Nonfiction | An Open Letter To Myself About Tinder

Dear Emer and all other women who date men,

How did the dating app thing go? Last time you did it? How was it for you? I just want to take a moment for ... a little sharing circle. A sort of telepathic sharing circle as everyone reads these words, a circle in which we each tell our story in our head without imagining ourselves as a woman who drinks and smokes and walks around in her pants whilst being incredibly rich and privileged and ends up marrying a prick called Mr Big.

I know, you have that mate who is getting married to her Tinder date. Mental. But let's just pop her to the side.

Now, Emer (and other women, but Emer I am going to use your life because it seems to be packed with fodder I can use in this letter) just think about your motivations for going on Tinder in the first place. There was the break-up? Remember? That bad one with the psychopathic liar from the army? When you bought the boat shoes and fake Barbour jacket for him, and promised yourself you were going to see it through and get married? Yah. You were feeling pretty shit once that one ended. You went off running marathons. Setting goals. Promising yourself to be a better, stronger woman.

In all fairness, you did quite well at that. Like, hats off. You ran everywhere: to work, up mountains, around the Common like a million times, you took shit loads of pictures and you look great. Honestly, like really. You look happy.

But. Sorry now to be devil's advocate. You were missing something, weren't you? There was that little knock, knock, you need a man thing. You still wanted that hit. That thing where his eyes are on you. That buzz. The validation that comes when a dude wants to have sex with you.

But it's kind of embarrassing to tell your friends that isn't it? Like, did Carrie from Sex in the City say, I can't really keep doing my life if I don't get male validation? Did she say that? No she didn't. Because that sounds a little worrying. So she lies. What she says is: I really like sex and I miss it. I just need someone to have a bit of fun with. A fuck.

Yeh. So that is what you said! Good one. That was the story you had in your head, a head that was sitting above a completely, this is gonna hurt, but it's true, a completely disillusioned and shattered heart. But there you were, ready like the little trooper I know you are, to head back out there and get some male validation masked in Sex in the City bullshit.

Now, Tinder. Let's recap. The first guy was married, a fact he broke to you half way through your first and only date, a scenario fictionalised in the stunningly written story Lucy and Carl, congrats on writing that. That was a tricky one to navigate, because you weren't sure if you were a fool or not.

Then the second guy! He came over few times, for fun. He was into running too. You shared an interest. He was from America and you started to think about what it would be like if you went to America with him. Shush. You did. I don't care whether you were dreaming or not. You wondered for a moment whether he would like kids and you saw yourselves living in Denver and trail running together. Yep. You had 'non-committal fun' with him and that is what happened. Emer, the gap between what you were telling yourself you were doing and what you were feeling was so big that your mind started dreaming of babies and Denver. I'm not sure you knew this guys second name? Did you? Do you remember when you asked if you could cook dinner for him and his face dropped? Do you remember stalking him on Facebook and seeing that he too had a partner? And a daughter? That hurt didn't it, but of course, you pretended it didn't. Fuck him, I don't care anyway, you said.

And back you went for more. This time, luckily, the guy was not malicious, just a little lacking in conversation and life force. You went on the date. You decided you didn't like him and as you left he still tried to lob one on. 'Can you give me a kiss? I came all this way.' You had to duck. Dude, you had to physically dodge the unwanted advance.

After that, thankfully, you took a break. A few other Tinder horror stories filtered through. A few of your male friends spoke a little strangely about women on Tinder. You started to cop on as Peggy O'Gara might say. You see, contrary to what you are led to believe and to the conversations you might be having, dating apps are not a great place for women who are just being, in the sense that they are open to love, open to life, open to the world, open to healing. And frankly, they are a terrible place for women who are freshly wounded by a relationship.

And now Emer (and all other women) I have a question for you. What is the story you are telling yourself as you contemplate using an app, and what is the story your heart knows?

Are they the same? Non-committal sex is a pretty high-risk way to have fun. If you have a healthy heart, the chances of you wanting to get to know the human who has sex with you is pretty high. The chances of him not really wanting to get to know you are pretty high. If you are hurt, you are digging yourself into isolation. He isn't on the app looking for a girl he needs to fight for. She's presumably somewhere else, doing the shit she wants to do. And she has probably made it clear that no one is going to fuck with her Zen without good reason.

She might even have a little crew who love her, and she gets any validation she needs in a moment of doubt, from them.

I don't know Emer (and all other women) I just get worried when I see you looking at these apps and thinking that they are anything other than the soft arm of the patriarchy. You have so much to give to the world, and when you do that, you are not reduced to five pictures and an accessible sounding tag line. You don't need a dude to have sex with you and confirm you are a diamond. You ARE a fucking diamond, for whom love is nothing short of spectacular.

Why put it in the rough?

Love love,

Satori