Dating By Data: Is Romance Doomed?
Image description: Various vintage photos of couples in black and white are overlaid on images of dating app logos and text messages.
Talking about dating in this political climate feels almost futile… but it’s hard to ignore. Cultural reverence for sex and romance is ubiquitous in Euro-American society, no matter the context, and to press the matter further, we may very well be at a pivotal moment in the dating landscape.
The idea that “chivalry is dead” is not a new one. However, there is increasing sentiment surrounding particular changes in dating and romance amidst the development of the digital age. The question may not be concerned with whether dating is necessarily “better” or “worse” for modern-day, sanguine singles, but rather how dating has changed broadly alongside technology and culture.
Courtship: A Timeline
Let’s start from the beginning(ish). It should first be noted that dating, romance, and all related concepts have cultural and geographic influences, meaning that they are far from homogeneous. Dating in different countries, regions, and even cities varies in a number of ways that can be (and are) studied in great depth. For this article’s purposes, we’ll look primarily at the U.S.
Prior to the 1920s, dating did not exist as we understand it today. Rather, it was referred to as “calling.” Calling involved a man Jane Austen-esquely showing up to his love interest’s home to be served refreshments and observe the woman performing a domestic hobby. This would then be followed by family blessings, and so on and so forth.
The emergence of actual “dating” in the U.S. was met with repugnance. Dating as a term was largely associated with sex workers at the time. Young people, however, decided that “calling” was outdated and “dating” was, then, decidedly in. Fast forward a decade or two, and it became the norm for one to date to their heart’s content, and going on dates with many different men became a mechanism for women to gain social capital.
By 1950, something shifted. People yearned for security in the postwar moment — and so began the era of “going steady.” Marriage ages lowered, marriage rates rose, and, as we all know, babies were born at an unprecedented rate. Not everyone was on board with this, though. With the age of “dating around” not having ended that long ago, some warned against getting too cozy with one person. The main reasoning behind this: premarital sex. Throughout time, parents went from fearing the stigma associated with dating multiple people to perturbation surrounding the idea of their kids getting it on with their long-term partners.
Unfortunately for these concerned parents, the 1960s birthed a sexual revolution. Increased access to the birth control pill and other contraceptives worked in tandem with the theoretical underpinnings of the anti-war shift, including questioning authority. Together, these factors rewired much of the remaining hesitance surrounding dating.
Throughout the 20th century, women’s rights dramatically transformed — insofar as they mainly benefited cisgender, heterosexual white women — which inevitably also contributed to shifts in courtship and dating. However, between the 1970s and the emergence of the “digital revolution,” so to speak, there weren’t many apparent transformations to be had in the dating scene.
Where does queer dating fit into all of this? As one can imagine, dating between queer partners took place covertly for the majority of this timeline. “Boston marriages,” “molly houses,” and other alternative forms of cohabitation provided spaces for gay and lesbian couples to connect throughout the 19th and early 20th centuries. In the 1980s, it became popular for queer women to place personal advertisements in queer magazines and indie newspapers. There still exist endless workarounds for making romantic connections in countries where homosexuality is outlawed. Because queerness and queer dating have long been concealed from the public eye, it is especially interesting to consider their relationship to digital dating spaces contemporarily.
Modern Dating and The Emergence of Dating Apps
After decades of questionnaire-based matching services, video dating services, and other informal dating network technologies, Kiss.com launched in 1994. A year later, Match.com, and five years after that, eHarmony.com. Dating websites were met with some initial skepticism, but only shortly thereafter became a pioneer in digital matchmaking. In 2006, MeetMoi launched the first-ever location-based dating app, and the rest was history. Grindr launched in 2009, followed by Hinge and Tinder in 2012, followed by Bumble in 2014, and these are just the major ones. Dozens of dating apps for different demographics permeated the digital application market. What type of relationship are you looking for? What’s your sexuality? What’s your religion? Do you like facial hair? The possibilities — not only for what you wanted in a person, but in your choice of dating app — were endless.
So, now, we turn to the present. A Pew Research Center study found that nearly half of U.S. adults said that dating had grown to be more difficult between 2010 and 2020. What’s particularly damning is that the study’s results are predicated on data collected pre-COVID-19. It need not be said that COVID lockdowns dramatically altered our social relationships writ large. But what explains perceivable changes before that? It must have something to do with the emergence of dating apps, right?
As it turns out, the body of literature that suggests it may, in fact, be “that damn phone” is quite expansive. Our cellphones have most definitely modulated how we interact with one another in ways beyond just dating, but romance has experienced unique alterations in the face of increased dating app use.
In my endeavor to investigate the question of dating’s metamorphoses and their relationship to TDP (that damn phone), I found what I consider to be a near perfectly conceptualized idea, coined by Sander De Ridder: the “Datafication of Intimacy.” De Ridder, a professor of media studies at Ghent University Belgium, tells us that dating apps use “algorithmically organized archives of people” in order to facilitate human relationships. He further argues that this sets unique expectations for the type of connection that we hope to find (e.g., “true love” and what that implies) and how quickly or efficiently we can arrange that connection. Dating apps have thus become central to many people’s “phenomenological lifeworld,” as De Ridder puts it. In other words, our society is becoming dependent on these apps.
