And if my mom is so intent on my having a girlfriend, then why shouldn't she just go out and find one for me? At dinner in Manhattan one night, I set up Tinder on her phone, showed her how to operate it, did some right-swiping (even got a match! I changed the subject.*After I sent her this story, my mom wrote back: “I feel certain we discussed condoms in high school and college... ” Worth noting that “I feel certain” is not the same as “I am certain.” I didn’t know what was most unsettling about these messages—the spam (“which I think were prostitutes looking for business,” she told me); the fact that she thought “aspiring writer” was a good way to market me as an enticing match (she had to reassure one girl, saying, “But I do have a steady job at a magazine right now”); or her enthusiasm about finding a “good contact in case of job loss! She said yes, and so my mom sent her my phone number.
), and then deleted the app off my phone, the fate of my love life* in the hands of my mother. " Here she let out a big laugh, like maybe it was code for "sex" and that was funny. ” Does my mom live in a perpetual state of thinking her son is going to be fired? I had deleted the app from my phone and had to rely only on the intel my mom reported back to me via texts that were riddled with her adorable but bizarre penchant for capitalizing random words, which, when read back in my head, gave her this unnerving talk-SHOUT-talk cadence: working to start conversations—well, sometimes—even if those conversations were with classmates I'd forgotten I'd attended high school with, or about where my mom used to work…and go to the gym…and buy organic groceries. She texted me, and we agreed to meet at a bar in the West Village.
), and I didn't want to make light of that by telling her: "I was looking for somebody that was cute, but then had something else to say rather than seems like she just wanted to get right in bed," she'd tell me.
"I was looking to have a conversation and then meet for a coffee, or meet in the park.
She'd arranged the meeting through Tinder, I heard my mom's voice in the back of my head from a few days earlier.
"You could get a lot of sexually transmitted diseases," she'd said over the phone, swiping through a carousel of pouty female twenty-somethings.
There is always someone to talk to on 7 Cups that understands what you're going through.
I’m 26, single, and four years removed from anything resembling a serious relationship.
[Maybe] they had a dog."Of course, the goal of this experiment was ridiculously, impossibly aspirational.("I think you can't find love just by swiping," my wise mom had said.) It was never going to work. When this was all over and, a few weeks later, I re-downloaded Tinder to take some snapshots of my mom's conversation with Anna for this story, she was nowhere to be found.Maybe she deleted the app—or maybe, in a karmic twist that was almost too perfect, I'd just been I thought about how easy it is to pop out of an i Phone and back into the real world, to flicker back and forth from 2D to 3D and back again. I wondered if nowadays, with an endless stream of people to be right-swiped into your life, you would notice the guy on the yearbook staff who drives you to a meeting on a snowy day—or would you be in the passenger seat, swiping through pictures of thirsty dudes you don't even know?But unlike when my mom was 26, there is now, quite literally, an app for this. My mom is 58, has short hair, stands a tiny five-foot-two, and takes no shit. That started to change when I went off to college and, with some perspective, realized I was stupid and she was smart; when I realized that all she cares about is ensuring that her children don’t fuck up too terribly, and that, since “playing N64 at Dan’s house” really means “stealing all of Dan’s dad’s beer,” sometimes it’s okay to say no—even if your moody teen thinks you’re a fascist. '"'s takedown piece about Tinder and today's hook-up culture, in which appears this appalling, almost-too-perfect-to-be-believable quote: "' It's like ordering Seamless,' says Dan, the investment banker, referring to the online food-delivery service.It's called Tinder, and it's a floating box on your i Phone that you can touch when you have no one to touch. She grew up the daughter of a minister and ran our house with a similar hand—not tyrannical but firm, the matriarch of two boys. She was almost always bad cop, an imposer of midnight curfews with that uncanny mom ability to be deep in sleep at P. And since she was, in fact, always right, we talked often. ' But you're ordering a person.'" (This is the problem with pushing your mom into a sea filled with fish who might want to have sex with you: At some point she's going to tell you what you already know, what will likely make you uncomfortable, something mom-ish along the lines of, "It's not always all about sex," she said. Intimacy is about being kind, being nice to somebody. There's a whole range of things that make you connected to somebody that has nothing to do with the act of sleeping together.""People used to meet in person somehow," my mom would later say, bemoaning one of the Internet's greater miracles: the ability to eliminate physical distance as a barrier to finding love.