My decade in online dating.

My Decade in Online Dating

When I first signed up for online dating in the early 2010s, I was fairly sure it would work. Sure, there would be lots of bad dates. It would feel hopeless! But then I’d meet a guy with a sweet smile who’s nice to talk to, and I’d never date again.

My Decade in Online Dating

What I learned from 10 years in the trenches of internet romance.

Dec 24, 2019 5:25 PM

Photo by Chase Wilson on Unsplash, vitalik19111992/iStock/Getty Images Plus, SIphotography/iStock/Getty Images Plus, ilaya raja on Unsplash, and diignat/iStock/Getty Images Plus.

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When I first signed up for online dating in the early 2010s, I was fairly sure it would work. Sure, there would be lots of bad dates. It would feel hopeless! But then I’d meet a guy with a sweet smile who’s nice to talk to, and I’d never date again.

Joining Match.com seemed out of the question. To me, it felt like a sea of bearded schlubs who were constantly explaining wine tannins or suggesting we go listen to their Pandora jazz station. Not only was Match distinctly uncool to 25-year-old me, but it was expensive. Back then, the only website I’d ever given a credit card to was Netflix for the DVDs I never watched.

In contrast, OkCupid.com was the website the Village Voice had called “a favorite hangout for internet goers.” Like me! Their landing page featured a cartoon lady who looked like Lisa Loeb without the glasses. Smart and sexy? Like me! When my desired username was taken, OkCupid offered suggestions for how to make it more distinctive. “How about we add “taco” or “tron” to your name?” Sure, I guess! OkCupid felt like my sweet dorky friend who sincerely wanted to help me to find a boyfriend.

I wanted my dating profile to suggest I was someone clever who was also incredibly good at sex. For my bio, I plagiarized Kim Jong-il’s Wikipedia page:

Born in a log cabin in Mount Paektu; birth was foretold by a swallow, and heralded by the appearance of a double rainbow across the sky; shot 38-under-par first time playing golf; invented the hamburger.

I wanted to seem like the kind of girl Cake songs were written about. Under hobbies I wrote: “Telling stories, wearing skirts, talking to strangers, making my own salad dressing, finishing off a bottle of wine, and leaping out of moving vehicles.”

To be clear, I’ve only leapt out of a moving vehicle once, and it was to avoid an ex-boyfriend. He was the first person to ever tell me about OkCupid, in the context of how much he missed using it. In fact, in my 20s, I found that all of my boyfriends seemed to love online dating. Over G-chat, B. told me he’d met his future wife on Match.com, despite his unfortunate username “theasianmacgyver.” My friend D. met his girlfriend by sorting through every profile that mentioned “NPR.” His username? “DrivewayMoment.”

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But soon I realized it wasn’t going to be as easy for me. At first I was thrilled by how many messages I was getting. Then I read them. There was, “Are you jewish? You seem jewish.” And, possibly related, “I like your nose. lets [sic] have sex.” One aspiring comedian, after reading that I’m a journalist, said, “Hey girl. I bet that article deadline isn’t the only thing that’s flexible.” Despite OkCupid’s geeky twee sweetheart brand, the reality of what I experienced on that website felt like it was coming from a dark corner of the internet I’d never explored before. I’d been prepared to complain about things like missing apostrophes and blurry bathroom selfies in dating profiles. I wasn’t prepared for it to feel like my own personal game of Fear Factor: in order to win your prize, you have to endure something gross that goes against your every instinct to run.

I treated the harassment like the price of admission for online dating. When my friends quit apps because of things like “too many murder jokes” and “I saw my boss on there,” I felt proud of my womanly ability to endure shitty things. Plus, I was developing an incredible skill for spotting the nice guys, and convincing them to date me. OkCupid is where I met S. with the fixed gear bicycle, who ended things because I seemed to care too much about sex. (I did.) It was where I met the cartoonist M., who didn’t own a second pillow so I gave him mine as a breakup gift.

It felt like my own personal game of Fear Factor: in order to win, you have to endure something gross that goes against your every instinct to run.

I’d started my online dating journey hoping to meet someone who would want to enter adulthood with me. But while I was working on my 5-year plan, I’d meet guys who were still getting the hang of remembering to drink water. As I approached my 30th birthday, I began to worry that I’d wasted my best single years online dating. I’d lie in bed, noticing the missing body next to mine, and Googling, “Did I miss my sexual peak?”

That changed after I downloaded Tinder on my iPhone 3. Right away, I felt like I’d been born to date using my phone. Decision-making with my thumbs gave me a sense of control in a situation where I’d previously felt powerless. I quickly swapped my long, involved OkCupid profile for the short Tinder bio: “Marry me for my dog.”

Within a few weeks, I couldn’t go to a bar without noticing everyone my age swiping alongside me. At last, my married friends were jealous of what they’d missed. They’d watch over my shoulder as I’d rapidly swipe left at the first sight of a topless gym selfie, and pivot right for an adorable puppy. I’d swipe left on a man-bun, right on a top fade, left on a drugged-tiger selfie, and right on the guy I kinda knew in college.

My decade in online dating.

My Decade in Online Dating