Chapter 21: Yael gets a digital divorce from Tinderland
After years of "field research" in the trenches of Tinder, I've officially come to a groundbreaking scientific conclusion: I've exhausted myself. My cycle of reactions has become all too predictable. I started this journey with the optimism of a young tourist landing in an exotic destination, but I've evolved into a jaded border guard in Terminal 3 who's seen every possible fake passport.
I've seen it all! The "spiritual" type who is actually just unemployed with imaginary mental baggage, the one whose profile picture was probably taken during the Mandate period, and the "man-man" who needs more emotional work than a real orphan.
My inner monologue has undergone a metamorphosis. It used to be "Maybe he's the one?", then it became "Please, just don't be a serial killer," and today I've reached the final and ultimate stage: "I'd rather sort the spice drawer by grain size than go on another date."
It's funny how, precisely when I'm busy peeling back the layers of Tinderland, the truth meets me right here, in the Facebook "feed." It wasn't an attempt to start a conversation with me, not at all, but rather a commenter who decided to add color to my life with compliments that make me feel good and arouse genuine interest in who he is and how he is. We'll call him "Yaron."
When I went to his profile, I found writing that came straight from the depths of the soul. Every word of his felt as if it had been carved in blood - bare, painful, and without the oppressive filters of "everything is fine with me." In the cynical desert where I live, encountering such truth is like finding a rare vinyl record in a trash heap of broken iPhones. It mostly reminded me that while I was escaping from the apps into my own silence, there were people out there who still lived and felt in HD.
And here comes the twist, because life is the most sarcastic screenwriter there is: "Yaron" was quick to clarify that he is married, and happily so (yes, there is such a thing, apparently). So while I appreciate his bare heart on the keyboard, I have to remind myself: I want one like that for myself! Exactly this depth, this sensitivity, just without the ring on the finger, please. Because despite the dramatic writing, there is not even an ounce of polyamory in me or a tendency to seduce married men. I simply want my vinyl in "new-from-the-nylon" condition, without co-owners.
So that's it.
This is where the real psychological drama begins: How on earth do you break up with Tinder without breaking up with your blog? It's a real existential dilemma.
If I delete the app, what will I write about? About the quality of the cucumbers in the supermarket? About how exciting it was to see a pigeon on the windowsill? After all, Tinder was my main content provider, the traveling circus that provided me with materials for fine satire. I feel like an actress retiring from the stage but still wanting the applause. Is there a literary life after the "swipe right"?
Still, I have a small twinge of regret. Those apps, with all their madness, delusional men, and cynicism, breathed a lot of life into my search for love. It was a tumultuous, tiring, and sometimes tear-jerkingly funny journey, and it kept the fire of the search burning.
Because ultimately, there's a twisted psychological truth here: Most of us understand that this digital meat market is not for us, just as a root canal without anesthesia is not for us. Our minds are not built to process human waste at a rate of hundreds of faces a minute, and our hearts are not meant to be thrown in the recycling bin just because we didn't answer the generic "hi" within four minutes.
And yet, as I stand outside, in the blessed (and somewhat boring, let's admit) silence of my own home, I can't help but look back with a pinch of envy mixed with pity for those who still survive there. There's something awe-inspiring, almost pathetic in its nobility, in the tireless optimism - or perhaps the wonderful emotional disability - that allows them to believe that somewhere, between yet another picture of a rowdy biker and yet another "looking for a relationship but not pressing" profile, lies the "one" meant just for them. It's the ability to believe in miracles in a world of cold algorithms.
So I delete the apps, not because I've given up on love, but because I've finally fallen in love with my own peace of mind and a bed that doesn't have to contain other people's midlife crises.
I leave the door of my heart half-open (with a lock, just in case), because in the end, we're not really looking for the perfect fairy-tale "one"; we're just looking for someone who will meet our minimum standards of sanity, and who will make us laugh enough to forget, at least for a moment, how hard it was to find them.
So thank you, all of you who have accompanied me on this Tinderland tour - those who have made me laugh, those who have made me cry, and those who have simply made me wonder where humanity is headed. I say goodbye to the apps but take with me all the colors you have added to my journey; you have been the perfect backdrop for my search for love, and most importantly, my search for myself.
And to you, my amazing little community here on the page and blog - thank you.
Thank you for being my audience, my choir, and sometimes my support group as I tried to decipher this digital jungle. It was the dialogue with you, the responses, that made this search a real journey and not just a series of bad dates.
I may delete the apps, but I'm staying here with you - because maybe 'the one' hasn't arrived yet, but you've been here the whole time, and that's much more than you could ask for from a swipe right.
So please feel free to text me from time to time, and you are more than welcome to do the same right here.
Ari Vederci
With love, Yael.
P.S.
As I read this post, I remembered that I really wanted someone to make a TV or movie with me about Yael's adventures in Tinderland. I'll settle for the cartoon. I'll take care of the texts. Anyone?
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