The Situationship Has Sailed: Why it’s Time to Dump Dating Apps

Every quality romantic comedy begins with an iconic opening scene. The turning wheels of a bike, the credits splaying across the car windscreen as the lead drives into the big city, snow falling over the front lawn of a hopeful romantic. No romantic comedy begins with the protagonist downloading a dating app, at least none that come to mind.

Except mine. 

Unfortunately, this isn’t a romance or a comedy—at least not yet. And it does start with the protagonist—me—downloading a dating app. The subsequent scenes see me unknowingly entering a situationship, as one so commonly does these days. I entered the situationship healthy and left it unwell. Yes, alas, I contracted glandular fever. Sorry boys, I know you were all looking forward to a pash.

I decided to approach my celibacy with grace—as much grace as you would expect of a twenty-year-old who has been denied his “slut era.” I got shitfaced. I loved it. It felt so good to act my age. Sure, it felt worse waking up and feeling the full effects of the alcohol—but this was before I knew I had mono. Maybe I drank too much for someone—albeit, unknowingly—under the weather. Maybe I drunk-dialled my situationship and made some more twenty-year-old mistakes. Maybe sharing all this is one of them. 

For those closest to me, it was quite the shock seeing me walk into uni one day poorly attempting to cover up a hickey, telling them I was knee-deep in a situationship, then telling them I got mono. We queer men are no strangers to a highly spreadable infectious disease—but it shouldn’t be taboo. I’m a firm believer in the destigmatisation of infection because the majority of people will have had or will have an infectious disease like mono at some point in their lives. Who are we to judge? That being said… why did I still feel like a snotty-nosed teen? A bratty boy banished from the dating world? Scorned only by the universe for my attempts at intimacy? 

I think, in a shocking turn of events, our parents are right. It really is that damn phone. 

I have downloaded—and deleted—Hinge a total of eight times. It really is the “dating app designed to be deleted” but not for the reasons they promote it. I have downloaded Tinder about five times, Bumble about three and Grindr once, regrettably. I don’t think dating apps are completely awful—I think they’re a brilliant way to network connections in a new place and they have certainly blossomed many fruitful, long-lasting relationships—but I do think the culture built around them is pretty fucked, to be frank. Every time I’ve downloaded the dating apps, I’ve found myself wasting days, obsessing over “playing the game” and the dopamine that gave me. I reached the end of Perth Hinge and Perth Tinder twice. I beat the game. Twice. I’d rather spend that time away from my phone—with my friends, my family, myself.

The book I’m currently reading, Logan Ury’s How to Not Die Alone, emphasises the importance of a slow burn when it comes to forming a romantic connection. What happened to period romance courting? Why aren’t we single-folk Lady Whistledown’s Bell of the Ball or whatever? (I’m sorry, I still haven’t seen Bridgerton—except for a YouTube compilation of every Jonathan Bailey scene.) Call me a prude, call me unable to be in my “slut era,” but I’m not interested in the immediate shared understanding on a dating app. We both know what we’re both there for. Where’s the mystery, the intrigue? Where is the slow burn?

At the end of the day, when I meet “the one,” I don’t want to tell people that “we met online,” though there’s no shame in that. I want a story. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m a creative, maybe it’s the fact that I watched too many rom-coms growing up and am now stuck as a perpetually hopeless romantic. Though I like to think I’ve joined a new camp—hopeful romantics. I can’t wait to show someone my childhood bedroom, I can’t wait to make compromises and walk down the aisle one day. But for now, it’s only me. And maybe that’s all I need.  

I visited a psychic for the first time at the tail end of last year. Although I casually have fun with things like astrology and crystals, I was apprehensive. How could they know anything about me? How could they say anything relevant? About halfway through the reading, after she had said some eerily accurate information having only known my first name for seven minutes, she said something that stuck with me. “You’ll meet someone at the end of next year or start of the next. Don’t worry, it’ll be easy. You won’t have to do anything.” I don’t necessarily align my life with this prospect but isn’t it a nice thought at the very least? You don’t need to take fate into your hands all the time, you don’t need to download dating apps. Just live your life. 

You don’t have to do anything. 
You’ll meet someone. 
Don’t worry.