The Hinge Experiment: No Matches. Maybe It’s Time to Delete the App?

Well, here we are again.

I opened Hinge, went to my matches, and was greeted by the same incredibly encouraging message:

“No matches right now.”

Thank you, Hinge.

I worried there might be a secret match hiding somewhere. Maybe someone had been trying desperately to reach me, but the app had misplaced her.

Nope.

Still nobody.

Since my last round of matches—Kelli, Missing Gina and Me—there have been no new matches.

Zero.

The Hinge Experiment has become less of a dating experiment and more of a controlled scientific study examining how long a bald man can stare at an empty screen before deleting an app.

At Least Somebody Is Interested in Me

There is some good news.

While my Hinge traffic is approximately equal to that of an abandoned shopping mall...

the traffic to NielFlamm.com is up substantially.

Apparently, people are much more interested in reading about me trying to date than actually dating me.

I'm not sure whether to celebrate or seek professional marketing advice.

On Hinge:

No matches right now.

On NielFlamm.com:

Come on in!

Maybe I've discovered my true calling.

Not dating.

Writing about the complete absence of dating.

At least one of those appears to have an audience.

Hinge Has a Solution, Naturally

The screenshot makes me laugh because immediately underneath “No matches right now,” Hinge offers two helpful possibilities:

Boost your profile.

Or...

Upgrade to HingeX.

Ahhhhh.

The problem may be solvable with a credit card.

I see.

Nothing says romance quite like:

“Congratulations! Nobody wants to talk to you. Would you like to purchase additional features?”

I'm not convinced.

I'm not desperate to meet someone, and I'm definitely not interested in spending money to make my dating life look more active than it is.

It would be nice to meet someone.

That's still true.

But if it doesn't happen on Hinge, it doesn't happen on Hinge.

Maybe It’s Time to End the Experiment

I'm starting to seriously wonder whether I've gotten everything I'm going to get from this app.

I started with Tinder.

That became an experiment.

Then I moved to Hinge.

That became another experiment.

There were matches.

There were messages.

There were “good mornings.”

There were unanswered questions.

There were almost-dates.

There were phone numbers offered.

There was silence.

There were unmatches.

And now we've arrived at the grand finale:

An empty queue.

Maybe Hinge really is “designed to be deleted.”

Just perhaps not for the reason I originally hoped.

Then There’s Thailand...

Another wrinkle in this story.

I've been exploring the possibility of eventually spending part of my life in Thailand, and I've had people tell me something interesting:

My dating prospects may look very different there.

We'll see.

I'm certainly not booking an international flight because somebody promised me a better dating pool.

I'm interested in Thailand for reasons much bigger than dating. If that chapter happens, it will involve figuring out where and how I want to live, healthcare, dialysis, cost of living, culture, food, and whether I can build a life there that I actually enjoy.

But apparently, I've been told that being me may not be quite the dating catastrophe that my current Hinge screen would suggest.

Let's review the merchandise:

Bald?

Yep.

One leg?

Definitely.

ESRD?

Check.

Eyes that have required enough work to qualify for their own frequent-patient program?

Also check.

And yet I've been told:

“You'll do fine in Thailand.”

Well, that's quite the sales pitch.

I don't know whether that's actually true, and I'm certainly not assuming women in another country are going to react to me in any particular way.

They're individuals, not a demographic dating guarantee.

But I admit...

I'm curious.

Maybe the Problem Isn’t Something That Needs Fixing

That's probably the biggest takeaway from this experiment.

I'm not interested in reinventing myself to generate matches.

I have a complicated life.

I have scars.

I have medical realities.

I have recovery.

I have boundaries.

I have one leg.

I have no hair.

I have questionable eyesight.

I tend to write about things on the internet that most sane people would probably keep private.

And somehow I've also acquired an imaginary iguana named Steve.

This is the package.

I'm not everyone's cup of tea.

That's okay.

I'm not looking for everyone.

I'd eventually like to find one woman where the interest, effort, attraction, humor, and conversation go both ways.

If that happens in South Carolina, wonderful.

If someday it happens in Thailand, wonderful.

If it happens somewhere completely unexpected, even better.

And if it takes a while?

I have a life to live in the meantime.

So, Is Hinge Getting Deleted?

I haven't decided yet.

But for the first time since starting this experiment, I'm seriously considering it.

The current standings are difficult to misinterpret:

Matches: 0.

Conversations: 0.

Dates: 0.

NielFlamm.com traffic: UP.

