Oh, dating apps. We love to hate them. Sure, the jolt of self-confidence upon striking a match is exhilarating. But anyone who’s attempted swiping their way to love knows that the experience can also feel, well, kind of sad. Personally, my relationship to swiping is kind of like my relationship to “Girls” after five seasons — the spark’s long gone. Surprisingly, for one dating app, the feeling is mutual.
While Hinge was among the first apps to embrace swiping, the company hasdrastically rebranded.“We weren’t serving needs of people looking for relationships,” says Hinge chief executiveJustin McLeod, referencing a recent Hinge study in which 80 percent of users hadn’t found a relationship on any type of swiping app.
Distancing itself from casual hookups, Hinge now identifies as the go-to “relationship app,” targeting “people who are looking for meaningful connections.” New Hinge profiles include photos, basic information, and tidbits aboutusers’ personalities and interests. Rather than swiping, users interact by “liking” or commenting on photos, or answering icebreaker questions.
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Even though I’m in a committed relationship, I waspumped to hear Hinge’s news. Many of my friends seek relationships through dating apps, and I frequently write about love and sex. Plus, I’m fascinated by technology’s influence on modern romance, so I stay up to date.
Yet within minutes of filling out a profile, one major flaw stood out: Not one of Hinge’s icebreaker prompts or questions encourages users to directly explain what they seek in a partner — romantically, sexually or personally. The closest option, a vague “I’m looking for … ” seems misplaced among strangely specific prompts such as“If I had to get a tattoo of an emoji . . .”; “I don’t always streak, but when I do . . .”; or “My parents named me after . . .”
More important, Hinge’s sample answers are nearly all indirect, if not trite. For example, thesample response to “My greatest strength” is: “I’m really skilled at Rock, Paper, Scissors.” In response to “Meaning of life,” the sample answer is:“Mozzarella sticks and Sunday football.” And while the basic information section allows users to list their neighborhood, work, education, home town, height, ethnicity and religion, Hinge never asks what kind of relationship the user prefers. In comparison, OkCupid requires users to select from “new friends,” “short-term dating,” “long-term dating” and “casual sex.” Users also specify whether they’re interested in monogamous or non-monogamous relationships.
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There’s nothing better than humor or wit, especially when it comes to dating. Andfor some, getting personal upfront can be uncomfortable or undesirable. But my concernis this: If Hinge’s goal is to build meaningful connections and committed relationships, then why are their icebreakers so painfully trivial?
Although more hookup-friendly appssuch asTinder or Bumble may benefit from keeping users’ desires ambiguous, Hinge’s hesitance to directly address users’romantic preferences doesn’t add up. Hinge users no longer need to swipe. But if the goal is to cut through the superficiality of dating apps,trying to decode answers such as“My greatest strength is tequila”(a common response among men in my area) or what it means that someone“liked” the fact that I’m watching “Stranger Things” seems like an impossible task.
Of course, users can answer Hinge questions seriously. Yet often, perhaps following Hinge’s lead, users seem vulnerability-averse: Only 1 in 80 straight male Hinge users within 10miles of my Brooklyn home chose to answer “I’m looking for …” And 75 percent of them answered three prompts or less. Hinge offers space for only seven answers.
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Comparatively, “older” sites such asOkCupid use direct questions about users’ romantic and sexual preferences to build matches based on direct indicators of compatibility. For example, while filling out a sample profile, I was asked these questions:
- “Which makes for a better relationship: passion or dedication?”
- “Say you’ve started seeing someone you really like. As far as you’re concerned, how long will it take before you have sex?”
- “Regardless of future plans, what’s more interesting to you right now: sex or love?”
- “How important is religion/God in your life?”
- “Would you date a transgender person?”
These personal questions are complemented by Hinge-like prompts such as “Favorite books, movies, shows, music” and “Dog or cat person.” Yet the balance favors honest reflections on one’s self and future partners, making this approach, in my opinion, far more holistic.
Ultimately, though, this issue goes beyond Hinge. All popular dating apps — Hinge, Tinder, Bumble, Coffee Meets Bagel, Grindr, OkCupid — are shaping romantic and sexual culture. While thereare many perks about digital dating, one major downside is decreased vulnerability. When the options are endless and hooking up is the default setting, it can be scary to genuinely put yourself out there, as investing emotions and trust in one person can certainly result in pain or disappointment.
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For many millennials, myself included, discussing what we want in a relationship off the bat can seem “awkward” or “intense.” As a generation, we’re primed to be fairly commitment-phobic. Yet for those invested in finding deep connection and romance, vulnerability is not only important, it’s essential. So by dancing around direct communication, relying on surface-level chat or low-risk “likes” as a means to test compatibility, we not only burn time, but we also handicap ourselves from finding the connection we crave.
Hinge isn’t the only appresponsible for this trend. But to me, its surface-level icebreakers reinforce many singles’ insecurities around direct communication.So if you’re seeking a real connection, don’t let these prompts lead you astray. Answer “I’m looking for … ” honestly. Go beyond your favorite album, or which family member you’re closest to. Don’t just “like” a photo if someone seems interesting, send them a genuine message. Get personal, be sensitive and encourage others to do the same — on Hinge, on any app, or (gasp!) in person.
READ MORE:
The biggest lie we tell single moms
5 apps for your love life that shouldn’t exist but do
He’s not my boyfriend. He’s not my partner. What do I call my guy?
