In 2017, after being single for a few years, I wanted to get back into the dating game. I was newly sober at the time, so I wasn’t super-confident about venturing into my local bar scene in London, Ontario. Instead, I leapt into the world of digital dating via Bumble, which, back then, required women to send the first message. I thought, That’s feminist. I’m a feminist. Let’s try it!
My first few months online provided me with an emotionally exhausting education. I learned that a man who says he’s five foot six could be five foot four; that it’s entirely common for people to use ridiculously old photos to make themselves seem younger; and that catfishing, the practice of using fake photos, is alive and well. I was once catfished by the same man twice. When we met, he looked nothing like his pictures. I deleted him from my matches after we hung out because he started asking for money through the app. A few years later, he and I connected again; he’d used another series of fake pictures. When he got to my house, he denied catfishing me and poured himself a drink without asking. I asked him to leave, and he unmatched me on the Tinder app before he even got into his taxi— and before I could report him. (What was Tinder going to do with a bunch of fake photos, anyway?)
These and other bizarre dating adventures made me wonder whether the apps just sucked or if I was doing something wrong. Why did this person disappear? I’d ask myself. What is the matter with me? But it isn’t just me. These days, nearly three and a half million Canadians use dating apps, and many agree that swiping has become dystopian. We now rely on algorithms to serve us potential partners in the same way we do takeout options and travel deals.
Apps also encourage us to swipe via bossy notifications that remind us, “It’s prime swiping time!” and “Don’t leave your match hanging!” This addictive, Orwellian model has gamified mating, and I have deep concerns about where it’s headed. Recently, Bumble hinted at the addition of personal, AI-powered dating concierges that could vet matches on behalf of human users. Would my AI avatar be better at choosing partners for me than I would? It’s a creepy thought.
As an anthropologist, part of my work involves studying the nature of modern relationships—and I’ve found that there’s a lot of deception among online daters. New research suggests that the prevalence of apps can increase instances of cheating. (Call it the “grass is greener” effect.) We don’t know how app-based dating will affect us in the long term, but one study from this past January found that couples who meet via an app are less likely to enjoy stable and satisfying marriages. In young adults, excessive swiping can lead to a combination of partner overload and reduced well-being. In general, swiping through a high volume of people may discourage users from treating each other with the respect they would afford to someone who was right in front of them.
All this choice and we are still more divided than ever: for heterosexual daters, a political divide has opened up among 18-to-30-year-olds—women skew 30 per cent more liberal than men. And a quarter of all adults and two-thirds of youth report persistent feelings of loneliness. The precarious state of dating has, unsurprisingly, prompted a backlash. Members of Gen Z are using dating apps far less than their millennial counterparts.
Here’s what I propose to remediate our dark, seemingly broken dating culture: a return to meeting people in real life, or what some have called “rewilding.” Meeting potential partners in the physical world not only reduces our digital dependency, it can also remove the cold separation created by the apps. It forces us to tap into our interpersonal skills, which can atrophy when we swipe most of our way through our romantic lives.
Dating in 2D comes with its share of uncertainty (about things like who is going to send the first message), anxieties about being ghosted and, in my case, whether or not the person we’re speaking to is actually who they say they are. Getting to know people in the flesh can be messy, and sometimes scary, but we can use all of our sensory input and face-to-face feedback to assess the situation in seconds: is this person safe? Is this dynamic sexy? Should I continue the conversation? Best of all, real-life interactions can boost our empathy.
A resurgence of IRL dating is already under way. In the U.S., attendance at in-person events, like singles mixers and trivia nights, grew by more than 40 per cent between 2022 and 2023, according to data from Eventbrite. Speed dating, once thought of as a relic from the late ’90s and early 2000s, is also experiencing a comeback. In Canada, organizations like Single in the City and Speed Dating Canada organize meet-ups, often at restaurants or bars, where registrants can date a dozen or so others for several minutes, then write down the names of the people they like on a card. The organizers—not AI avatars—then connect matches for more formal, in-person dates.
Even personal ads are becoming popular again, with singles introducing themselves on internet forums, and, occasionally, in ad space on billboards. There are less niche options, like singles sports clubs, but with a new twist. This past June, Tinder launched a partnership with the training app Runna, a run club for singles in London, England. Elsewhere, in Los Angeles, three stand-up comedians recently hosted a singles-centric show, where they matched audience members “based on vibes.”
I’m not calling for a complete eradication of dating apps—even if I was, they’re much too entrenched in society for that to happen. And the apps aren’t all bad. They provided me with opportunities to connect with people I wouldn’t have met any other way, and encouraged me to go on dates with men I wouldn’t have otherwise considered to be “my type.” During the pandemic, I dated a man 17 years my junior for a year and a half, debunking the idea that younger men consider fortysomething women “old news.” Still, relying on Tinder and the other swipe-centric apps alone may not be the best approach to meeting people— we would be wise to wield our digital tools as a means to in-person romance, rather than as ends unto themselves.
Dating IRL also allows us to look for partners in all sorts of places: at the workplace, through friends or through one of our hobbies. Relying solely on the algorithm restricts us from having those random, wonderful, unexpected sparks with new people that are a core part of being human. Even if it doesn’t lead to long-term partnership, there’s nothing like a real-world connection to rekindle our bonds with each other. We are social creatures, after all. ■
Treena Orchard is an associate professor at Western University’s School of Health Studies and the author of Sticky, Sexy, Sad: Swipe Culture and the Darker Side of Dating Apps.
