“People used to go out – to bars, to clubs, to parties – and just meet each other,” my editor said to me over plates of cacio pepe in the West Village. “Now you all like your couch and Netflix too much. You can’t be f*&$ to leave your house.”
I wanted to argue with her. To defend our ability to go forth from our flats and procreate, or at least, I don’t know, speak to one another using simple words and known phrases. But the truth is, she could be right. We’re a generation of lazy lovers.
It’s easy to believe the days of the meet-cute at the laundromat, the bump-ins at the bar, the brush-bys in the grocery aisle, are long gone. People used to meet and flirt in elevators. Or so I’m told by Bridget Jones (2001) and Babygirl (2024). Are we not spending enough time in elevators? This question plagues me.
But, because surely all hope isn’t dead, it’s worth investigating. Is meeting in IRL like, dead, dead?
Dating apps were originally pitched as a solution to the “marriage problem” – AKA less and less of us being in them – long before lockdown. Since Tinder started the dancefloor in 2012, there’s now an app for pretty much everyone. Sexual pioneers. Entrepreneurs. Botanists. Nepo-babies. The gluten-free. Even extremist, right-wing Republicans have their own special app in which they connect freely with their cousins. At last.
Connection is important. It’s one of the only things that keeps us apart from the void. While singles may have originally flocked to their phones in earnest and found true connections, increasingly, people use them like a vending machine. We toggle through options like we’re playing Candy Crush, not realising or not caring that Sunday swiping is a zero-sum game. The data is in. And the data isn’t good.
As of 2023, the World Health Organization declared “the loneliness pandemic” as dangerous to people’s health as smoking 15 cigarettes per day. The United Kingdom and Japan now have designated “loneliness ministers”, which sounds like a lonely job. And if it all seems a bit dramatic, when you toss in the rise of things like AI girlfriends à la Her, it’s not hard to feel the burn. But alas, from the ashes and against all odds, meeting people IRL is actually on the rise.
A friend of mine has started a rather popular speed dating group called Pears. I know it’s popular because I tried to get a ticket and it was sold out, and when I tried to ask her for a bonus ticket, as a favour, in person, because we work together, everyday, and she knew my struggle, and I knew her star sign, she said no. N-O. “Get on the waitlist”. So there’s that.
Other things are happening too. East London Run clubs like Your Friendly Runners, if Strava turns you on and steam and sauna clubs like Hackney Sauna. And of course, let’s not forget the kismet power of the humble, friendly dinner party or impromptu park stroll in bringing people together.
The Washington Post released a feature on the comeback of this old-school method, quoting dating coach, Anwar White, “I’m the type of dating coach that has been pumping these dating apps. But just last month, I told my clients: “‘We’re not doing dating apps any more. We’re going outside. We’re touching grass. We’re talking to men.’”
Whoever you’re talking to IRL, the truth is: it’s harder. The ante higher. The guts required, greater. Why? Because touching grass is scary. Talking requires a certain effort. Nerve. But the high born from hitting it off with someone IRL is specific. There’s a real life algorithm. It’s called chemistry. It doesn’t require alcohol to spark, but it does call for a little courage. It involves getting out versus staying in.
Our apps can tell us someone’s height and location, but it won’t tell you how it feels to part a sea of people and enter their orbit. The feeling that follows a surprising round of banter with a stranger; like helium shot through your heart.
I know people who have found love on apps and are now happily married or partnered with the babies and brownstones and receipts to prove it. I myself have made meaningful matches and memorable mistakes during my well-documented tenor on Hinge. But in the end, I was giving up and I knew, because I was beginning to research, extensively, the romantic history of Cher. But then, out of the void, something magical happened. And I know, it’s a bit cringe, but, here it is: I met someone at the pub.
It was last March. It was raining. As it does. Our eyes locked across the room and he felt familiar to me. He felt like someone I could love. And sure, he was beautiful. But it wasn’t really about that. It was about the pull of his eyes. The octave of his laugh. The gravity.
A year later, I still fancy that specific octave of laughter.
There’s a phrase painted over fire stations around London that reads: Love is the running toward. It’s hard to run toward something when your eyes are blinded by blue light. I’ve heard of people meeting on street corners. Street corners? Just think about your odds, with so many streets, and so many corners! Dating in 2025 calls for either a total, fatalistic boycott or an overdose of optimism. As is the case on an app or in IRL: the choice is yours.