secure a European Union passport, or at least learn how to flirt in Spanish, by the end of the semester, I followed in the footsteps of some 22 million people and hit the “download” button on my phone. It was time to light some fires.

Tinder became addictive immediately. It has an absurdly simplistic interface – you swipe right on people who appeal to you and left on people you don’t – and the match notifications are just dramatic enough to catch your attention. Most entertaining for me, however, was the process I used to screen potential matches. I came to automatically reject people who duckfaced, cropped out their faces or took style cues from Salvador Dalí, while anyone in salmon shorts or a beer stein from Oktoberfest merited further assessment. Overly sentimental biographies, especially those that featured Marilyn Monroe quotes or the phrase “live, laugh, love” merited scorn, while any reference to art history attracted my attention. Eventually, Tinder became less of a way to “find bae” and more of a method to kill time on the Metro.

Every so often, however, I would be redirected to my original mission of becoming better versed in the art of sober flirtation by someone courageous enough to actually ask me out on a date. On those rare occasions, an “Hola, ¿Que tal?” actually led to a legitimate conversation about something or other, and then we found ourselves face-to-face in a café in some obscure corner of the city. My first Tinder date was bad—I ate too many croquettes and made a joke about the Spanish economy before discovering that my companion was unemployed—but subsequent ones were better. With time, I was telling tax lawyers that their jobs sounded interesting and politely reminding my less tolerable dates that I absolutely had to catch the last train home. I was learning how to talk to strangers while sober and actually enjoying it.

Since returning to the United States, though, I’ve taken a sabbatical from my self-education, and it wasn’t just because of LDOC hookups and former high school classmates appearing with alarming frequency. In reality, I got Tinder fatigue due to how overwhelming it became. Thanks to the app, my pool of potential dates grew from the Duke student body to the thousands of people within the 25-mile radius I had set. Hence, I fell prey to what psychologist Barry Schwartz calls “the paradox of choice”. Each match became more than just someone I could grab dinner with; they became someone who needed to outclass the other people with whom I was chatting. By ignoring all else in pursuit of some platonically ideal man, I gave up the opportunity to meet plenty of attractive, interesting Tinder matches. By seeking perfection, I found nothing.

Now that the drama of Valentine’s Day and the stress of midterms have passed, I’ll probably be logging back onto Tinder sometime soon. This time around, though, I hope I’ll be able to resist the temptation to treat matches as mere self-esteem boosts and instead consider them real people. After all, I’m running low on food points and wouldn’t mind a benevolent graduate student paying for my dinner while we discuss the implications of Duke’s latest scandal. Tinder may cause a spark, but I’ve realized that it’s my responsibility to turn it into a fire.

Tom Vosburgh is a Trinity junior. His column runs every other Tuesday.