For countless students, college provides valuable experience and memories in the realm of relationships. Ranging from serious, long-term partnerships to casual flings with a lifespan of one night, hooking up and developing romantic connections is one of the most prominent aspects of the life of a typical college student. As with other essential facets of life, humanity has found a way to trivialize and diminish the quality and impact of socializing and hooking up. The device that has been invented to do it? Tinder.
This is not a hit piece against hooking up casually, by any stretch. I think as long as both parties are on the same page regarding the depth of the relationship, and the possibility of its future, any species of romance is valuable. It is not being madly in love with a person that makes connections with partners successful. It is communication and novelty. There is a valid argument to be made that a long-term relationship without communication or exploration is not as healthy as a one-night-stand in possession of both. This would lead one to believe that Tinder, an app where the intentions of hooking up are painfully obvious by virtue of social context, is a successful means to a vibrant love life. I’m here to tell you why it is closer to putting yourself on life-support.
Tinder is to dating and hooking up, as Walmart’s “Great Value” brand is to pretty much every single grocery item you can think of. Sure, it will check all of the boxes in the short run, but relying on the knock-off products will inevitably leave you with a growing pit of emptiness on the inside. Tinder is an inauthentic method of meeting people, which is the main issue with the platform. Strong connections that lead to strong relationships are generally predicated on a common interest, be it a class or an extracurricular or a common friend group. Sometimes that connection is Midtown, and that is perfectly fine too. At least in that situation, the relationship is organic and the attraction is natural. The party scene has the additional benefit of the encounter (usually) being observed by both individuals’ friends, so extremely unwise decisions can be avoided. Tinder, on the other hand, begins and ends with photos, a short bio, and a few rounds of messaging. This is essentially the same thing as telling your parents what you want from the store instead of getting it in person: You have a general idea of what to expect, but it probably won’t be exactly what you want and there is a slight chance that it will kill you. Swiping right or left on a person’s profile is simply not enough buildup to warrant a hookup, and yet here we are in 2018 where a disquieting amount of Sunday night outings are dictated by a person’s tinder matches.
Tinder is a fascinating app in that it boasts not one, but two Achilles’ heels: The first being the inauthentic aura surrounding the app and all of the people who inhabit its magenta walls, and the second being the inexpensive nature of the connections made on the app. Similar to Walmart, Tinder essentially applied the cold hand of capitalism to dating and has created a cheaper, more efficient product; Instead of potato chips and milk gallons like Walmart, Tinder has price-checked the effort it takes to form new relationships. This is where the value of naturally meeting people becomes plain to see, from Gold Room one-nighters to girlfriends and boyfriends of multiple years, the price of these relationships in effort expended to make things work is what makes the payoff feel so amazing. The energy we pour into getting what we want from a relationship is the price, and the product is made more valuable for it.
Going to Walmart for groceries gets the job done, and Tinder certainly does that as well. However, it is impossible to escape the emotional void that stems from the dirt-cheap, contrived connections that result from the app in the same way that a person will never truly enjoy “Great Value” yogurts or cookies. I think from now on I’ll be sticking to Chobani or Milano, and in the same light, I think it’s about time for me to delete my Tinder.
Kyle Cunningham is a UF English and history freshman. His column appears on Wednesdays.
