This coincides beautifully, maddeningly well with the disposable culture we’ve fostered on dating apps. These new men are permanent works-in-progress, ever-consumed with late-onset self-development without space to suffer the side-eye of a woman who has explained the concept of fabric softener one time too many. If she doesn’t like it, no worries: there will always be another, cooler, less rigid option just a swipe away. The eternal hope of improvement also teaches women to hold out for the heart of gold hiding within that dad bod.
When I’m procrastinating a deadline, dissociating in a boring meeting, or just hungry for attention, I sit back and open up Tinder, Bumble or Hinge: whichever has the best vibe and the least irritating interface. I swipe and swipe and swipe, left and right, left, left, left. The app’s logo pulses as it searches for people to match me with, and I wonder if I’m being too picky.
As the years pass, as we all get further set in our ways, as injectables become more requirement than option, as people pair off and the old adage that “all the good ones are taken” becomes increasingly true and my prospects begin to resemble the supermarket shelves in those early days of the pandemic, I’m at a crossroads: Judd or Nora?
Is it time to relax into the chill, nice guy punching above his weight, or is now the time to grit my teeth and hold fast until a sweater-wearing dreamboat in glasses shows up in my quirky cupcake shop?
I swipe and swipe, and one of my matches asks, “Are you submissive?” by way of greeting, and suddenly Seth Rogen seems delightful, and I’d swipe right on him in a heartbeat.
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