There are always going to be moments on dating apps you come across people you know. Colleagues, friends, someone with a familiar face you can’t quite place but know you’ve met before. For me, it was those profiles that gave me the most thrill. The profiles that would make me stop swiping, study every picture and say to myself, “I know you!”
It feels a little naughty, right? Like catching someone in the act. Especially the times I’d swipe across someone I knew used to date someone else I knew. Those would be the profiles I’d judge the hardest, especially depending on the circumstances of the break-up.
There have even been a few times I’d get a text message that when I opened was a picture of myself from my own dating profile. Me trying to look sexy, me with me dog, me doing whatever it was that I decided I wanted to share on my profile. The screenshot would stare up at me. Carolyn, 33 (Yeah, okay, I’m 34 now). It was a metaphorical ‘Found you!’ that to me always read as a ‘F**k you!’
If I’m on a dating app, I don’t like being reminded that I’m on it. No one needs to be reminded they’re dating. Just like no one on LinkedIn needs to be reminded they’re looking for a job. But I get it. In swiping through a sea of shit strangers, it’s exciting when you see someone you know because, well, dating blows.
Which is why I’m surprised to read that apps like Tinder and Bumble have reported a double-digit increase in messages during the recent pandemic. Even the real-time dating app Flutter, only ‘open’ on Sundays, has seen a 78% increase in weekly messages. We talk and talk and blog and blog about the horror that is dating so why when we physically can’t, are we doing it more than ever?
I recognize the obvious answer to this question: We’re alone. Or if not alone, unable to escape the people we’re stuck with. No matter how many or how little people we’re currently flattening the curve with, we’re all experiencing a new form of loneliness and no one should be judged by their reaction to it. We’re all doing what feels right, right now. But to start virtual dating, something I don’t particularly enjoy and am not good at, did not seem like the way I wanted to combat my loneliness.
There has never been anything enjoyable about the pre-date texting that comes along with app dating. There has never been a beginning question which blew me away or an emoji that didn’t make me want to throw my phone. Why would I purposely commit myself to the absolute worst part of the mating ritual? Plus, what would even be the quarantined version of myself I put out there?
Buuut I admit it, I made a profile. I thought maybe something would feel different about it in these unprecedented times. Maybe the conversations would be richer, easier. Maybe I’d even...find love. No. It felt exactly the same except more pictures of men at Eagles games since my location settings were now set near Philadelphia. The first guy I chatted with used an emoji in his first message and the second guy stopped responding. As suspected, the only person I got excited about was someone I recognized. It wasn’t his looks or personality that got me to stop, it was the fact that I once met him in real life.
In the absence of naturally meeting new people, getting excited about those I know has become even more appealing. Reconnecting has been a happy accident of the virus. I’ve enjoyed talking to the people I already know or knew and want to know again. Before COVID, there was a lot of pressure behind reconnecting with someone. Now a simple, ‘How are you?’ is okay. You don’t have to apologize and make excuses for your lack of communication. It’s fine. Hello!
It’s hard for me to get excited by new people right now, when the old people in my life are those I miss and cherish the most. Even if their role was previously small, I’d still rather talk to them than someone who never had a role to begin with. And unfortunately (or fortunately?) this isn’t unique to quarantine. I realize I get excited by the faces I recognize because that means a connection already exists. Because a big, stubborn part of me wants to believe that I’m good. I have all the people in my life I’m supposed to have and when the right time comes to reconnect, we will.
Is now that time? I don’t know. However, one of the many lessons this virus has taught me is that we’re all connected. As my dear friend Bill said, “This planet is giving us tougher love than we have ever known, but the message of connectedness is coming thru loud and clear from a mysterious entity that can only be seen with specialized microscopes.” What that means for my future outlook on dating still remains unclear. Maybe the microscope I currently use will break or become stronger or, fingers crossed, disappear completely.