The trials and tribulations of online dating

I’m outing myself as a (tragically) online dater. I have never made an in-person connection because I don’t know how to, and at this point I’m starting to believe that I never will. Every person that I have ever been romantically involved with has come to me through some algorithm that convinced me a random stranger would be ‘the one.’ I am the friend who struggles on dating apps and swears that I hate them while my profile appears alive and well. Through experience, I learned to recognize red flags early on, text back at an appropriate non-desperate  time, and pretend to be the most interesting and perfect person on the planet. The worst thing I had to learn, though, was the fact that online dating works on a strict schedule. There are strange, spoken and unspoken understandings among everyone on these apps. Who would’ve guessed that there are deadlines for dating? On Bumble, girls have 24 hours to respond, or else your match becomes just another potential lover lost to the cruel hand of time. It’s supposedly all in the name of ‘female empowerment,’ but I just end up feeling like a court jester, juggling knives at my own detriment to entertain a man who will never appreciate my craft. Other apps don’t have a countdown, but if neither person makes a move within a day, then it just becomes a mutual ghosting. But I’m on the other side with my arms out, screaming “Love me! I’m right here! Just make the first move and I’m all yours. My expectations are low!”

You’d think I would’ve realised this earlier, but online dating is not for the faint of heart (i.e., me). It’s fast and it rips your heart out for you to chase down, only for it to be swept away again. If I take too long to respond, I’m punished with a wait time that is twice as long. If you’re wondering, the perfect ‘wait-response’ formula is one week. In other words, a date is not secured within a week of talking, it’s a waste of time. The small talk happens over two or three days, and if you’re lucky a date is secured. Say it’s a Wednesday, and you choose either Friday or Saturday to hang out. Probably over coffee or walking around the AGO. You can decide what to do next. I’m sorry, but this is where my expertise ends. I have only made it past the first date level twice; they either realise that I’m not what they’re looking for or they realise that I’m a human being with nuance and feelings and the image that I so painstakingly curated is shattered. Of course, that girl is not me. For them, I have to break my body, stretch my limbs into uncomfortable positions, and hold back the softest parts of me just for them to maybe be interested. This is fucking exhausting. 

I might just be the greatest liar on the planet. I have created a ‘cool girl’ persona, courtesy of Gillian Flynn. I appeal to my dates’ interests, talk to them about history,  read books, and  enjoy Marvel movies. I rip out my heart and present it to them for inspection. In return, they give me a rough paper-mâché copy of their own. They don’t appreciate me when I get to know them and try to find anything to be excited about. When people ask me what my type is, I say that I just want them to like me back. Is it too much to ask that they’re kind and funny? My friends laugh and tell me that those qualities are the bare minimum. If only they knew that they’re actually commodities. My standards are so horrendously low that I fall in love with everyone I meet. When I hear my name uttered out in a sentence, my heart beats faster. I still think about the boy that held the door for me once in grade ten. 

These men show me crumbs of basic human decency and I fall in love with their potential. Maybe I just want them to think the same of me. I have so much to share and to say. Come to my dinner party and I’ll cook for you—just stay and help me clean the dishes afterwards. I have so much that I want to share. I’m still here! Just take it! I’m giving away my love and time for free, you fool! I’ll happily tell you the same three stories and reuse my jokes even if that means it’ll be the last time I do. I’ll write about you in my journal in pen. I’ll tell my friends your name rather than call you ‘the new one.’Just crack me open and my love will spill everywhere. On the outside, my cynical shell protects me from being broken into, but for once, I want it to break. It’s almost masochistic of me to continue dating in an attempt to fall in love and have my heart cracked open in the right way. But for now, I simply prevent myself from feeling anything at all. 

My therapist laughed when I told her that I was entering my ‘I hate men’ era, but later in the session I told her that deep down, I think I just want to be in love with someone that wants to be in love with me. I’m too soft for all of the people ‘looking for something casual.’ I  want someone so disgustingly in love with me that it rots my teeth and burns my throat. I’ve convinced myself that I will never find that on a dating app, so I remain skeptical and cynical. I hate these platforms. I delete them from my phone every month only to return like a sucker. It’s not what I want, but it’s the only thing I have. It crumbles my sense of self. I forget that I’m a real human being with so many beautiful intricacies and not simply an imagined concept of myself, put on display for people to gawk at and tell me I’m not worth much. Maybe I’m just weak and not cut out for it. I get attached too easily. In an oil-less place where everyone is a non-stick skillet, I am an egg.