Please, Not the Dating Apps
On entering the modern dating jungle armed with nothing but naivety, a sister with opinions, and Google’s definition of “submarining”.
There comes a moment in every recently divorced woman’s life when she must confront a simple but terrifying question:
Is it time to download a dating app?
At this age, I find myself standing at that digital cliff edge, staring into a world where romance is apparently a series of swipes, micro-photos, emojis, and conversations that evaporate faster than a politician’s promise.
My sister (bless her persistent, determined, serial-app-dating soul), believes it is long past time. According to her, “Meeting someone organically these days? Forget it. Organic flirting is extinct. Men find it less terrifying to jump out of a plane than to start small talk with the woman beside them.“
This is usually followed by a dramatic sigh and the phrase that has now become her personal motto:
“Welcome to the era of algorithmic romance, darling.”
She says it like she is handing me the keys to a new kingdom.
Sisterly Interventions, Episode 347
We have these conversations often.
Too often.
Endlessly.
It starts with her usual warm-up question:
“So, have you thought about making a profile?”
To which I respond “No”.
Then she leans in with the authority of a woman who has run more romantic laps on apps than I have run actual kilometers and says:
“You know, if you don’t get on the apps soon, you’ll miss the entire vintage collection of men who can still communicate in full sentences.”
I don’t think this generation still exists, but I appreciate her faith.
What I do know is that dating apps now come with their own ecosystem, vocabulary, rules, and dangers. It’s like entering Narnia, except instead of fauns and snow, you’re greeted by men holding fish, men in gym mirrors, men on mountain peaks, and men who write, “Just ask” but then answer nothing.
Welcome to Zoology 2.0: The Dating Lexicon
To prepare me, she decided to give me a “quick crash course” on modern behaviours so I would be “less clueless and more strategic.”
Her version of strategy involves a glossary that sounds like a playlist of psychological crime documentaries.
She begins with “Submarining”.
“That’s when someone disappears for weeks and resurfaces out of nowhere acting like nothing happened.”
I blink. “Isn’t that just your ex?” lol
“Yes,” she says, “but now it has a name, which makes it scientific.”
Then: “Benching”, is when someone keeps you as a backup option.
“So basically what I did with the bicycle I never use,” I say.
“Exactly,” she nods. “Except imagine the bicycle has feelings.”
“Benching my dear,’ she goes on, ‘is like being kept in his “Saved for Later” Amazon basket.”
Not purchased.
Not abandoned.
“Orbiting” follows:
“That’s when a man won’t talk to you, but still watches every Instagram story you post.”
“So, a ghost with Wi-Fi?”
“Precisely.”
“Love bombing” comes next. Grand gestures early on, emotional fireworks, dramatic intensity.
“Sounds nice,” I say.
“Trust me,” she says with the solemnity of a war veteran, “it’s not.” “Love bombers don’t bond. They recruit. They’re not looking for a partner. They’re looking for an audience. Love bombers overwhelm you with attention so you get used to it and then, when they pull away, you panic.
It’s manipulation disguised as passion.
They create dependence: you feel chosen, you feel special, swept up and hypnotised by the constant dopamine drip.
Then suddenly they turn off the tap and say,
“You’re being clingy.”
No darling.
You were conditioned.
And now “Beige Flags”. Beige flags she explains, are odd habits that are neither red nor green, just slightly unsettling.
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like when one guy told me he irons socks.”
I put a hand on my heart. “And did you run?”
“Yes. Faster than I’ve ever run in my life.”
And she went on: A beige flag is like someone who orders croissants exclusively “for the sound.”
Not the taste.
Not the texture.
The sound.
You’re confused, not threatened.
Next we arrive at “Delusionships”.
“That’s when you imagine a whole relationship with someone, who hasn’t actually given you anything real to work with. Think of it as the Airbnb of relationships”
I stare at her.
“You mean like choosing your wedding venue, because he used the word “we” once?”
She lifts an eyebrow.
Yeap, but in the sentence: “”We” should ask someone for directions.”
Then, “Cushioning”, which sounds soft and comforting. It is not.
“That’s when someone keeps other romantic interests around just to soften the blow if things don’t work out with you. It’s like wearing your favorite sweater while keeping two backup sweaters in your bag because you fear commitment… or laundry.”
I take a long, slow breath.
“So everyone?”
“Basically.”
Finally, she ends with “Dry Dating”, meaning dates without alcohol.
“No bubbly?” I ask.
“No bubbly,” she confirms.
I stare at her in horror.
