Addicted to Love: Of Tinderers and Men

Okay, I caved.

I honestly thought I was better than this. But, as I sat in Bellwoods with my roommate/gay husband listening to a play-by-play of Sunday afternoon Grindr, I thought that, yes, maybe I should explore the dark crevice of society that is Tinder.

Recently aware that all of the men I’ve had genuine interest in as humans, personalities AND penises in the last three years are classified unavailable under one of the following categories: musician; famous; married; on temp visa, I wondered what I really stood to lose (my long gone dignity aside). The idea of Tinder horrifies me: I’m plenty capable of securing man, with varying degrees of satisfaction, shame and outright regret, and I felt that an app belittles my ability to seek, hunt and kill on my own prey. I ain’t no chromosomally challenged Trump son; I don’t need my kills to be canned hunts! I don’t have a mullet or a mangunt, damn it!

So I downloaded the thing, mildly ashamed and quite curious.

Four days in, there are SO MANY THINGS that I’m perplexed by on Tinder. I’m sure chicks do some of these things too, but I ferreal have to get it off my chest either way.

The drink in the face:

– Why are you leading with this? I literally cannot see your face. If a drink vessel makes you more attractive, you need to werk on your angles, son. No one’s like, yeahhh, I’m so razzed to meet cupface tonight, it’s gonna be HAWT!!

Which leads to…

The blurry chain of photos as taken by a 2004 webcam:

– So your tallboy-in-face photo is great, but your face itself is from back in the day when pixels were such a hot commodity that you couldn’t afford a few extras for yourself?

Which leads to…

Group photos of many nondescript, pixelated bros:
– These often follow, precede or complement your cup-in-the-face photos, further proving that I still have no fucking clue what you look like.

Which sometimes results in…
What, I didn’t reply, but I’ve been online recently, so you’re going to send me accusatory messages about it? Are we for real? We’re on the world’s most vapid app; a veritable hot dog/pie eating contest for humans, where we see how many we can guzzle back in a day. A right swipe ain’t a promise ring. Even worse, you’re calling someone out on not replying quickly enough and then berating them on top of it? Brah, if you’re monitoring when I’m online and not replying to you, that’s alarming and unsettling. I don’t know what your Tinder inbox looks like, but if I dedicated myself to mine, it’d be a full time job, and I already have the equivalent of 3.  I’m looking at you, Local Psycho, Rob:

Supplementary items include:

– A scenic travel shot in which you are a wee queef of a human atop a mountain peak or in front of a tropical sunset. Or maybe you’re a cottage fella, so a faraway jetskiing shot or blurry dock profile is in order. Still don’t know what you look like!

– You with locals and/or exotic mammals/marine life, where you all look super happy — you because you’re an idiot, and the wildlife because they’re manipulated by threat of starvation or power of sedation. Slavery is so cute when it’s just a fluffy tiger photo op!!!

– You’ve caught a fish! Big man get food!! I guess I should post an instagram vid of how my hips would crack open like a lobster dinner if I were stupid enough to let you put your meathead spawn in me?

– A photo with a way hotter/taller friend – I was courteous and used that as a secondary photo, so you can at least pick me out!
– Backlit photos where you are a faceless, human-shaped thing.
– You and Rob Ford… really? Gross.
– You and kids that aren’t yours, clarifying in your bio that said child is not yours. My ovaries remain indifferent, and although I have no use for children, even I know that they shouldn’t be tools for picking up chicks.
– Asking me what my passion is in life or what I like to do in my spare time, or any such wildly inane, uninspiring, who-gives-a-fuck question. That’s the point at which I check right out.
– My goodness, a lot of you are entrepreneurs who are all about family and loyalty. I certainly hope you’re a contributing member of society with loved ones who you treat well – no need to lay it on so thick.

It’s kind of a shame, the whole swipe left and begone thing – there have been tons of guys whose humor was right up my alley, but I worried that a swipe right might be a misleading declaration of physical attraction/interest. Where Tinder connects us, it also divides, and that’s too bad.

And don’t get me wrong; there are tons of really lovely people on this thing just trying to meet other lovely people for reasons that aren’t as nefarious as those of the shady girls and guys out there. I’m sure I’m some special kind of asshole myself, don’t worry. I know. If anything, this thing has reminded me that I’m probably best suited to musicians, and that snooping outside of my expertise doesn’t do anyone any good.

P.S. If someone finds my integrity, please mail it back to me, thx.

Emy Stantcheva
Emy Stantcheva is a lifelong music junkie-turned-music biz dabbler, from music publicity and artist management to the not-for-profit sector. By day, she champions the indies at Canadian Independent Music Association and MusicOntario, and moonlights as Lifestyle Editor for Addicted and rep for southern rock n’ roller Basia Lyjak. A healthy living fan (yes, vodka is a plant), vegetarian of 20 years and lover of cooking, wine and craft beer, she’s always on the lookout for tasty and cruelty-free wares and fares. She’s also known for her hoarding of cats (she has four) and leggings (300 pairs and counting). With her feisty way with words, Stantcheva brings a fresh and intelligent perspective to Addicted’s Lifestyle section.
Emy Stantcheva

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