Maybe that's the universe telling me something.

Or maybe it's just an algorithm telling me to buy HingeX.

Either way, I'm listening.

And Steve?

Don't start packing for Thailand yet. 🦎

The Hinge Experiment: Sometimes the “X” Isn’t Personal—It’s a Boundary

The Hinge Experiment continues.

Still no magical love story. Still no woman standing outside my door holding a Coke Zero and saying, “Niel, I've been looking everywhere for you.”

But I am looking.

And looking also means clicking the X sometimes.

Recently, I came across three profiles of women who, from what I could see, seem perfectly nice. Interesting careers, hobbies, personalities, and lives of their own.

And I clicked X on all three.

Not because I think there's anything wrong with them.

Not because of their appearance.

Not because one likes preserving food or another thinks dating her is like finding an extra chicken nugget in your meal—which, frankly, is a pretty strong sales pitch.

It came down to one little line in the profiles:

Marijuana: Sometimes.

For me, that's a no.

Before Someone Lights the Torches—or Something Else

This isn't me telling anyone else how to live.

I'm not starting the Niel Flamm War on Weed.

I'm also not interested in debating whether marijuana should be legal, illegal, medicinal, recreational, taxed, sold, grown, smoked, eaten in a gummy, baked into a brownie, or delivered by a talking iguana named Steve.

People make their own choices.

This is mine.

I'm in recovery, and I've learned over the years that I need to know my boundaries and protect them.

Based on what I've seen and experienced, I associate marijuana use with the potential to lead toward other substance use. I also know there is debate and research around the whole concept of a “gateway drug,” so I'm not presenting my personal experience as a universal scientific rule.

I don't need it to be one.

For my recovery, I choose not to have marijuana as part of my environment or romantic relationship.

That's enough.

My Friends Are a Different Story

I have friends and fraternity brothers who may enjoy marijuana.

They're adults.

They make their decisions.

I make mine.

In most cases, they consciously choose not to use it around me.

I appreciate that.

They aren't required to live their lives according to my recovery, and I don't expect them to.

But respecting my boundary tells me something important about the friendship.

They can do their thing.

I can do mine.

And nobody needs to turn Thanksgiving dinner into a TED Talk about cannabis.

Alcohol Is Weirdly Different for Me

This may sound contradictory, but I've gone on dates with women who drink alcohol responsibly.

And I find it absolutely fascinating.

Someone orders a glass of wine.

Then perhaps...

another glass of wine.

And then...

THEY STOP.

What kind of sorcery is this?

Two glasses?

You mean you're not immediately calculating how many more you can consume, where the next drink is coming from, and whether there's enough alcohol available to completely obliterate yourself?

Apparently, some people drink because they enjoy a drink.

Who knew?

That was never how I drank.

For me, drinking wasn't:

"This Cabernet has lovely notes of blackberry."

It was more:

“Excellent. How quickly can we make consciousness optional?”

That's one of the reasons I know I'm an alcoholic and why recovery remains important to me.

Someone else's responsible alcohol use doesn't automatically bother me. I know where I am with alcohol today.

Marijuana hits differently for me.

So I draw the boundary there.

Dating Is Also About Knowing What Doesn't Work

I've written a lot during The Hinge Experiment about wanting matches.

Then I finally cleaned out my matches because conversations weren't going anywhere.

Now I'm clicking through profiles looking for someone new.

But here's something important:

Getting a match isn't the goal.

Finding someone compatible is.

If I ignore something that's important to me just because someone is attractive or because my match queue currently resembles an abandoned shopping mall, what exactly am I accomplishing?

I could click the heart.

Maybe she clicks mine.

Maybe we start talking.

Maybe we like each other.

Then eventually I say:

“Oh, by the way, marijuana use is a boundary for me.”

And she says:

“Oh, by the way, I enjoy marijuana.”

Congratulations!

We've successfully discovered something the profile already told us.

That's not fair to either person.

The X is much easier.

It's Not Rejection of the Person

That's probably the biggest point.

I don't know these women.

For all I know, they're wonderful.

They may be smart, hilarious, compassionate, successful, and fantastic partners for someone.

I'm simply not that someone.

And that's okay.

Dating isn't about determining whether someone is a good or bad person.

It's determining whether two people might be good together.

There are things someone else might see on my profile and immediately think:

NOPE.

I have one leg.

I'm bald.

I'm in recovery.

I write publicly about my life.

