by Eric Schenck
My 2024 ends with a ceremony of sorts. On December 31st, I’m sitting in a hotel in Salt Lake City an hour before midnight. I’m looking at my phone and I have it opened to Tinder.
For almost a decade, I’ve used the dating app off and on. There are hundreds of matches. Some I’ve talked to. Most I haven’t.
I’ve deactivated Tinder before. But this time I’m going to really give it a go and erase my account. I try to go through each profile. My plan is to manually delete each one. That will force me to give each match just a little bit of my time, if only a few seconds.
This doesn’t last. Five minutes into it I figure:
What’s the point?
Trying to give some kind of attention to hundreds of people I’ve never met is absurd. It’s also disrespectful to myself. If time is what life is made out of, I am, quite literally, handing it over to people that will never mean anything to me.
Fuck that.
I delete my account, erase the app from my phone, and get ready to watch New Years fireworks from my hotel window.
Real life is calling.
…
The first time of many that I downloaded Tinder to my phone was 2016. I had moved to Egypt a few months before and couldn’t feel more out of place. Mosques everywhere you looked, women in burqas, and a language I hardly understood.
For an American living in the Middle East, Tinder was a godsend. An app that connected me to cute girls with just a few swipes of my thumb. As a 22-year-old, it was the closest thing I’d ever experienced to a miracle.
And so it started.
Lyndsey from Australia that lived in a mansion apartment paid for by her company. Courtney from Texas that made me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Ahtziri from Mexico that dared me to a margarita drinking challenge. Suzie from the Philippines that would wear different color underwear each time she came over.
These are all women I wouldn’t have met otherwise. And most of the time, a Tinder date resulted in sex I wouldn’t have had, either.
What’s not to like?
But you do reach a point (or maybe an age) where the same stories you used to brag about are things you keep to yourself. And over the years, those kinds of stories have become more frequent.
One time on a surfing trip in Panama, I matched with two girls on the same day. Milagros came over and we had sex. She left, I ate some tacos, and then went on a date with Zhoi. Less than three hours later, and I was sleeping with somebody new.
Eric in college couldn’t have believed his luck. But now?
It’s a story I haven’t told hardly anyone. To call it gross or sad would be overdramatic. Sex between consenting adults is one of the best things in the world.
But consistently get it on a silver platter with strangers, and something starts to feel a bit off.
…
Criticizing dating apps is nothing new. People all around the world are fed up with Tinder and the like, and I’ve heard horror stories of how terrible Tinder matches can be in real life.
Still, for me to sit here and talk shit about it misses the mark. Tinder is fun. Plenty of people use it in their own way. Most importantly, Tinder has been good to me.
But I do wonder at what price.
Every bit of advice on succeeding with dating apps (whatever that means) essentially boils down to two fundamentals: be hot, and be different. The past year I’ve been failing at both.
I think I’m decent-looking in real life, but I can’t take a picture worth a damn. And I can’t be bothered to actually invest any time in new ones. The photos I use on the app are all five years old. Half of them are screenshots of pictures other people have taken of me.
It’s a philosophical fact that even Plato accepted:
Doesn’t matter how hot you are if your pictures suck.
And as for the “be different” part? That’s where I’ve really fallen off. There are only so many creative openers I can come up with. A joke? A comment on one of their pictures? A question that shows I’ve read their profile?
I’ve done them all thousands of times. The burnout is real.
Opening Tinder used to bring a certain feeling of enthusiasm. I was excited about new matches. Who would I meet today? But sometime in 2024, the dominant emotion became a weird kind of dread.
I think a lot of that is a natural sense of inadequacy. Stand behind a girl that’s using the app and peer over her shoulder. Often, 90+ percent of guys will match with her. Women are drowning in attention.
As a man? Most of the time, it couldn’t be more different. Sure, I’ve been relatively successful online. But the reality is, on Tinder I’m just one fish in a sea of options.
And when that fish doesn’t care about their pictures and has said everything they can possibly say?
With those odds, why bother?
…
One day I sit and run through the last ten years of my life. I tally up every single woman I’ve ever slept with just using Tinder.
23.
It’s not a number I’m proud of. It’s also nothing to be ashamed of. It just…is.
