The Hinge Experiment: Yep, This Is Going Exactly as Expected

Well, here we are.

A few days into The Hinge Experiment, and I have an exciting update:

This is going exactly as expected.

If you've been following along, you know I recently ended my Tinder experiment and moved over to Hinge. Tinder wasn't exactly producing my happily-ever-after, so perhaps Hinge—the dating app allegedly “designed to be deleted”—would be different.

And right out of the gate, things looked promising.

I got a match relatively quickly.

Kelli!

Holy crap.

Maybe this was going to work.

Maybe I'd cracked the online-dating code.

Maybe I'd be writing one of those obnoxiously adorable stories six months from now:

"We met on Hinge, and I just knew..."

Calm down, Niel.

Because since then?

No other matches.

And as for Match Number One...

Well.

Apparently, “Communication” Has Multiple Definitions

I spend an unhealthy amount of time watching Facebook Reels and other short-form internet garbage, and there's a recurring theme when women talk about what they want in a man:

Communication.

They want a man who communicates.

Excellent!

Because you know what?

I kinda want that too.

I'm not looking for someone to send me a 14-page dissertation every morning.

I'm not expecting hourly relationship status reports.

I'm certainly not demanding a notarized itinerary.

But I do ask questions.

Actual questions.

Questions with those little squiggly things at the end that traditionally indicate:

“Hey, I'd like you to answer this.”

For example:

“How are you coping with the stupid heat and humidity?”

Nothing.

Okay.

I tried again and suggested an actual date.

Eventually:

“Hey.”

We're cooking now!

Next, I asked:

“What's your preferred method to communicate? Text, Phone, Morse Code?”

I thought the Morse Code thing was funny.

Apparently, I may need to actually purchase a telegraph.

Eventually, I got:

“lol I
Sorry sweetheart”

No need to apologize!

I told her I'd love to take her out.

I tried sharing a little about myself.

Then she sent:

“Good morning.”

Progress!

So naturally, I responded:

“Good morning! What r u up to today?”

Nothing.

The next morning?

“Good morning.”

Okay.

We've apparently entered a relationship with a hotel front desk.

Good morning!

Good morning!

GOOD MORNING!

So I tried again:

“Good morning! What do you have going on this weekend? Hopefully something awesome.”

And now...

We wait.

Again.

Am I Doing This Wrong?

This is where I need someone to explain modern dating to me.

How do people actually meet?

Seriously.

I'm not asking rhetorically anymore.

Do you bump carts at Costco while both reaching for the same 48-pack of toilet paper?

Do you lock eyes across the produce department while inspecting avocados?

Do you meet at church?

A bar?

The gym?

Facebook?

Hinge?

Tinder?

The DMV?

Do I need to fake an injury at Target and hope someone attractive comes to my aid?

Actually, with my luck, she'd help me up and then ask if I've ever considered investing in cryptocurrency.

I'm beginning to think I'm not any closer to finding my forever-after than I was when I started The Hinge.

Or Tinder.

Or before Tinder.

Maybe It's Time for Plan B

I think I have finally developed a backup plan.

I'm getting a lizard.

Maybe an iguana.

Some sort of reptile.

Something substantial.

Then I'm going to become that dude who walks around the beach with a giant lizard.

You know EXACTLY who I'm talking about.

Every beach town has one.

Nobody knows his name.

Nobody knows where he came from.

Nobody knows why there's a four-foot reptile sitting on his shoulder.

But EVERYBODY talks to him.

“OMG! Is that your iguana?”

Yes. Yes, it is.

“Can I pet him?”

Of course. His name is Steve.

Boom.

Conversation.

No algorithm.

No swiping.

No unanswered questions.

No waiting three days to receive “Good morning.”

Just me, Steve the Iguana, and the Atlantic Ocean.

And here's the best part:

Steve communicates.

He might communicate exclusively by blinking and occasionally eating lettuce, but at this point, that's competitive.

So that's where The Hinge Experiment currently stands.

One match.

No additional matches.

Several questions.

Very few answers.

Zero dates.

And an increasingly realistic possibility that my next meaningful relationship will be with a reptile.

Still...

The experiment continues.

Maybe Kelli will respond.

Maybe another match will appear.

Maybe someone will eventually communicate.

Maybe I'll actually go on a date.

Or maybe you'll see me walking down the beach six months from now with a giant iguana on my shoulder.

If you do...

Come say hello.

At least one of us will probably answer.

The Tinder Experiment Is Over. Welcome to The Hinge.

Well, it happened.

The Tinder experiment is officially over.

I deleted my profile. Hopefully.

I say “hopefully” because deleting anything from the internet feels less like destroying evidence and more like politely asking a multinational corporation to maybe stop showing it to people eventually.