I can’t count how many times I’ve heard my peers lament on their return to “the apps.” There is a reluctance to take any sort of pride in downloading (or, often, redownloading) Hinge or Tinder or whichever app suits your fancy. It seems as though people dread the implications that using the apps may have on the narrative shaping their future love story. Maybe their parents met at a wedding party or on a flight, and they worry that this level of “meet-cute” potential is fictitious in a digital setting. Or, perhaps, they are embarrassed by the vulnerability associated with “blatantly” searching for a romantic or sexual partner. There is an inherent connotation attached to downloading the apps that isn’t quite the same as giving your number to someone spontaneously at the club. So, despite everyone’s purported qualms, why use a dating app in the first place?
The “social compensation hypothesis of online dating,” conceptualized by Catalina L. Toma, Human Communications Researcher and Professor, posits that individuals who struggle with “traditional” dating tend to “gravitate towards and benefit from online dating.” She chalks the nature of this struggle up to three main “psychosocial vulnerabilities”: internalizing symptoms (e.g., depression), rejection sensitivity, and attachment insecurity. Another study by Ángel Castro and Juan Ramón Barrada, University of Zaragoza faculty, finds that there are a broad number of motives behind dating app usage that may (or may not) relate to these factors. Contrary to popular belief, the majority of people using dating apps at this time claimed that it was not to seek out solely sexual relationships or to engage in “hookup culture.” Some of these motives include entertainment, validation, socialization, social approval, boredom, and seeking belonging. Also, notably: sexual orientation.
By 2022, over 51% of lesbian, gay, and bisexual people reported having used dating apps compared to only 28% of straight people. This makes sense, as digital spaces have historically provided a channel for queer connection and camaraderie. Another group of internet-lovers who look for lovers on the internet? College students. Though recent evidence shows that dating apps’ overall popularity among colleges is actually declining to a degree, university students have long been a demographic that the apps attract in large numbers due to their potential to connect people across campuses. And so the “datafication of intimacy” emerges in full force, particularly for the queer community, and perhaps for those among us who don’t feel overwhelmingly comfortable with the typical conventions of non-online dating.
While the apps may provide a relatively safe space for people to form relationships, it’s impossible not to think about the potential damage of their service on the user’s psyche. Is it possible that an introvert will emerge from Tinder with a newfound confidence and lust for life, or will their social inhibitions only reproduce?
Lisa Portalan and Jodi McAlister — professors at Western Sydney University and Deakin University, respectively — upon researching romance and dating apps during COVID-19, demonstrate that:
…participants’ use of dating apps in this period were characterised by a phenomenon we have termed ‘jagged love’. This manifested cyclically, as participants turned to dating apps desperately seeking the security offered by the romantic masterplot; swiped, matched, and sent direct messages (DMs) in large numbers; became ambivalent and/or lost faith in the apps as a means by which they could embody the masterplot; deleted the apps; experienced loneliness; and returned quickly to the apps to repeat the cycle.
Other studies have found that, generally, the effects of dating app use can manifest in fatigue, insecurity, anxiety, and feelings of judgment, with possible benefits including overall enjoyment and boosted confidence.
One additional consideration is how peoples’ use of dating apps, and perhaps their benefit from them by extension, is functionally constrained by their commodification. Like many things that exist under capitalism, you can only max out the features of most modern dating apps if you pay up. For example, Hinge limits the amount of likes you can send to eight per day unless you upgrade to a $29.99 monthly subscription. In a way, you are paying to market yourself to as many people as possible.
From personal observation, I think that dating apps (particularly as they are used by young people) emphasize our propensity to want to know everything before we enter a situation. Vaguely put, this might sound like a reasonable desire, but maybe being all too comfortable with a person before you even see them in the flesh isn’t as calming as one might think. Dating is ultimately about getting to know another person, which you can’t do as easily if you’ve crafted an entire image of someone in your head that is based on their carefully manufactured online image.
This is not to say that dating apps are “bad” or useless. Plenty of people meet their long-term partners, or even friends, through using them. I do think, however, there is value in being able to push yourself out of your comfort zone and meet people in a more “high-stakes” setting. Dating apps provide a safety net that, while sometimes greatly beneficial, hinders our capacity to believe that we are worthy of presenting ourselves unscripted.
A friend of mine was recently set up on a blind date, and they told me they wished that they could at least know the person’s name. While this was a relatively benign comment, I knew this meant that they wanted to be able to find the person’s socials, maybe even to Google them. This is not in the slightest an unusual thought to have. However, I think not digesting the hand-fed content of someone’s self-image directly before you intend to get to know them on some “deeper” level is beneficial. Obviously, you want to know that you are not going to go on a date with someone whose values are diametrically opposed to yours, or anything worse, but there should be room to learn beyond those things.
To be frank, we should all be embarrassing ourselves a little bit more. Risk-taking (when done safely, respectfully, and consensually, of course) and what some might call “rejection therapy” are often important parts of fostering confidence. As an anxious, relatively introverted person myself, I can attest to this to some degree. Once you get past the “I might vomit” of it all, telling someone you think they are cute (again, within the right time and place) without the buffer of a screen between you is a fairly inconsequential endeavor.
Throughout time, our interpersonal skills have been altered by a number of things: COVID, technological innovation, changes in politics and culture, etc. Dating apps are just one factor among these, but they certainly have had a noteworthy impact on how we view and engage in dating.