I apparently have an imaginary iguana named Steve who has become a recurring character in my dating blog.

Take your pick.

Someone can hit X.

I'm going to survive.

So, Ladies, I Wish You Well

To these three women—and anyone else whose profile I pass because marijuana use is listed:

There is no judgment from me.

No lecture.

No attempt to change you.

No angry finger wagging from the other side of the Hinge algorithm.

Just a recognition that we probably aren't the right match.

I genuinely hope each of you finds your person.

Someone who appreciates your humor, your quirks, your interests, and whatever makes you uniquely you.

I'll keep looking for mine.

The Hinge Experiment continues.

The queue may still be empty, but I'm not going to abandon the things that matter to me just to fill it.

Besides...

Steve the Iguana has informed me that he's completely drug-free.

Finally, a viable candidate. 🦎

The Hinge Experiment: Behold, My Magnificent Collection of Absolutely Nothing

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the current state of The Hinge Experiment™.

Please try to contain your excitement.

As of this post, this is what my Hinge match queue looks like:

“No matches right now.”

That's it.

That's the update.

Thank you for coming.

Look at All That Room!

I mean, seriously.

Look at this magnificent screen.

Clean.

Uncluttered.

Organized.

Not a single pesky match taking up valuable digital real estate.

Marie Kondo would be proud.

After unmatching Kelli, Missing Me, and most recently Gina, I have achieved something few people have the courage to accomplish on a dating app:

Inbox Zero.

Except it's not email.

It's women.

Okay, that sounded significantly worse than I intended.

Moving on.

Hinge Has Some Suggestions

What I particularly enjoy is that Hinge doesn't simply tell me:

“No matches right now.”

It immediately follows that with what feels suspiciously like:

“Would you like to give us some money for that?”

There's a giant:

BOOST YOUR PROFILE

button.

And underneath that:

UPGRADE TO HINGEX

Ohhhhh.

I see how this works.

Hinge is basically standing next to my completely empty dating queue whispering:

"That's a shame. You know... perhaps your credit card could help."

Nice self-esteem you have there.

Be a shame if something happened to it.

But I'm Not Panicking

Here's the thing.

I'm actually okay with this.

Would I like to have a match?

Sure.

Would I like to be talking with someone?

Absolutely.

Would I like to meet someone, go out, laugh, have dinner, see a movie, take a drive somewhere, and eventually have someone special in my life?

Yes.

But as I wrote recently:

I'm not desperate.

There's a difference between wanting companionship and needing to manufacture it.

I'm not keeping conversations open simply so I can look at my Hinge account and say:

“See! Three women!”

If nobody is communicating, what's the point?

Kelli had her opportunity.

Missing Me almost became Meeting Me.

Gina had her opportunity.

Those conversations went nowhere.

So I cleaned house.

And now...

BEHOLD THE HOUSE.

It's extremely clean.

Possibly condemned.

But definitely clean.

“Matches Are More Intentional on Hinge”

The screen also informs me:

“Matches are more intentional on Hinge.”

Well, they are certainly being VERY intentional about not matching with me.

I respect the commitment.

There's no ambiguity here.

No mixed signals.

No “Good morning” followed by 72 hours of silence.

Just a giant empty screen saying:

NOPE.

In a strange way, it's refreshing.

So What Happens Now?

Nothing changes.

I'm still on Hinge.

I'll continue looking.

I'll continue sending likes when someone seems interesting.

Maybe tomorrow I'll get a match.

Maybe next week.

Maybe someone will eventually appear who actually wants to have a conversation.

And maybe—this is where we're getting wildly optimistic—we'll use this dating app to arrange an actual date.

Imagine the possibilities.

Until then, I'm not paying someone to pretend the empty queue isn't empty.

I'm certainly not going to become discouraged because an algorithm hasn't delivered my forever-after on schedule.

I've got plenty of other things happening in my life.

Dating would be an addition.

Not the definition of it.

Current Official Hinge Standings

Kelli: Unmatched.

Missing Me: Unmatched.

Gina: Unmatched.

Current conversations: 0.

Current matches: 0.

Upcoming dates: 0.

Hinge suggesting I spend money: Naturally.

Steve the Iguana's confidence level: Becoming absolutely unbearable. 🦎

I'm starting to picture him sitting next to me, looking at this screen with that smug reptile face.

"Told you, dude. Get me a leash and let's hit the beach."

Not yet, Steve.

Not yet.

The Hinge Experiment continues.

And for anyone interested in joining the cast...

