Becoming Tinderella

Tinder. Oh Tinder! People lose their precious time, their manners and their dignity over you. We are the generation who retire to bed, no longer for a quick online shop of clothes, or goodnight text, but a quick online swipe for the opposite sex. For some, you are the promise of true love or a casual bit of fun. For others, your existence spells disapproval, judgement and the use of a very over dramatic term “dating apocalypse.” (Calm the fuck down Vanity Fair)

I joined tinder and thus joined the shameless group of single women who gleefully swipe a few nights a week, through the online platter of men within a 10 mile radius. The first swipe right I ever made was for a bearded fellow who’s bio read: “my second favourite thing to eat in bed is pizza.” (you can thank me later dudes reading.) What have I become? The Tinder siren echoes as I lay in bed unable to sleep or when work bores. I’ve positioned myself on the train like a Russian acrobat (maybe I should add this as a skill on my bio?) simply to view a message from a potential date. Twitter spams our feeds with tinder fail stories, humorous messages (see my twitter for a few I’ve had,) and occasionally, a success story. Either way, if you’ve signed up to Tinder, you’ve joined the so called Hit it and Quit it app-the group of Online Dating Filth. If you’re going to play, play properly; here’s how to get really stuck in.

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First things first you sassy single gals: Your photos. No longer are Instagram filters accepted, too many drink in hand photos mean you’re easy, black and white images are apparently code for “ugly” (I’ve been told this by numerous males,) and if you feature a cat in any picture, you will be branded the crazy cat lady. Sounds ridiculous right? After a few weeks on the app, you soon become tinder savvy and learn the unwritten rules of selling your shit to the best of your ability. Personally? I’ve gone for 5 mediocre photos. Every time I log on, I crave to upload those 2 photos (yes, I only have 2) where my makeup and hair is perfect / I look like I have some tits, but c’mon guys, if you can get a date looking like a 5, they’re going to fall in love when you turn up made up & a strong 7. Pick smiley photos, photos with animals (I repeat, not a cat,) photos with friends (perhaps not your super hot best friend however,) photos where you are having a fucking ball. You have 5 photos to transmit any vibe you wish. You can be whoever you want to be, to attract whoever the hell you want – pick wisely and Mr perfect right now will appear in no time.

Second comes the bio. Much like when I started this blog, I stared at this 500 word box with dread, anxiety and self hate. WHY AM I SO BORING? Can I really write that I like reading & dogs? Do guys dig that? Well girls, apparently they do. My first ever tinder bio was simply a line about a encounter I once had- “a guy once told me I must be ‘well clever’ because the book i was reading was ‘mahusive.” Yes, that did really happen. And yes, I did merely give an unimpressed glance and continue reading my normal sized book. I digress. What was it about a simple line that meant that little flame notification almost set my phone alight with matches? I’m not sure if I’m honest, but I personally (a book geek with a bad case of scowling) got some decent matches and very few messages from fella’s who have never read anything more than Biff & Chip. (No disrespect Biff, you were my home boy back in the day.) Perfection, no? What I’m saying is, my mini anecdote not only told these right swipers that I liked to read, but that I was looking for a guy with some intelligence & the ability to start with a better conversation than that poor dude in Starbucks. If you’re looking for the love of your life or have simply worn out your vibrator, that’s fine, just relay that in a funny way that will make a guy stop and read. Yes Tinder’s swarming with guys, but you want to be that chick he mentions to his mates thanks to your superb quick wit, not screen shotted and sent in to the “Tinder Fails” page. Side note, after a first date where the guy told me it’s really unattractive for girls to swear and burp, I amended my bio to “I swear and burp a lot so if you’re looking for a princess, it’s not me.” TRANSPARENCY GUYS. No point in wasting your sweet precious time on a guy that can’t handle your party trick of alphabet burping.

