I have 69 unread Hinge notifications.

How’s my love life going, you ask? Well, my dating app is getting more action than I am.

Another notification just came in. We’re now at 70 unread Hinge notifications and I’m honestly just annoyed that the universe couldn’t even grant me a full sixty seconds of self deprecation to lighten the mood. I delete the new notification to keep it at 69 and giggle like a frat boy who has had too many jello shots. I suppose I should be flattered but I have no intention of opening any of these notifications. Why did I even download this app?

I can’t actually trust that these apps were built for people to meet and date. I’ve been on and off these platforms for months, embracing the validation I receive from random strangers then deleting the app out of frustration only to find myself back in a few weeks. I think platforms like Tinder, Bumble, and Hinge are just another social media outlet and a lazy opportunity to double-tap instead of building a genuine connection with someone. More importantly, I have a theory that if a guy is matched with you, he uses the platform solely for the purpose of jerking off to your photos without any intent to message you. 

Prove me wrong.

Nearly every guy I’ve matched with will not message me when I invite him to chat. And why is that?

They’re totally only there to jerk off to photos. 

Except Kyle. Kyle was not only a beautiful man who matched with me but maybe one out of twenty to message me when I decided to connect with him. Our romance was short lived though when he shared that he was currently in Hawaii and I immediately replied with “Hope you get some D!” 

I’m saddened to report that he did not message me back after that and while I was strictly talking about Vitamin D, I guess I blew that one. No pun intended. 

It’s probably not Hinge’s fault that I’m having no luck with the app but my perspective alone makes me more certain that most aren’t there to actually date. I know I’m not. 

And now I wonder, ‘Am I here to jerk off to photos?’

I guess I’ll have to disappoint the family once again during the holidays when I show up without a date. I do find it somewhat refreshing (while mildly depressing) that the conversation has transitioned in the following years as such:

Holidays with my boyfriend:

“When are you two finally going to get married and have kids?”

Last holiday, without a boyfriend:

“So are you dating?”

This year, pre-holiday, which is getting me super hyped for the actual dinner conversations ahead:

“Honey, I think maybe you should start thinking about freezing your eggs.”

I think it’s safe to say that my family has officially given up on me and I am a lost cause by society’s standards. The older I get the more I realize I don’t want children so the thought of selling my eggs is much more appealing at this point rather than freezing them, taking the money, and moving to Belize to live my best life.

But then my anxiety kicks in and I fast forward to my fifties where I’m minding my own business, walking down the street listening to Lizzo, who I completely and fully expect to still be killing it,  when a twenty-something-year-old with my eyes and bone structure walks by me and I immediately wonder, “Oh my God, is that my child?!”

There are far too many Lifetime movies and shows about kids looking for their egg and sperm donors and that is just a chance that I cannot take. For that reason, I’m out. And so is my dream of living in sunny Belize.

And now I wonder if Kyle is still in Hawaii and if he ever did get that D. 

I’ll be deleting this app again tonight.