But Tinder and I have parted ways.

After the swiping, the matching, the questionable conversations, and the recurring suspicion that I was less likely to find a date than I was to receive an exciting new investment opportunity, I decided it was time.

So naturally, I did the sensible thing.

I joined another dating app.

Welcome to The Hinge.

Yes, I know it's just called Hinge. But “The Hinge” sounds more dramatic, like a nightclub, a medical procedure, or something at Home Depot.

Apparently, Hinge is “designed to be deleted.”

Challenge accepted.

The question is: why will I delete it?

Will I actually meet someone?

Will I get any matches at all?

Will I match with someone, have a perfectly normal conversation, and then hear:

“I don't check this app very often. Do you have WhatsApp?”

🚩🚩🚩

Will someone want to take the conversation offline almost immediately?

Will she suddenly have an incredible business opportunity?

Will cryptocurrency somehow enter the conversation?

Will she own a thriving import/export business that requires absolutely no physical location?

Will we talk for three days and then she mysteriously disappear?

Or—and I realize this is an absolutely insane possibility—will someone actually want to meet me in person?

Coffee.

Dinner.

A movie.

Two human beings occupying the same physical location without anyone trying to sell the other one something.

Imagine that.

I'm going into The Hinge with an open mind. I'm going to swipe—or like, or comment, or whatever terminology we're using over there—and see what happens.

I'm not expecting perfection.

I'm not even expecting normal.

I'm just hoping for an actual human being who wants to have a conversation, laugh a little, eventually meet in person, and doesn't need me to download another messaging app before revealing that her uncle has taught her a proprietary cryptocurrency trading strategy.

The bar is low, people.

Very low.

So begins the next dating experiment.

How long will The Hinge last?

How many matches will I get?

How many will turn into conversations?

How many conversations will turn into actual dates?

And how many will end with me staring at my phone thinking:

“Oh, for God's sake. Not again.”

Only time will tell.

Until then...

Pray with me, Forest.

Pray with me.

I Thought I Was Supposed to Be My True Self? Another Adventure on The Tinder

After approximately 2 billion swipes left (nope) and right (why not?), I finally got another match on the Tinder.

Her profile name?

"Hopeful."

Well, that's already one more hopeful person than I expected to find on the Tinder.

Hopeful is a straight, 5'8" woman who describes herself as:

"Down to earth, laid back woman that is looking for something real..."

Excellent.

She also wants:

"Someone that can be just there true self, no lies, no games no drama just your true self no matter what and I will be the same!"

First, I believe we're looking for their true self.

But this is the Tinder, not the SATs. I'm not grading anyone.

More importantly:

Great! Imma be my true self.

Because I don't know how to be Matt Damon.

Her profile also provides some important intelligence. She doesn't like receiving nude selfies—which seems like an extremely reasonable policy—works out sometimes, smokes, which I don't, and drinks on special occasions.

Fine.

So I start the conversation:

"Good evening, Hopeful!"

I had a sneaking suspicion her parents didn't look at their newborn daughter and say, "She's beautiful. Let's name her Hopeful."

Turns out I was correct.

Her name is Chrissy.

We start chatting. I throw in some humor. She seems to like it.

Excellent.

I tell her that I think I'm actually funnier in person.

Also excellent.

We're talking about what we're doing Thursday. I mention some completely innocuous stuff about my day. Nobody has attempted to sell cryptocurrency to anyone. Nobody claims to be conducting "market research" in Augusta.

We're making progress!

Then I mention my sobriety.

Record scratch.

The conversation takes a turn.

She asks:

"So is that you drink now or no"

I explain that no, I don't drink. I've been sober for a little over 17 years.

But I also explain that I don't care if other people drink—as long as they're responsible about it.

I'm sober.

I'm not the Soup Nazi.

NO CHARDONNAY FOR YOU!

Drink your wine. Have your cocktail. Order a beer.

I'm not going to leap across the table and slap a margarita out of your hand.

This conversation happened Thursday at around 4:30 p.m.

I sent a few more messages afterward.

I even asked if she'd like to talk on the phone, since her profile said that's her preferred method of communication.

And then...

Crickets.

Not even Tinder crickets.

Those crickets have probably unmatched me too.

Which leaves me slightly confused.

Wait a minute, Chrissy.

I thought you wanted someone who could be:

"Just their true self."

That's exactly what I did!

I didn't lie.

I didn't play games.

I didn't create drama.

I didn't pretend to drink.

I didn't pretend to be Matt Damon.

I showed up as my true self, just like the advertisement requested.

Apparently there were terms and conditions.

