This is a nervous girl’s take on dating apps, Instagram content and the tiresome and boring nature of virtual connection. If you don’t want to see me criticize the toxicity and mundanity of today’s dating world, I’d go read some Thoreau instead.
I’ll admit, I’ve never been on a Tinder date. I’ve had an account on numerous dating platforms, but I’ve never actually met anybody from them. I find this important to disclose since it knocks my credibility a few rungs. However, I still feel entitled to cover this topic because of the unimaginably beautiful and organic experiences I’ve had from meeting people in-person.
Admittedly, not everyone’s in-person dating history has been lucky, pleasurable or even safe. I acknowledge and empathize with those experiences. But I strongly believe that everyone deserves to receive love and maintain a meaningful, face-to-face connection. I think it can happen to all of you.
I met my boyfriend (soon-to-be fiancé) approximately seven months after I was dumped. I was devastated, heartbroken and never more disinterested in having fun. I hated who I was, where I was and what my life became. On a whim, I agreed to birthday plans with a fraternity friend. I showed up to the party fully intent on running into my ex there, feeling unusually confident. Contrary to the days preceding, everything felt right in the world. I felt like going to the party was a step toward self-improvement. At that point, I hadn’t been anywhere besides my ex’s house in five months. I felt human enough to exist in the world, even if only for a short time.
When we got to the bar, I was ecstatic to be involved with life again. I was comfortable enough to go out in casual clothes, and I still felt beautiful. The thought of drinking repulsed me, as I knew it would derail my energy the next day, so I stuck to water. The crowded bar was a space for me to unwind, and I felt like everybody could feel me glowing.
It’s interesting to see the types of people you attract when you feel good about yourself. An older man saw me standing at the bar and offered to buy me a drink. Regardless of my water-drinking, I took the offer and ordered a vodka cranberry. After saying thank you and retreating back to my friends, I slipped and fell backwards onto the hardwood floor. Sprawled out like a cracked egg, my cup had strewn ice and cranberry juice all over the nearby patrons. The entire bar was staring, and at this point, the gasps and laughter were beginning to subside. In pain, I brought myself to my knees and saw a 5’7″ man resembling Russell Brand. He was laughing to his friends and slow-clapping, staring directly at me. Embarrassed, I gave him a thumbs-up and went to the bathroom.
After a nice grounding session (as if I needed more ground), I walked back to the dance floor and tried to look normal. It was then that Russell Brand approached me with a smile.
“That was quite the fall, my dear,” he giggled.
I was stunned. He spoke with the most charming British accent I had ever heard in my life.
“Ha … haha … I hate these floors,” I awkwardly replied. “So, do you like the Beatles?”
I assumed that anybody with a British accent would probably like the Beatles. Luckily, he did.
He told me that he was from Liverpool, his favorite Beatle was Paul McCartney and that his name was Ben. He was in town on a business trip for the weekend and planned on leaving the next day. We conversed about Led Zeppelin, travel and our personal lives until the bar closed. I found out that he was eleven years my senior (there’s a first for everything), and he offered to stay another night so he could see me the next day. Before catching up with my friends to leave, he gave me his phone number.
After a few hours of hanging out the next day, I asked him about his family. He told me they’ve lived in Evanston, Illinois, since he was a child. This entire time, I thought he was from Liverpool. I asked him if his family had Liverpudlian accents, to which he laughed and said no. I could see that he was looking to tell me something, so I waited.
“I was born in Evanston, too …” I knew it was too good to be true.
Long story short, Ben went to an English fine arts conservatory, majored in acting, and adopted some pretty convincing dialects along the way. I surely believed them. I had to figure out how I was going to backtrack my friends and tell them he wasn’t actually British. While the lie turned me sour, I admired his honesty when he said that he never thought he’d see me again. The accent might’ve been a lie, but at least he admitted his intentions. If I could do a cool party trick, I’d probably use it to my advantage, too.
We’ve been together roughly a year and a half now. We will be engaged soon, and honestly, I’m glad that my future husband and I have such a great story to tell. My gratefulness for the way we met has informed a lot of my reflections on how people meet these days. With social media, is it possible that people are missing their opportunities for spontaneous, chance-driven connections? Where is the excitement in dating if you know where and how to find them?