But that in itself is something I find a bit unsettling. Sex, something so intimate, reduced to a number.
Not that I’m some puritan. Sex can just be sex. Not every experience driven by lust has to mean something. You can just be horny. Tinder can be, and often is, a way of fulfilling that need.
Still, deleting Tinder does feel like it’s part of a broader trend in my life at the moment. I just turned 32, and I feel like a noticeably different person than just a few years ago.
Things I’ve always liked, but that suddenly I’m in love with:
- Reading long books
- Taking longer walks
- Cooking
- Smoking weed and focusing on music
- A good night sleep
- Spending time with my family
Things that used to be part of my life, but that have started to wear on me:
- Daring people to drink more shots than me
- Traveling to new places with nothing but a backpack
- TV shows that take up too much of my time
- Multi-day music festivals
- Meeting new people
- And yes…casual sex
22-year-old Eric would look at the 32-year-old version and shake his head. I used to binge drink. I used to wake up hungover and work 10-hour shifts at a warehouse without a problem. Sex used to be a goal in and of itself.
But now? That lifestyle feels a bit vacant.
My life is slowing down. And for the first time ever, not only am I ok with that – I prefer it. Tinder and everything it brings no longer seems in line with the sort of person I want to be.
And that’s just fine.
…
I do realize this makes me sound like some kind of self-congratulatory douchebag.
I understand that. We all have these grand plans for our future. The things we’re going to do. The people we’re going to become. Listen to me, and I will teach you how to be an adult.
But it’s not like that. At least I don’t mean it to be.
The truth is, I’m a romantic at heart, and Tinder hasn’t done me any favors there. I haven’t been successful in love. The number of times I’ve invested a tiny chunk of my life in a Tinder conversation, only to have it lead nowhere (or get ghosted) is depressing.
I’m 32, goddammit. I look around me at how other people are living their lives. At the kids, at the marriages, or at the very least at the girlfriends that you’re not terrified to bring home for Christmas.
I see what other people my age are doing, and the questions start. How did they meet their partner? Are they really as happy as they claim to be? And, inevitably:
Why the FUCK isn’t this happening to me?
Maybe that’s overcomplicating it. Maybe this desire to get off Tinder is simply a need to get away from a screen. Our attention spans are dying. Everybody has noticed it. From short form content to “on demand” everything, we are more connected (and anxious) than we’ve ever been.
If you stop and really think about it, it’s depressing how much of our lives are completely dependent on phones. From restaurant menus to hotel check-ins, companies want us glued to a screen.
I’m nostalgic for a world I never got the chance to be an adult in.
One where there isn’t always somebody taking a picture of their cappuccino. One where you can go to a concert and not get lost in a sea of iPhones. One where it’s not weird to approach a cute stranger.
I’m tired of “online communities” and comment sections. I want more trees and real life chats.
The problem is, with an app like Tinder (and really any kind of social media), you’re dangerously at risk of outsourcing your self worth to the opinions of others. And as anybody that has used dating apps will tell you, it can quickly turn into a type of addiction.
I’ve spent probably four total years of the last ten on Tinder. Basically, when I wasn’t in a relationship or periodically logging off, I was on the app.
Rough math here, but I’ve probably had something like 75,000 swipes.
I can’t imagine that has done anything good for my brain. To be bombarded by pictures of pretty girls, and to appreciate each one all of two seconds before it’s on to the next?
It’s mindless swiping at its worst. Where is the fun, or value, in that?
And one of the worst parts about Tinder? When you really do match with somebody. Not just on the app, but in real life, too.
Like Erin. She’s from Portland and I met her in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. The sex was great, but the conversation was even better. We stayed up until 4 AM talking about music and therapy. We shared cookies and chatted about the best books we had ever read.
And then she left – and that was that.
Tinder wants you to be casual. Even if you’d like something more long-term, success on the app begs you to play a certain part. No matter how great the 4 AM talks are.
Play that part enough times with people you’re never going to see again and your heart starts to ache a little.
…
On and off for the last decade, I have thought some variation of: I’m not finding my person even with Tinder. The app gives you all the options of the world at your fingertips. If finding love is just a numbers game, then I must be really goddamn unlucky.
But then I thought something: maybe I’m not finding my person because of Tinder. And this gets to the root of the problem.
