The thing about Tinder in a small city like Windhoek is that, eventually, you’re going to see people you know. Men you went to school with or used to work with or have successfully spent several years avoiding.
They’ll come up often and sometimes, you’ll swipe right.
Because why not?
Because maybe you always found him cute.
Because maybe you’re bored of profiles of random white men with no bios and obscure pictures of them on yet another adventure precariously holding a beer and a dog at the same time.
Eventually, you’ll match with someone.
You’ll say hello, he’ll ask you how you’re doing today and you’ll exchange the kind of pleasantries designed to numb the brain, dull the senses and make you wonder whether maybe, just maybe you could learn to be OK with being single forever if it means never having to make small talk ever again.
He’ll ask for your number because he’s “never really on Tinder” and you’ll avoid the conversation because the whole point of online dating is to keep it online until you’re sure he’s not a serial killer. Or married. Or both.
He’ll notice your hesitation and move on to the next bright smiled, curly-haired thing just that little bit cuter and little less cautious than you.
Soon, you’ll match with more people.
You’ll match with younger men and much older men and a really cute coloured boy will even ‘super like’ you and it’ll all be very flattering and great for your ego.
It’ll seem like downloading Tinder was a great idea… Until you have conversations with them.
The guy originally from Botswana but now bouncing between here and there will seem charming, cute and cuddly in that ‘life-size teddy bear’ kind of way and you’ll go out on a limb, shush the voice in your head that knows better and give him your number.
You’ll live-tweet the situation because “how exciting!” and “what if I meet ‘The One’ on Tinder?!” and he’ll ruin it in less than five minutes by calling you “boring” and trying to peer-pressure you into going to News Cafe on a Thursday night even though you’ve told him no. Twice.
He’ll be rude and pushy and try to play it off as “come on, don’t be a spoil sport!” and it’ll give you anxiety.
He’ll remind you of the fact that most men on Tinder don’t read (because your bio clearly says you’re a homebody who likes to read… at home) and you’ll unmatch with him, delete his number and block it, for good measure.
You’ll spend a day or two thinking about it, wondering how you’re ever going to meet anyone worth any time at all and you’ll realise that you’re better off.
Off Tinder. Off online dating.
Perhaps better off alone too.
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