Last spring I was feeling sad and lonely, as I usually feel during springtime. I decided to download and log into Tinder. A dating app early adopter I cannot really claim to be. Yet still. I decided to give it a try.
I wondered how I could make myself seen (let alone understood) within that sea of selfies, Californian strikes of hair and white-teethed portraits; how I could make myself noticed to all those self-proclaimed virtual machos.
She wanted to cry. She wanted to tear her prim and proper blouse wide open, exposing her pale, shrunk breasts, crowned by her cold and lonely nipples.
I posted (almost curated) some pictures of myself by way of a profile, visual introduction to my looniness. Those ones so very me, of the kind where I never look straight to the camera. For fear that the lens will blemish my soul through bad digital exposure. Males in Tinder actually seem to like these type of melancholy portraits.
I barely shared any details about myself, lest not only my ambiguous soul but also my reputation get tarnished.
And so I got many likes. Many, many likes. Or, rather, my melancholy profile did.
I was numb with the thrill of fast sexual window shopping. I swiped left, left, left and then every now and then some right to compensate for my demanding demeanour.
I was trying not to like people in my preferred nomadic status, men in transit that would be leaving town soon and forgetting about my melancholy stare and laconic conversation.
Easter was approaching.
Like. Like. Like.
Chat opened. Surfer guy entered the virtual room.
“Hello, love. Please smile a little bit, will you? Why so sad? 🙂 🙂 :)”.
“Hello there. Long, windy and cold weekend ahead of us. Are you planning to surf your way through Easter?”
Way too long conversation starter, killer Tinder extravaganza. One had not been properly inducted into the ways of Tinder etiquette.
“Hello there. You still around?”
“Ya…So what are you up to”
“Oh, I am just planning for my trip abroad, adding some finishing touches to my slides, having a glass of wine and getting tipsy, as you do over Easter. I’d rather be surfing, though.”
“Where you off to.”
“To Australia. My employer is sending me there to visit a client. Just a week-long trip, but I won’t complain.”
“Australia, your employer sending you to Australia!?!?!”
Minutes went by.
Hours went by.
“Hello there. You still surfing around?”
Tinder silence equals virtual dating death. Dammed Australia. Dammed melancholy non-camera facing profile picture.
Where was the surfer boy? The chat he’d initiated barely a day earlier was no longer there. The guy must have felt disgusted by my Down-under destination snottiness.
I logged off. I kept working on my Australian slides. I would try Tinder some other time. In the meantime, I dreamed about the million selfies I would witness while visiting Sydney. Selfie girl Down Under works her Tinder like a pro.