And here's what really makes me laugh:

Her profile says she drinks "on special occasions."

Is having someone who drinks booze really that important when you only drink sometimes yourself?

Maybe there's an annual Cabernet Festival I don't know about.

Maybe Valentine's Day requires tequila.

Maybe I'm supposed to hold the wine glass while she drinks it.

I have questions.

Of course, maybe she just got busy. Maybe she'll respond eventually. Maybe she met somebody else. That's dating.

But if the sobriety conversation is what killed it, that's pretty funny.

Because after dealing with fake profiles, scammers, crypto investors, mysterious 6'6" women named Hamit, and everything else I've encountered on the Tinder, I finally did exactly what a profile asked:

I was my true self.

And apparently my true self got left on read.

Maybe next time I'll try being Matt Damon.

Help Me Get Off the Tinder… Set Me Up With Someone (Even Someone You Don't Like)

If you're reading this and you're happily married, dating, or know someone who is...

Please set me up with someone.

At this point, I'd even consider someone you secretly can't stand.

Why?

Because it would get me off the Tinder for at least a little while.

A few days ago I wrote about my exciting fictional career as an international drug cartel leader. If you missed that masterpiece, it's over at NielFlamm.com/blog.

Today, I bring you Episode 2 of "As the Scammer Turns."

Like most guys, I don't spend 20 minutes analyzing every profile. It's the 5 Second Rule. Mel Robbins probably didn't intend for it to be used on dating apps, but here we are.

Swipe left.

Swipe right.

Move on.

Being completely transparent, my decision is usually based on whether there's an initial physical attraction. That's online dating in about five seconds.

Then I matched with... let's call them...

"This person."

I use the word person very intentionally.

The first thing that caught my eye?

Height: 6'6".

Now, I'm not opposed to dating a taller woman. I'd happily embrace my Short King era.

The second thing?

The name.

Hamit.

Not exactly a name I hear every day, so I consulted The Google (because I'm old enough to still call it The Google).

According to The Google:

Hamit is a masculine given name of Turkish origin, derived from the Arabic name Hamid, meaning "praiseworthy" or "one who praises."

Well...

That was unexpected.

Then came the line I had been waiting for.

"What's your experience using this dating app like?"

Ding.

Ding.

Ding.

I've seen enough YouTube videos and scam exposés to recognize that one.

It's one of the classic setup questions before they eventually pivot to crypto, gold, forex, or some magical investment opportunity that somehow guarantees 4,000% returns while they're conveniently gorgeous and single.

This one added a new wrinkle.

"I often encounter people trying to sell me products. Have you ever met similar strange people?"

Nice try.

That's basically a scammer asking if I've already met scammers.

It's like a burglar knocking on your door asking if you've had any recent break-ins.

Unfortunately, I forgot to screenshot my response, but I replied that the only things I've been offered so far were some version of a crypto or gold investment.

Then the funniest part happened.

A few hours later, I opened the Tinder again. I don't allow it to send notification alerts to my phone, so I only check it when I feel like it.

The entire conversation...

Gone.

Poof.

Vanished.

Either someone reported the account, or—far more likely—the dude on the other end realized I wasn't going to be an easy target and decided to move on to someone else.

I like to think I failed the scammer interview.

Mission accomplished.

So once again, I'm asking for community support.

If you know a nice, funny, emotionally stable woman somewhere around my age...

Introduce us.

Even if she's someone you've been trying to get rid of.

Let's save everyone involved from another season of The Tinder Files.

Because at the rate I'm going, my next match is going to ask if I'd like to diversify my retirement portfolio before asking what my favorite movie is.

Back on Tinder... Pray for Me

Against my better judgment, I downloaded Tinder.

It's free.

My expectations? Somewhere between "maybe I'll meet someone nice" and "I'll probably be talking to a guy named Igor pretending to be Jennifer."

I matched with someone who gave me the standard:

"I'm looking for honesty, loyalty, emotional maturity..."

Sounds promising.

Then came the question:

"What is your profession?"

I decided to run a little quality assurance test.

My answer?

"I sell heroin. Not on a corner... I'm a cartel leader."

It was obviously a joke.

I figured one of three things would happen:

1. She'd unmatch me immediately.

2. She'd laugh.

3. She'd call the DEA.

Instead...

Nothing.

No "Seriously?"

No "That's not funny."

No "You're weird."

Just... nothing.

I'm beginning to think the bots don't have a sense of humor.

At this rate, I'll probably delete Tinder before it figures out whether I'm Pablo Escobar or just a bald guy with a prosthetic leg who likes Coke Zero and movie theaters.

So, serious question...

How do people over 50 actually meet now?

Asking for a friend.

The friend is me.