Apparently, there are openings.

The Hinge Experiment: Gina Has Been Unmatched, and I’m Perfectly Fine With That

Another one bites the dust.

It's time for another update from The Hinge Experiment™, and today's roster move is official:

I unmatched Gina.

No dramatic confrontation.

No angry final message.

No lengthy explanation.

No sad music playing while I stared thoughtfully out a rain-covered window.

I hit Unmatch.

Because at some point, you have to ask yourself:

Why am I keeping this chat open?

There Was Nowhere Left to Go

Gina and I matched before “Missing Me,” so she'd actually been hanging around The Hinge Experiment for a while.

There were messages.

There were pauses.

There were more messages.

There were significantly more pauses.

I tried asking questions.

I asked about her day.

I asked about her meeting.

I asked whether she was available.

Finally, I went with the incredibly complicated, deeply philosophical question:

“What's your number?”

And...

Nothing.

Could she still have responded eventually?

Sure.

Tomorrow?

Maybe.

Next week?

Possibly.

November?

Who knows?

Perhaps in 2032 I'll receive a carrier pigeon carrying her phone number.

But I'm not waiting.

An Open Chat Isn't a Relationship

This is something I'm starting to realize during this whole experiment.

There's no prize for accumulating matches.

I'm not collecting Pokémon.

A match sitting in my inbox isn't evidence that my dating life is thriving.

If we're not talking, we're not getting to know each other.

If we're not getting to know each other, we probably won’t meet.

And if we're never going to meet, what's the point of leaving the conversation sitting there?

Unmatch.

Next.

Not out of anger.

Not because I think she owes me anything.

She doesn't.

It's simply recognizing when something isn't going anywhere.

Here's the Bigger Thing: I'm Not Desperate

I think this distinction matters.

I'm not desperate to find someone.

Would I like to find someone?

Absolutely.

It would be nice.

I want someone to go to dinner with.

Someone to see a movie with.

Someone to take a completely unnecessary road trip with.

Someone to laugh with.

Someone who can carry half a conversation without me feeling like I'm conducting a deposition.

Someone who occasionally asks me a question.

Crazy standards, apparently.

But there's a big difference between:

“I'd like someone in my life.”

and

“I need someone in my life.”

I don't need to force something simply because I don't want to be alone.

I don't need to keep dead conversations alive just because they're technically matches.

And I certainly don't need to convince someone to be interested in me.

If someone wants to talk to me?

Great.

If someone wants to meet me?

Even better.

If someone isn't interested?

That's okay too.

I'm Looking for Mutual Effort

Maybe that's what The Hinge Experiment has actually taught me so far.

I'm not looking for perfection.

I'm not looking for someone who immediately reorganizes her entire life because we matched Tuesday afternoon.

I'm looking for reciprocity.

I'll ask questions.

Ask me some.

I'll make an effort.

Make one too.

I'll suggest meeting.

If you're interested, help me make that happen.

Scheduling coffee shouldn't require a project manager, three status meetings, and a Gantt chart.

And if I'm doing all the work to keep a basic conversation alive?

That's probably not the conversation I'm looking for.

The Hinge Roster Is Getting Awfully Small

Let's check the historical standings.

Kelli: Unmatched.

Missing Me: Unmatched.

Gina: Unmatched.

New matches: Well...

About that.

The Hinge offices aren't exactly overwhelmed processing my incoming requests.

But that's okay.

I'd rather have zero matches than stare at three conversations that aren't going anywhere and pretend something is happening.

I'm still on Hinge.

I'm still open to meeting someone.

I'm still hopeful that eventually I'll match with someone where the conversation doesn't feel like I'm trying to start a lawn mower that's been sitting in a garage since 1987.

Pull.

Nothing.

Pull again.

Nothing.

Prime it.

Pull.

GOOD MORNING!

And then silence.

Would It Be Nice?

Yes.

That's really where I am.

Would it be nice to find someone?

Absolutely.

Someone funny.

Someone smart.

Someone interesting.

Someone who wants companionship but already has a life of her own.

Someone who actually wants to meet instead of becoming my longtime digital pen pal.

But I'm not racing against a clock.

I'm not trying to fill a vacancy.

I'm not going to turn every match into something it isn't because I desperately need The Hinge Experiment to have a happy ending.

If it happens, it happens.

Until then, I have a life to live.

And apparently...

an increasingly unemployed imaginary iguana named Steve. 🦎

Although given the current match statistics, Steve probably shouldn't make any long-term plans.

