Sincerity is Scary: What happened to dating in the modern age?
Written by Haaniyah Angus
There comes a time in every writer's life when they experience something so utterly batshit that there’s only one question to ask themselves: should I write about this? Over the past decade of being a writer, that question has circled my mind multiple times. Still, I always feel a way about discussing my romantic relationships and myself. Making your faults known to an audience ready to pelt you with virtual tomatoes is not for the weak of heart—unless it comes with whatever invoice fees The Cut is paying these days.
Sure, I've had bad dates and relationships that have ended terribly, but none of them seemed worth the risk I felt exposing them posed. That was until last Saturday when a long-time acquaintance from my undergrad confessed his feelings for me via Instagram because he and his long-term girlfriend decided to “open up” their relationship. I told him I was flattered (I wasn’t), that whatever he thought was going on between us at university (nothing was) sailed a long time ago, and that I wished him the best on the dating thing (I didn’t).
I’m usually not so spun by the audacity of men. I mean, my DM requests have seen worse, and I’ve been harassed in ways that would make that confession seem incredibly tame. But there was something so shocking about his carelessness in confessing to me like it was a romantic gesture. The combination of a) him having a girlfriend, b) the idea that I wouldn’t care about that, and c) the assumption that I must have been waiting around for years for him to finally be single was beyond laughable. But what gets me is that in the years we’ve known each other, there was ample opportunity to confess this to me, but for some reason, it never happened.
It’s crazy to think that my liking of his IG story (which wasn’t a signal) turned into him liking mine (which was) and subsequently DMing me with his proposal. But what would’ve happened if he was upfront and honest instead of being so risk-averse? If he had confessed these feelings to me years ago when we were both single, maybe I would’ve gone for it, or maybe I would’ve rejected him as I did that Saturday night. But either way, we both could’ve moved on with our lives and not dragged the dead carcass of his crush on me into our mid-20s. Not to mention the offensive suggestion that his almost decade-long crush on me amounted to ‘Hey, do you want to be a third in this long-term relationship because I don’t think you’re worth taking the risk otherwise?’
According to culture writer and founder of the Substack blog Cafe Hysteria, Madison Huizinga, being risk-averse seems to be our generation's theme in love and dating. “When compared to previous generations, young people aren't drinking alcohol, partying, taking substances, or engaging in risky behaviour like having sex with people they don't know. I think this is fueled by the internet and people having inner worlds that are very safe online instead of engaging in riskier behaviour offline, which is very influenced by the pandemic and how our norms suddenly became temporary. Not to mention that when talking to someone now, the “game” of flirting has become the clicks and the likes. It’s becoming way more distant, and social media has made relationships, not just romantic ones but friendships, feel performative.”
I’ve been thinking a lot about why relationships have become such a sludge to deal with today. What’s happened to the idea of being forthright (when you're single) and telling people you fancy them? Why is liking social media posts seen as an IN, and why are we spending our time at parties staring at people with strained eye contact instead of speaking to them? One of my best friends sometimes jokes that dating today is like being stranded during an apocalypse. You’re waiting for the emergency helicopter to arrive and drop you off at the military base of matrimony, but the helicopter never arrives, leaving you to fend for yourself amongst whatever’s left behind.
Over time, I’ve stolen this joke and reformulated it for whenever I’m asked the dreaded question, “So how’s dating going?” or “When are you going to get married?”. It’s never going good, it’s never going to get good, and quite honestly, I wish I could fast forward five years from now when I'm happily married, but I doubt being 31 will be any better. The thing is I could just give up and accept defeat, but I’ll let you in on a little secret I try to keep hidden away lest it ruin my cleverly crafted persona: I’m a sappy hopeless romantic.
I know! I know! Boo me all you want but I am, it’s what I’m destined for and it’s why I find myself sobbing at the end of The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (1964) every single time. Being alive and in my “prime” (more like my downfall) during the situationship pandemic feels like a prank from the universe. Nobody wants to do the work and fall in love at a bookstore whilst grabbing for the same obscure title. There’s no awkward meet cutes in coffee shops where you bump into the love of your life in line waiting for a drink in the dead of winter. I want my When Harry Met Sally confession but nobody’s willing to run in the cold on New Years Eve because “when you realise you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.” I’d be willing to run myself (well jog) but who would I do that for?
Whenever I lament to my friends about dating I realise that it’s not just me feeling this way. There’s a whole generation of people exhausted by the idea that dating post pandemic feels more like a chore than a worthwhile experience. Speaking with my friend Irene about this, she tells me, “It feels like years ago, any time you stepped outside there was an endless array of possibilities of meeting people who could change your life. Now it’s just people scared to even speak to each other and a $50 bar tab for two drinks.”
In my case, it's not just a wasteland of dating that I'm bracing myself for, but also the idea of doing this after going through, and quite honestly, still experiencing grief. I’ve found that dating post-grief is a paradox. I am more scared of love than ever before and somehow suspiciously open to it in ways 20-year-old me wouldn’t have dreamed of. When talking to a guy this past summer about love, I did what all the dating coach girlies say to never tell a man and admitted I’m both a hopeless romantic and incredibly realistic. Maybe that didn’t make sense to him because he asked for a follow-up explanation, which led to a massive spiel about how everyone I’ve loved, dated or talked to (for better or worse) has had an impact on who I am today. I’m not approaching love with the bushy-tailed optimism of a teenager, but I am also open to it being transformative, if not at least a life lesson worth having for my future experiences with love. My heart has somehow migrated from being hidden under layers of steel to being worn on my sleeve, probably because when the most beloved person in your life dies, heartbreak seems insignificant.
There’s something to be said about the fact that being upfront about feelings feels incredibly corny and cringeworthy, but I think being upfront is what makes dating and love so much easier. To be in love, head over heels, stupidly obsessed with, and can’t stop talking about them ‘in love’ means being cringe. You can’t be vulnerable without opening yourself up to the possibility that it might not always work out or that someone might take the piss out of you. I for one, find my openess and willingness to make myself a fool one of my best traits even if others can’t see that. I’m sincere and that in itself is scary but it’s so much more worthwhile than pretending to be nonchalant.