Now the basics are taken care of, you begin the addictive  routine of swiping. Some days you are on a cruel path where anyone below a 7 (and lets face it, I’d be lucky to pull a 7) doesn’t cut it. *Big nose* Nope. *Black and white photo* He’s hiding something. We all know b&w are for fugly days. *Vertically striped shirt* Oh sweet jesus he’s fat & has taken Trinnie & Suzannah’s advice about downward stripes. Gay and fat. Brilliant. It becomes an obsession and it only stops when the devil red light finally flashes on your phone and forces you to stop being a judgemental bitch for another night. Then comes the evenings, after a few margaritas with the GBF (gay best friend – yes that abbreviation is a thing) where you’re on a happy go lucky, I love you all, right swipe mission and all reasonable judgement goes out of the window. *Only has topless, no head in shot photos* Well he obviously looks after himself, perhaps he’s just not good at photography. *Wearing a cap in every photo* Perhaps he’s a bit self conscious of his hair line? I like someone who’s not cocky. *Bio reads “House every weekend.”* I can totally be that girl at all night raves, I stayed out until 2am once. And so the cycle continues. It does occur however, that some nights, post work when you are not intoxicated or in a PMT rage, your judgement is reliable & you make good decisions on the swiping front. You begin matching with close to perfect bearded men who also enjoy lazy evenings, gin and books. START THE CELEBRATIONS. Before you know it, you’re speaking to 5 bearded dudes who enjoy gin and lazy evenings. Holy Fuck. I didn’t think there was one guy out there suited to me, let alone 5. Your once tragic little ego will boom. Your walk to the station the next day will become a triumphant strut as you consider your oh so many options. Oh wait…I can’t do this. I struggle to text my mum once a week, let alone up keep five conversations with 5 interesting men. My phones bleeping at work and everyone knows I’m on tinder. I CANT DO THIS. I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS. I may have shit game, but I thus commence the whittling down – the decision to sack off 4 out of 5, in the interest of having a life outside of tinder & not doubling up on conversations in a confused match jigsaw. Phew, and relax. Oh no wait…  I feel a stage four coming on.

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Stage four. You’ve matched with your version of a 10. Mr looks-on-the-outside-almost-perfect man is sitting in your inbox marked with a little red dot showing that yes, you are infact a sexy mama and yes, someone is interested in speaking to you. Wahoo. Now commence the eager holding / repeated checking of the phone. Your phone has never been touched so much. Your eyes are popping out of your skull as you subconsciously (and from 6.3 miles away) urge Mr Tinder to drop you a line. Don’t panic. This is entirely normal newbie Tinder behaviour. Can you believe you’ll soon never speak to that 10 you matched with but you won’t even care? Trust me, it’ll happen when your inbox is swelling with the D. Chivalry is often dead on this sometimes sleazy app. You won’t believe the bearded fellow posing with the Thai tiger just sent you a one word message- “anal?” BUT IT WILL HAPPEN. If that’s what you’re digging, you get arranging that hook up girls, but if you’re not feeling trying an exit as an entrance, simply un-match and continue to prowl. There is hope my Tinderella’s. You will one day get a message that will make you smile at your phone, perhaps even LOL in real life. And BAM. Another kind of anxiety sets in and you forget entirely how to function in a normal conversation. Thank fuck there’s 2 screens and a couple of miles separating you from this dark haired stranger. Now without knowing the message that made your fanny flutter, I cannot begin to tell you how to reply, but I’ve learnt a few rules to stick by if your intention is to ultimately meet your Tinder knight. Do not fib. My culinary skills stretch as far as a chocolate cake (from the Betty Crocker range, fyi,) and I’m somewhat a dab-hand at cheesy hot dog pasta. Now this joyous matrimony of carbs, sugar and shame could easily be ignored as Mr personal trainer explains his harsh work outs and love of “eating clean.” Unless walking to the fridge and stretching to the back for another ripple is on par to an hour’s gym sesh, I definitely am not the exercising type girl. Now I could swallow this information, just as I swallow my calorific meals/snacks/extra snacks, however what would be the point? Mr personal trainer will figure me out in two seconds on a date, as my eyes glance (stare/glance, same thing) at the array of burgers on offer on the cocktail menu he’s handed me. Part of me recognizes the extreme effort that an act will inflict on any association with this male, and despite wishing I could bull doze my poor habits to ensure we live happily ever after, there’s absolutely no point.

After vommiting far too many words on this post, I have realised I am no Tinderella. Tinder’s been branded the sex app yet my vagina is penis-less yet snug and happy within my M&S pants. Perhaps Tinderella is the girl who serial dates, fuck ‘n’ chucks and enjoys the array of anal jokes this app has to offer. Perhaps this is the definition of being Tinderella and I’m playing completely wrong. Or perhaps being Tinderella is the girl who puts herself out there to be used and abused by a game playing bloke. Or perhaps, just PERHAPS Vanity Fair (seriously, read the article as listed in paragraph 1, it fucking angers me) it’s a casual, fun app for both sexes where grown adults meet other people and have a good time. Ignore everything I’ve written, Tinder is what you want it to be. Happy swiping.

And if you’ve had weird/bad/awkward experiences with Tinder, I’d love to commiserate with you. Misery loves company and all that jazz.

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