“So it’s like… raw dating?”
“Yes, it’s pure, sober, intentional connection.”
“Terrifying” I whisper.
The Sisterly Persuasion Campaign Intensifies
My sister’s mission has become something of a family comedy series.
She sends me profile tips, prompts, screenshots, and comparisons between dating apps, as though she is choosing an investment portfolio.
She says things like:
“You must have at least one full-body photo, one smiling photo, and one candid photo where you look intelligent, but approachable.”
I ask her what “approachable” looks like.
She says, “Like you’re thinking of something profound, but still open to the idea of dessert.”
She corrects my tone when I suggest profile answers such as:
“I’m 49. My cutlery, skincare routine, and emotional boundaries are all optimized. Please don’t ask me to beta-test you.”, or
“I’m 49. I’ve spent decades eliminating unnecessary stress and unnecessary men. I’m not accepting new chaos at this time.”
She claims they “lack warmth.”
And yet, despite my resistance, I do find myself listening.
Because beneath her teasing, she knows I’m overwhelmed.
And beneath my sarcasm, I know she’s right.
The world I’m reentering is not the one I left.
It’s faster.
Messier.
More performative.
More digital.
And more emotionally aerobically demanding.
Dating once meant eye contact across a room.
Now it might mean being someone’s Monday match, Tuesday benchwarmer, Wednesday orbit, Thursday beige flag, Friday delusionship, Saturday dry date, and Sunday ghost.
Who wouldn’t hesitate?
My Fear Isn’t the Apps. It’s the Noise.
In my thirties, meeting someone happened through proximity, friends, work, cafés, accidents.
Now, proximity has been replaced by algorithms.
Love is apparently a puzzle built from data points:
age range, height filters, political views, attachment styles.
There is something beautiful in the new freedom.
And something exhausting.
I fear the noise.
The endless chatting with strangers.
The possibility of being submarined by someone named Crisp3GymKing.
The idea of receiving my first “ick.”
Or worse, giving one.
I fear being seen too early.
Or too late.
I fear the mirror we hold up to ourselves when confronted with the question:
“Who are you now?”
But Then My Sister Says This
Late one night, while I was dramatically resisting everything, she said something that stuck:
“You rebuild everything else in your life. Why not this? And why not laugh along the way?”
It was annoyingly deep.
She wasn’t telling me to find love immediately.
She was telling me to find my courage.
Or at least my curiosity.
She was telling me that reinvention doesn’t stop at careers, countries, or life chapters, it continues into the hushed, vulnerable, tender corners too.
Fine. I Will Consider It.
I won’t admit this to her yet, because she will throw a parade with confetti made from screenshots, but…
I am warming up to the idea.
Perhaps the apps aren’t the enemy.
Perhaps the enemy is my fear of stepping into something new at an age where I am more myself than I’ve ever been.
And if I’m honest, the whole journey might be funny.
Ridiculous.
Chaotic.
Perfectly human.
Maybe I will meet someone.
Maybe I won’t.
Maybe I’ll collect beige flags like postcards.
Maybe I’ll experience a delusionship so dramatic that my sister will have to stage an intervention.
Maybe I’ll be love-bombed.
Maybe I’ll be benched.
But maybe, just maybe, I’ll also find connection.
Or at least a good story.
Both feel like wins.
The Soft Opening
Perhaps what I want is not a grand reentry into dating, but a soft opening.
A delicate unveiling.
A gentle experiment in connection.
A coffee here.
A conversation there.
A small return to the world that feels less like hunting and more like wandering.
Not a performance, but a presence.
Not a chase, but a curiosity.
And if something real grows from that, wonderful.
If not, I will still have chosen movement over fear, possibility over pause.
A soft opening, after all, is still an opening.
And sometimes, that is how the best chapters begin: not with fireworks, but with a door quietly, finally, unlocked.
One Last Sister Quote
Half-asleep last week, she muttered:
“Honestly, you’ll be okay. The worst thing that can happen is he spends the whole date describing his two hour night time skincare routine. That’s your cue to finish your drink and disappear into the night.”
I actually found that scenario reassuring.
Because it reminded me:
I always know how to exit gracefully.
And perhaps that’s all the courage modern dating requires; not certainty, but a good pair of shoes and the ability to leave when necessary..!
Author’s note:
This piece begins a wider series on dating. Expect clarity, discomfort, and the occasional unpleasant mirror.
What a call out, sis...🤣🙈 So cheeky of you…😎
Ξεμπρόστιασμα κανονικό…🤣🙈🙊