Humble on Bumble and cringe on Hinge

I WAS not specifically looking for love, until my best friend convinced me to download Bumble earlier this year, while we were driving on a dirt road through the Tankwa Karoo, on our way to AfrikaBurn. In fact, I was looking forward to our girls' weekend, without any distractions, but I was game to find out what all the Bumble fuss was about. In the rosy glow of the evening light, I set up my profile, and marvelled at all the handsome farmers appearing on my phone: Lonely and neglected – swipe left, right and centre.

At that point in my life, I had gotten rid of all my bad habits, depriving myself of all my guilty pleasures. My profile only revealed three things: Sober. Optimist. Must be open to explore the wonderful world of children. Several people naturally assumed I had just come out of a rehabilitation centre. That was fine. My profile was set up for day-dates: A godsend, I would later discover.

My preferences were set to meet someone who enjoys an outdoorsy life. I was looking for someone with whom I could comfortably be my wildest self and live as close to nature as possible. That was my only requirement. If I couldn't meet a man with whom I felt comfortable enough to tackle this life with my bare hands, I would be perfectly happy behind my own steering wheel, even if my car only had one side mirror.

You see, my friend Klarablaar and I are optimistic and independent, and on Bumble, you are allowed to dream. After an hour on the app, I became impatient: How do you start a conversation with a stranger? “Ask a philosophical question," Klarablaar suggested. “Like what?" I wanted to know. “Bird or tree?"

Bird or tree?

It's difficult to engage in small talk, but occasionally you come across a lively soul with a sense of humour. What a fucking treat. I met David online, who immediately asked me what my favourite disco album was. Big mistake, he gets bombarded with Italian disco for days. Ever since I was in Italy two years ago, that's been almost all I've been listening to.

The man makes music that’s right up my alley. David starts mixing my playlists, then I work out short music videos for his mixes. It becomes a huge game. My gay friends were appalled. My last music video was shot in a gym. David and I have never met in person, but remain fellows in disco.

The artist’s way

One of the things you'll come across on dating apps is people you already know. Avoid them like the plague. The funny ha-ha moment only lasts two minutes. Then you’ll have to decide whether you really want to hook up with a friend. Of course, I did. How wonderful.

My first date was with a good friend. I've reached that glorious age where I can date ten years younger, older, or try both. We were working together on a project, when both swiped right on each other’s profiles. Awkward. He happened to be dyslexic, and couldn’t decipher my briefs.

We were pressed for time, and as the art director, I had to take the lead. Inevitably, I had to invite him to my house to convey the brief orally. When I asked him to send me an invoice, he told me it was on the house.

The engineer

My first date with Emile was in a small coffee shop. He came from a strong religious background from which he'd recently broken away. I told him that my marriage had failed because my ex-husband refused to play chess with me (metaphorically speaking). So Emile brought a chess set to our first date.

Don’t lie on Bumble – not even about something small. He was a keen runner with a vibrant energy. We spoke for hours.  After our second date, I realised Emile was looking for something a bit more serious and declined the third invitation. We still occasionally spoke on the phone, but it eventually fizzled out.

The lanky lad

Jake was also an engineer, fresh out of varsity. Eager. He wanted to take me on vacation immediately, but I was only willing to meet him for a milkshake. I listened patiently to his stories about working on a mine for six months but decided to cut the date short with the excuse that I had to go pick up my kids from my mom. He bombarded me with nagging sexual messages afterwards, which I struggled to comprehend. I had to google every second acronym to figure out what exactly he wanted to do to me. DSLS stands for dick-sucking-lips (in case you were wondering). He's been blocked, by the way.

Starry night

Hady comes from Lebanon but currently lives in Madrid, where he works as a construction engineer. He took me to a lovely restaurant, but unfortunately, I only understood a third of the conversation and focused on reading his body language. His eyes were bright and lively. They teared up when he tried to explain something to me on a napkin by drawing circles. He told me I was a “good listener" and pressed my hand against his wet cheek to wipe away his tears.

I was captivated by his passionate voice and how he spoke with his hands. At one point he stood up unexpectedly from the table, pulled me out of my chair, and kissed me. His kisses were soft and warm. A stranger was standing there, completely mesmerised, saying: “Tell her that you love her". “I love you," he softly whispered in my neck. We left the restaurant and continued kissing in a street café. The next day he flew back to Madrid.

And so I learnt my lesson

On Bumble, you need to prompt a conversation by asking a general question. Mine was: “What's the next thing you're looking forward to?" The night I broke my sobriety, I received a Bumble notification from William: “I'm looking forward to my next trip abroad." Architect. How pretentious, I thought, and replied: “That's very broad, any specific place in mind?" He sent me a map. We continued the conversation for weeks.

Playlists were shared and books and movies were recommended. He was intelligent. Eventually, I gave him a call. He invited me to an exhibition and suggested we grab a bite afterwards. I realised we shared a network of friends and cancelled. He started following me on Instagram and got a small glimpse into my private life, still we continued speaking on the phone.

He invited me on another date again, which I cancelled. He was understanding. It started feeling like a real relationship. I promised that I would meet him as soon as I got back from a spontaneous road trip, but stayed a week longer. He cancelled our date. I tried again. But no: “Don't take this personally, but you don't know me." It felt like a real break-up.

Ctrl-Z

I’ve learnt valid lessons from each person I went on a date with. The most insightful moment was when I realised that I shouldn't be dating at all right now, I'm far too afraid of intimacy: “My soul lies scattered in fourteen pieces across the oceans," to quote one of my favourite authors, Etienne Leroux, from his novel IsisIsisIsis. Even after 14 dates, I couldn't stitch it back together. I feel ashamed about the way I had approached the online relationship with the architect, which could’ve blossomed into something authentic. Hopefully, I won’t run into him.

In the beginning, I was flattered by the number of requests from strangers who wanted to get to know me, but eventually, it started to feel like online shopping where you never check out the cart. I also tried other dating apps, like Hinge, but had a few cringe moments and deleted it.

It's easy to forget that you're talking to real people on an app. Ethics is important: Hearts are at stake. The small talk is tedious and leaves you feeling empty: It's time-consuming and the dopamine hits become less intense. I met interesting people and had wonderful conversations with people I would never have reached otherwise.

The most surprising aspect of the app was that I met people who don't share my political views and I realised how small the circles are in which I exchange dialogue. I think dating apps play on people's emotions, and it can become dangerous. It presses on tender desires in a liminal space that doesn't really exist, yet the emotions attached to strangers are real.

♦ VWB ♦

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