It’s just too easy.
If you haven’t had to work for something, or at the very least invest in it somehow, you just don’t appreciate it in the same way. According to some studies, less than 10 percent of committed relationships started on an app. Those aren’t great odds.
This part is important: I’m certainly not saying that the quality of people on Tinder is terrible. But I do think meeting somebody online shapes the way you interact with them.
Even if you aren’t just looking for a quick hookup, and you do want something more – it does start behind a screen. And that, in ways you’re probably not even aware of, influences how you think about another person. At the best, that they’re easy. At the worst, that they’re disposable.
Maybe you really do attract what you put into the world. And if Tinder is all about quick hits of dopamine and no-strings-attached fun, how can I expect to receive anything more?
…
I was talking to my sister recently, and we came to a conclusion: a lot of true happiness comes from consciously limiting yourself.
In the modern day we live in a state of excess. More food options, more places to take a vacation, more potential partners. When I was younger the assumption was that true happiness came from sampling them all.
Now I’m not so sure.
In 2023 I was fresh out of a breakup, and I found myself deep in this excess. I was coming home from a Tinder match’s house, in an Uber, talking to another girl on Tinder, and was ordering McDonald’s for delivery to my Airbnb.
All made possible with my phone.
A few years ago, this was a story I’d tell my best friend. We’d sit on his deck and drink beer and feel good about ourselves. Now it’s the kind of story that makes me cringe a little.
The easy access that many Westerners are given can be titillating. But after enough times of getting what you want, when you want, it also starts to feel rotten. I’m at the age where it’s no longer cool talking about your body count, and an age where these big life questions can no longer be ignored.
What kind of person do you want to be? What kind of life do you want to have? What are you willing to give up to get it?
There’s an idea that I’ve been kicking around for the past year. Give it a minute, and I think it becomes pretty interesting:
Happiness isn’t the same thing as fulfillment.
Has Tinder made me happy? If laughing and orgasms and spending time with sexy women can be considered happiness, most certainly.
But fulfillment?
That’s much deeper, and much more difficult to pinpoint.
After enough dates and hookups (both on Tinder and off), things take on a predictable pattern. Getting laid used to require charm. Now it’s closer to a formula.
And it’s led me to one very simple conclusion:
Tinder is bad for my soul.
There’s not a lot of “woo woo” things I believe in, but this is certainly one of them. I want to get married and have kids. I want to find my person. And every second I spend scrolling Tinder is one second further away from finding her.
…
To say that getting back on Tinder is “tempting” doesn’t even begin to describe it. As a guy with a high sex drive that spent half of his 20s in relationships with very subpar sex, Tinder has been a gift from the horny gods.
The app (and apps like it) also serve a time and place. I have nothing bad to say about people that use Tinder. I know firsthand how fun it can be. I also know how difficult it can be to meet people. Whether you’re an introvert or in a new city, dating can be brutal.
Apps make it all a bit easier.
And if I’m honest, there’s no guarantee that I won’t make a profile again. If I do, I will try to be gentle with myself. No need to beat myself up over swiping.
But it’s a resolution of mine. Not just for 2025, but forever. In a way that’s been eating at me, I do feel like I’ve outgrown it. And like everything else we move on from, that’s alright.
In my mind, Tinder will always be that one friend that you call up for a good time. They aren’t bad – they just also aren’t particularly good for you.
Was Tinder still giving me what I wanted at the end of 2024? Not a chance. But maybe real life does.
It reminds me of a quote I recently came across:
Have you ever thought that what you’re looking for, is looking for you?
It’s such a beautiful belief to buy into – and it gives me hope.
…
I’m putting the finishing touches on this article after a week with a fabulous Spanish girl.
I didn’t meet her on Tinder. She was standing behind me at a bar in Portugal when I was there this summer, and the truth is that I really just liked chatting with her.
I didn’t have to come up with something funny to write about her profile. I didn’t have to comment on one of her pictures. I could just be myself, and after ten years of using a dating app, it felt so incredibly refreshing.
She was real and better than anything you’d see on a screen, and even though that’s not everything, in this brave new world of life after Tinder…
It’s certainly a start.
…
Enjoying the content on 3QD? Help keep us going by donating now.