Dating : Tinderella in lockdown: six things I’ve learned about romance.

Two weeks into lockdown, I downloaded Tinder again. I wasn’t alone — on March 29th, the platform recorded over three billion swipes, the most in a single day since the app launched.

I hadn’t used it for over a year, but Tinder felt less risky and more honest while the world was in crisis. I found myself saying exactly what I thought, exactly what I felt. I wasn’t intimidated by rejection. Because I figured hey, I’ll probably never even meet these people.

All I really wanted was something new. I’d burned through Tiger King on Netflix, managed my smaller freelance workload, and taught myself how to do nail extensions. Now could someone, please, just flirt with me.

Well, they did. And here’s what I’ve learned about romance in lockdown.

I’m a sucker for intelligence, I always have been. Despite the number of Instagram #sadgirl memes telling me not to fall for words, I somehow manage to every damn time.

The usual timeline for me meeting someone from Tinder is a couple of weeks. I’m pretty impulsive as things go, so I like to strike while the — ahem — iron is hot. For the first time ever, I found myself texting people for weeks without being able to meet.

The individuals that stood the test of time had one thing in common: they were all good writers. Maybe it’s personal preference, but while we’re missing out on the nuances of a real-life date, such as body language and tone, being articulate can actually make up for a lot of that.

“Taking a shower? Without me? ;)”

“Weekly shopping trip? I’d put you in my trolley ;)”

Maybe I’d dared to dream, but with my newfound vulnerability, I half expected my matches to drop some of the typical Tinder BS, and hit me with something authentic. Safe to say, I was left wanting.

Although, there’s something weirdly comforting about the consistency of bad flirting on Tinder. The world is descending into chaos, but we can always rely on the inarticulate horniness plaguing dating apps. And as condescending as this sounds, I actually quite enjoy it.

I’ll admit, my unoriginal “Ebony in the streets, Storm in the sheets’ is hardly a literary masterpiece. But the following bios had me wondering if eternal celibacy was such a bad idea —

“We’re in lockdown but are you (lock emoji) (key emoji)?”

I still don’t know what that means.

“Looking for a quarantine buddy”

Not sure this bachelor understands the concept of quarantine.

“Covid-free since 2020”

Oddly comforting. I swiped right.

Conversations with my matches didn’t last much beyond a week. Except for one guy, who I chatted with for at least a month. He was interesting and exciting, and I think I related to his reckless energy. So when the texting slowly phased out, I felt genuinely sad.

We’re not talking rom-com and ugly sobbing sad. More like, ugh, that sucks. Being fairly cynical, I always felt like you couldn’t really miss or desire someone you hadn’t even met. My crush on Ryan Gosling being the exception, of course. But you get my drift.

So it was a very weird feeling to notice the absence of someone when I’d never even enjoyed their physical presence. Stranger still, I caught myself imagining if we’d met, and I didn’t like him. Or he didn’t like me. Disaster averted.

I’m a pretty firm believer that you can live without romantic love, but not without friends. This pandemic has only confirmed my theory. Really, this section is a great big thank you to my best friends, for continuing to challenge me, inspire me, and love me.

So many of us are desperate for connection right now. And I can’t help but acknowledge how ironic it is that I went in search of it on a platform full of strangers, instead of facetiming my close pal.

Throughout this pandemic, the greatest love I’ve felt so far is when my best friend and I made playlists for each other. Sending sexy emojis to a stranger on Tinder could never compare to those platonic acts of love.

I’d like to preface this by saying I never, for a second, thought love was dead anyway. But the gamification of dating has transformed how we connect, and who we connect with. Having endless profiles at our fingertips has reinforced the idea that we can pick up and dispose of people the same way we ditch our old phone for an upgrade.

And at the same time, my teenage brother and his long term partner have shown devotion beyond their years. When you’re separated from the person you love, all you want is to be close again. So when you can finally meet up, but still can’t close the two-meter distance, it must be agonising.

I’ve deleted Tinder now. Swapped it for painting, which turned out to be an excellent trade-off. But I know I’ll download it again when I’m in the mood for some mindless flirting. Maybe that’s all it really needs to be.