I believe that intuition and feeling-based reactions are crucial in forming accurate, healthy opinions of people. You can really only get those intuitions from seeing somebody face-to-face. I’m constantly poked fun at for the naivete of believing a fake British accent, and rightfully so. But even in my naivete, I believe I was able to nonetheless sense a genuine person underneath petty deception because I was right there in front of him. Is putting on an accent quasi-manipulative? Yes. But in the end, giving a quirky lie about oneself to attract women is better than treating women like they’re disposable- and he certainly doesn’t. I’ve met a really funny, down-to-Earth guy with a million great qualities to offer the world. It’s a little childish to chat up women with a fake persona, but at the end of the day, the person he turned out to be is far superior than the Russell Brand I thought he was. At the end of the day, he’s done nothing but benefit my life. I can’t say this would’ve happened if I met him on a dating site.
As stated, I believe there’s a pivotal moment that occurs when you meet somebody organically. You might not realize it, but when your energies merge, most people gain an intuitive notion of whether or not they’re going to get along with the person. Meeting somebody randomly can give you a better sense of what they’re like in spontaneous, out-of-the-blue situations. If you met by sitting near at a coffee shop, were they initially timid? If you’re an adventurous go-getter, that might be a turn-off. Were they incredibly outgoing, immediately telling you personal information? For a shy person, that might be ridiculously irritating. Seeing somebody in an awkward, unusual, or unexpected situation can tell you a lot about who they are every day.
Dating apps not only take away the exciting spontaneity of those moments- they strip you of naturalistic observation. Chances are, you plan for a Tinder date well in advance, talking or texting beforehand and getting to know the person prior to meeting. Time is on your side. You think about what you want to text them, how you want to text them, what time you want to text them. You have ample ability to crop, edit and retake the photos before they’re sent. You have total jurisdiction of how you frame your life. Accuracy and reality are irrelevant in the effort of getting your date to like you. You’ll never show your impulsiveness, reactivity, sheepishness, boringness, or quirkiness – you have total control and can eradicate those things with a click. In a world that feels so shaky, I know that control feels nice.
It comes down to vulnerability. This might be bad advice, but I’d prefer to wear my heart on my sleeve than carefully craft my persona. People know what they’re getting into when they first meet me. Watching me interact with others (say, socially), acquaintances can choose to approach me or not. They can decide whether or not I fit their bill, whether or not they like my energy. If I’m running into someone, I don’t have time to decide how I’m going to present myself. I have no other choice but to be me. And that, needless to say, is an incredibly vulnerable place to find yourself. The guards and walls that social media makes possible are no longer keeping you safe. If you’re a gross girl, the leftover spinach in your teeth will prevail. They’ll either find it cute, or they’ll never talk to you again. You’re leaving yourself to be judged. It’s a lesson in how life actually works: not being able to control every factor, thus not being able to control every outcome.
The carefully-selected presentation of another person can also cause you to waste time. In the case of my boyfriend, I could immediately tell he was sensitive and matter-of-fact, even though his initial persona didn’t show it. His true nature was revealed in subtle mannerisms when he saw me, which would’ve been otherwise hidden if he expected to see me. Having a better sense of who he was, I wasn’t misguided on what kind of personality I was spending time with. If I had met him over social media, he could’ve presented himself as anybody, anticipating and reinforcing some dreamy narrative that compensated for all his flaws. And these narratives, which we so delicately select, can cause us to manipulate another person into liking the curated version of us. Not only is this unfair to ourselves, but it’s unfair to the other person.
I firmly believe that what’s not meant to be will eventually see itself out. If you and your partner don’t have a soulful, genuine connection, it will be no secret to either of you. The Universe will take care of it, no matter how much you reject. Social media not only confuses the intuitive part of yourself, but it’s an incredibly powerful manipulation tool. I think that my experiences with real, in-person dating have saved me from the shallow reality of the people who like their own arrogance. I write this article with the intent of provoking thought into how you want to lead your own life.
Then again, I’ve never been on a Tinder date.