Sleuthing Tinder…

Conversation with the chickens never disappoints. This morning it’s Tinder. Their laughter at some pick-up lines intrigues and I want the scoop. Some people meet their mates on Tinder. People hook up using Tinder—I still can’t get a straight answer as to whether this means they have sex or not. When my daughters inform me people over thirty have to pay to join I know I have to check it out.
It’s no small thing. There are 50 million active users across the world. My sleuthing gathers that it’s a one-stop for getting together, naughty or nice makes no difference. My age is showing when someone boasts that it’s “a more efficient way of meeting potential mates.” Hmmm. As opposed to, “hello?”
For those out of the loop, it’s an app downloaded to your phone filled with photos of others out there looking for—well, you have to kinda guess. Some are there for sex, some for dates and some for who knows what. You look at photos and swipe right if you like the look of a guy or girl and swipe left if you’d rather not. Somehow, I doubt the person of your dreams is waiting in a cue for you to give approval of their face, but that’s just me.

According to various sites and reviews, it has become such a large part of the dating world that for many young people is serves as an always ready dating or something else site to help find not just dinner but after dinner activity. Evidently, the after dinner activity happens a lot. Minus the dinner. As one young person explains online, for her mother to see, “It’s a place to find a regret-free hookup.” Does anyone else long for the days when the guy had to work a bit before he got your pearls and pumps in the bedroom?

The mind wanders to how this would work were it not twenty-somethings but a more mature crowd? Integral information might need to include number of teeth, number of cats and use of Viagra. Yikes.

And what about those photos? Dentures in, dentures out? Lingerie? Facelift first? Discreet lighting?

And setting up dates. What if he wants to eat at 4:30 and she’s a six o’clock sharp kind of girl? What happens when you get up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night at the same time—who goes first? How do you tell whose meds are whose? And who decides who turns left into traffic from the right hand lane when you come to Scottsdale?

The important things really can’t be told with a few photos. Pfft.


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