The Hinge Chronicles
Redownloading Hinge like a dog who runs at the electric fence just one more time to see if it’s still there
What is Hinge if not Tinder’s saner, more minimal counterpart? There are dozens of dating apps (if not more) out there, so how do you know which one is the right one for you? I sure as hell didn’t, so I went with Hinge, ‘the dating app designed to be deleted.’ I had heard success stories from friends, colleagues, and acquaintances, so I decided to give it a try. A relative of mine had met her husband on one of these, so I had high hopes. My god, they were dashed in an instant.
Now, before you judge me, where else am I (a mostly eligible 26-year-old woman) supposed to meet the love of my life? I already tried looking confused in the Classics aisle of the bookstore and the indie aisle of the record store. I knew for a fact that I wouldn’t find him at groove or with a boombox outside my window, so the apps were my next best bet.
My mantra for 2025 has led me to places I wouldn’t even go with a gun.
It all starts off very ordinarily, very black and white, if you will. I had to enter my name, my height, what I was looking for, my line of work, etc. All the basic specs. Then, if I wanted, I could go into a lot more detail. What is my religion? Do I drink? Do I smoke? Do I use drugs – hard or not so hard? What is my star sign? Do I have children? Do I want children? Do I have pets? Am I vaccinated? What is my ethnicity? A match note? A written prompt? An audio prompt? A visual prompt? The endless tirade of questions was nothing short of exhausting, if only to look at, and I opted out of answering the more nuanced ones.
Then comes the worst part – the swiping. Hinge is unique in the sense that you can adjust almost all the filters, even on the unpaid version. A eugenicist’s dream. It’s also different to other dating apps in the sense that you can see everyone who’s liked you, and best of all, everyone who’s sent you a rose (Hinge’s equivalent of a ‘super like,’ I guess). Against my will and better judgement, I have familiarised myself with dating app jargon and in so doing, I have lost my will to live, which was already precarious to begin with.
Let’s get to the interesting part – the dates. They have ranged from mildly entertaining to grossly abysmal, to say the least. I have some questions. First of all, why does the algorithm hate me? Hinge claims to have perfected an algorithm which points you toward your perfect match (granted, I am using the free version, and I have heard better things about the paid version), and then sends you in the direction of an unemployed gamer who looks like he negotiated his way onto Earth.
Not all of them are terrible. Afrikaners appear to have a penchant for Humairaa, oddly enough. My meagre understandings of lydende en bedrywende vorm, however, have not gotten me too far with that particular community, but perhaps that is for the best. I am not looking to catch a flight to Texas as a refugee anytime soon, or ever. My Hinge journey peaked when I matched with a man who vaguely had listed ‘entertainer’ as his profession and then turned out to be a birthday clown. Absolutely no judgement from me, capitalism is brutal, and I went home with a balloon dog.
I have encountered all sorts, from the orientalists to the absolutely indifferent, but it must be noted that all the men I have met from Hinge have one common trait: none of them can pronounce my name. If I ever come back to the app, I will make sure to spell it phonetically, ‘who-may-ra,’ to help them out (fingers crossed I shan’t return, but I am nothing if not a dog running at the electric fence).
I must imagine that the baristas at my favourite café were quite confused until I explained to them that I pass my Saturday afternoons with odd men who I have met on the internet. It’s not all doom and gloom – I’ve gotten a chance to sharpen my slightly rusty debating skills. Conversations range from the Israeli occupation of Palestine and the self-determination of the Kashmiri and Kurdish people to the ANC-EFF-MK schism. I can’t lie, I quite enjoy the debates. If nothing else, I am learning about how pliable men, who claim to be centrists but are actually on the right, are.
Notable mentions include the Afrikaners; the man who was a whole head shorter than me; my undergraduate International Relations tutor; my ex’s friends; all whom sent me likes; my ex, who also sent me a like; the man who offered to fix my car (#needthat), and a few others who I can’t remember now. You were all integral to the drafting of the ‘Hinge Chronicles.’ Thank you.
Hinge is an odd place, and now I have a number of contacts with it as a surname. This is the Anglo-Saxon way, I suppose. My Hinge journey has not been for nothing, it has taught me some valuable lessons:
Men ALWAYS lie about their height. Budget for 3-5 centimetres, if not more.
Use the weekly rose wisely.
The tab labelled ‘Most Compatible’ is a particularly heinous crime committed by the algorithm. Avoid it at all costs.
Immediately hit no on anyone who says their favourite book is Rich Dad Poor Dad, Atomic Habits, the 48 Laws of Power, etc. You know the ones, and you’ll thank me later.
You will 100% see the following: a man holding a fish, someone wanting to debate about whether pineapple on pizza is a good idea, a man who says he’s ‘figuring things out’ but is simultaneously looking for a life partner, references to raunchy comedies, pictures of whole friend groups where you can barely identify the person to whom the profile belongs, and lots of weird stuff. You aren’t alone.
Dating apps are strange places. If you use one, strength to you and if you don’t, consider looking confused in public locations first. This concludes the most tedious social experiment I have ever run. Of course, I did not find my soulmate on Hinge (those don’t exist) but I didn’t find the love of my life either, and I’m quite sure that those do exist. Maybe he’s somewhere 80+ kilometres from me, having a terrible time on the apps too. Fingers crossed x