The Hinge Experiment continues.

The roster is currently accepting applications.

The Hinge Experiment: Missing Me Is Missing, and Gina Is on the Clock

It's time for another episode of The Hinge Experiment™, where I continue attempting to understand how two adults who supposedly joined a dating app eventually get to the part where they actually...

DATE.

I know. Radical concept.

We have a departure, a returning character, and another bold move from yours truly.

Missing Me Is Now Officially... Missing

Let's start with Missing Me.

I unmatched her.

I think the appropriate statute of limitations has expired.

We had discussed going out. She said Sunday could work. I suggested a place. I gave her my number. Sunday came and went. I followed up afterward.

Nothing.

At some point, you have to stop staring at the microwave waiting for something to cook when there isn't any food inside it.

So, I unmatched.

There is no anger. No hard feelings. No dramatic breakup montage accompanied by an Adele song.

Besides, she has my number.

If she wants to reach me, she can.

If she doesn't?

That's an answer too.

And thus concludes the Missing Me Era of The Hinge Experiment.

She came.

She matched.

She almost dated.

She disappeared.

Frankly, the screenwriters could have given that character a better ending.

Meanwhile... Remember Gina?

Gina actually predates Missing Me in the Hinge Cinematic Universe.

We've communicated sporadically, but we're still stuck in that strange dating-app purgatory where two people have matched and occasionally exchange words without getting anywhere near an actual date.

Yesterday morning, I asked:

“Good morning, Gina! Whatcha up to today? Are you available this weekend?”

She responded!

She was traveling to a 9 o'clock meeting in Shallotte.

Look at that!

INFORMATION!

A location.

An activity.

A complete sentence!

Naturally, I wished her a safe drive and asked what the meeting was for.

Later that evening, I followed up:

“How was your meeting?”

And today I decided enough was enough.

It was time for another bold maneuver.

I Asked for the Number

Yep.

I sent:

“What's your number?”

That's it.

No essay.

No speech.

No Morse Code.

No interpretive dance.

No 17-part explanation of why exchanging phone numbers might eventually facilitate two adults meeting somewhere for food.

What's your number?

Four words.

I'm trying to move this thing along.

I'd like to talk.

I'd like to get off the app.

And ultimately, I'd like to go on an actual date.

Remember dates?

Two people meet at a predetermined location at approximately the same time.

They sit down.

They talk.

Perhaps they eat.

Nobody ghosts anybody halfway through appetizers.

At least that's how I remember them.

Gina Is Now on the Clock

I'm not expecting an immediate response.

People work.

People have families.

People travel to meetings in Shallotte.

People have lives that don't revolve around checking Hinge every seven minutes to see whether some bald guy has asked another question.

I understand that.

But I'm also changing my approach to this experiment.

I'm not collecting matches.

I don't care whether my profile says I have one match, ten matches, or 100 matches.

A match that never becomes a conversation isn't particularly useful.

And a conversation that never progresses toward meeting isn't really what I'm looking for either.

So I'll give Gina a few days.

If something comes of it?

Fantastic.

Let's exchange numbers.

Let's talk.

Let's make a plan.

Let's meet.

If nothing happens?

Another match will be removed.

No drama.

No hostility.

Just...

Next.

Maybe That's the Lesson

I'm beginning to think online dating requires a strange combination of patience and knowing when to stop being patient.

You have to give people time.

But you also can't spend three weeks trying to extract a conversation from someone like you're interrogating a hostile witness.

“How was your day?”

Silence.

“What are you doing this weekend?”

Silence.

“Would you like to go out?”

Silence.

“What's your number?”

At some point I'm going to need a desk lamp, a windowless room, and two detectives playing good cop/bad cop.

I'm looking for someone who actually wants to participate.

Someone who asks questions back.

Someone who wants to talk.

And, eventually, someone who wants to meet.

That doesn't seem unreasonable on an app specifically designed for people to meet each other.

But I've been wrong before.

Current Hinge Standings

Kelli: Gone.

Missing Me: Officially unmatched. She has my number if she ever changes her mind.

Gina: Still alive! The latest pitch has been thrown:

“What's your number?”

Now we wait.

Again.

But only for a few days.

And somewhere, probably stretched out in a tiny imaginary beach chair wearing sunglasses, Steve the Iguana is watching this entire experiment unfold.

He's beginning to look awfully confident.

Don't get comfortable, Steve.

But...

keep Sunday open.