“Love, Laughter, and Hinge: Confessions of a Midlife Dater”

The weather started cooling down. Back-to-school signs popped up on every billboard like giant reminders that my carefree summer fling with freedom was officially over. The emotional trauma of dealing with Santos had subsided (therapy, wine, and selective amnesia helped), but the lessons remained.

The tribe came to a consensus: dating sites weren’t the real issue. Nope. The culprit was Facebook Dating—because apparently, it’s where hope goes to die. No quality matches. Just a digital junk drawer of ex-boyfriends and pyramid-scheme recruiters. 

Thus began the Great Dating Site Search. Everyone had a success story:

• My sister’s friend found her soulmate on Plenty of Fish (still trying to figure out why she went fishing in the first place).

• My coworker met his wife on Tinder (which proves that miracles do happen).

  
  

  And the winner? Hinge. Crowned Best Dating Site of 2021. If the internet says it, it must be true.

So, I dove in. Building my profile was… an adventure. The prompts were quirky and catchy, though I’m pretty sure my answers sounded corny. Still, it was fun.

First match? A McDreamy lookalike with a jawline that could slice cheese. But alas, conversation was short-lived: he’d just had a breakup. Translation: free trial of me as his therapist. Hard pass.

Next match? A guy whose messages looked like he was speaking in riddles. When I asked for clarification, he told me to f… off. Charming! I complied instantly—no refunds, no exchanges.

Two weeks in, déjà vu hit. The same profiles recycled like bad leftovers. Was Hinge broken, or was this just the local dating pool? Either way, it was starting to feel like Groundhog Day: Dating Edition.

Then the horror began. Familiar faces popped up:

• My coworker’s husband. Yikes.

• Tentacles (yes, him again, because of course the universe wasn’t done laughing at me).

• Married men in “complicated” relationships—aka “my wife doesn’t know I’m here.”

The cherry on top? I was at Costco, buying enough toilet paper to survive the apocalypse, when I saw a man who looked oddly familiar. He smiled. I smiled. And then it hit me—this was the guy I liked on Hinge who didn’t like me back. Bastard.

That’s when it dawned on me: these men weren’t just digital faces. They were walking around in my neighborhood. Shopping where I shop. Breathing my Costco air. Which meant at any given moment, someone who swiped left on me could recognize me in public. Gloomy scenarios started creeping up in my mind. God, I watch too much true crime!

Did I delete my profile? I was tempted but No. Deleting it would’ve felt like giving up—and if I can survive Santos, I can survive Hinge.

What I did discover about myself after my recent dating experiences was very important : I learned I can walk away. That may sound simple, but after staying in a relationship that didn’t nourish me for far too long, the ability to say “nope” and move on feels revolutionary.

So instead of deleting my profile, I decided to stick around. Patiently. Cautiously. And with the comforting knowledge that even if I don’t meet “the one,” at the very least, I’ll leave with enough stories to keep my friends entertained over wine for years to come.

Worst case scenario, I don’t find love—but I’ll definitely get a book deal.