When you meet someone in person, you remark how cute their dimples are, how their laugh reminds you of an aesthetically-gifted Santa Claus and the way they roll up their sleeves to expose some seriously well-defined forearms.
But, when you encounter that same potential heartthrob through the lens of dating apps, you risk missing out on all these attractive nuances and may accidentally swipe left across someone who could really turn your crank (with those awesome arms). Alternatively, you could encounter the King(s) of the dating app who know how to select photos better than the average bee and lure you into a semi-traumatic transaction of piss poor banter.
It’s nice to (never really) meet you
This is one of the major issues with Bumble: the app basically reduces you to an algorithm of attractiveness by forcing you to fit into its shallow quantitative framework. The only way to tell people about yourself is via a character-limited bio and a checking of the basic boxes to indicate if you drink, smoke, want babies or are just looking for a horizontal dalliance.
Suddenly, your sense of humor sounds like bragging and your seriously charming quirks come across like red flags because there is no context, tone, body language or proper background to breathe life into your one-dimensional persona.
Does he fit into my life or just my boxes?
If you’re not selective enough on Bumble, you may be bombarded by men of every age, shape, taste and geographic location. That was my initial experience: in an effort to be open, I quickly realized the only thing I had opened myself up to was being inundated with the faces and grammatically-unsound descriptions of men I would probably cross the street to escape, should we ever actually have to leave our houses in this digitally-saturated world.
So, in an effort to stop scaring the shit out of my cats with my continuous outbursts of “yikes” and gasps, I deleted a few groups: I lowered the age of men I was seeking and curbed my geographic enthusiasm to see if my amorous catchment became any more appealing. Well, to put it lightly, it did not.
I put my best photo forward, and this is what I am forced to swipe right on in return???
Not to sound like an asshole, but gentlemen, are you kidding me? I spent 20 minutes measuring the depth of my t-shirt’s V to avoid looking too eager, and you’re posting photos where there are beer stains and other unidentifiable substances on yours? Not only do your photos leave much to be desired by being wholly devoid of desirable attributes, but your weird jokes and even more bizarre rants about modern women’s shortcomings are eyebrow-raising at best.
Real-life me knows I am a catch and one that is not to-be-caught by someone who lacks even enough zest for renewing their romantic life to, at least, fake it with a photo that doesn’t contain their ex’s scratched out face on it.
So, why am I still stressed if I am not getting swiped on enough?
In short, I have no fucking clue.
But, each day, Bumble reminds me that my “matches are waiting,” and I find myself lowering my standards to swipe on Mr. Probably (Definitely) Not Right in an attempt to make some kind of connection. Would I ever approach a man in real life who looked like he just crawled out of the bowels of hell with a beer gut and the inability to maneuver between your and you’re? Hell NO. Yet, I hear Queen Bee’s alluring call, telling me he is in that hive, and here I am, still swiping…
Sticky, Sexy, Sad 