POF began probing her with intimate questions. I laughed, but she stiffened and moved the phone closer to her eyes. When I left her place, the phone was still glued to her thumbs. When new dating apps began cropping up, I left Tinder to the hands of hookup artists. I met a stable environmentalist on Bumble. We dated for a year. Post-breakup, I mourned our relationship before downloading a new app: one with no swiping involved. On Hinge, I met a serious paramedic, and then an erratic businessman.
I dated each for two months. I wanted to concentrate on myself. Dating apps? I craved them. A surge of endorphins or adrenaline when someone we consider attractive considers us attractive, too. All they do is flick their thumb one way, and we feel complimented, confident, validated. A year-old probed me to consider giving up my unhealthy habit.
In the upstairs of a hipster club, I caught the eye of a tall blond. Back in my bed, alone, I opened my dating app. Emoticons and pickup lines abounded, with no substance behind them.
Flirting in person showed me I want so much more than a 7 a. I want more than cold fingertips on a touch-screen keyboard. I want eyes catching across the room, lips moving in vociferous sentences, hands grazing the nape of my neck, knees touching thighs to foreshadow a pressure point of intimacy. I teetered with the idea of deletion. Even if I did erase my account, how long would it last? Would I relapse?
Would I become too content being on my own? Would I end up alone forever, with seven cats and a self-published novel? His answer made me contemplate my own reasons for flicking through profiles of chest hair, beer bottles and dogs belonging to someone else. As good as it felt to have someone call me beautiful online, it felt a million times better to experience attraction in person.
