Last year, I went through a breakup and threw myself into internet dating. I started experimenting with mirror selfies, and spent whole evenings trying to take artful photographs of my own bum. I agonised over my three-line bio. I even put a notebook by my bed with the Hinge prompt “most spontaneous thing I’ve done” written on the first page, so if the answer came to me in a dream, I’d have a pen and paper handy.
I’d spent my early 30s trying to cling on to a failing relationship, which had made me feel stuck in a holding pattern. As if I was fated to have a slightly different version of the same argument every night until I was dead. The thrill of scrolling on Hinge, when I first started dating, was that it felt like shopping for an alternate future. I’d pore over pictures of men cradling small dogs and swinging tennis rackets, and get high on the thought of all the tiny dogs and tennis games we would enjoy together. I started hiding my phone in a cupboard in the kitchen before I went to sleep, because when I kept it in my room, I could feel all my new lives calling to me. Sometimes, when I got up to hide it, I had motion sickness from scrolling so hard and so fast.
