How I Konmaried a night on Tinder

So I got to tidying my sock drawer instead, inspired by Marie Kondo, I was among millions worldwide, who, on the back of the Netflix series, were trying to spark some joy.

So what, I thought, if I approached Tinder in the same way? Note to self, it was a midweek drinking session that got to me thinking this. I should have picked up a good book. So much for good intentions.

But, hey, for the sake of research, here’s how I Konmaried my Tinder experience one sad Tuesday night.

This is the number one reason I hate Tinder. It is all about whether that profile pic sparks joy. I swiped for 30 minutes and only one man’s profile pic sparked joy. Maybe I’m getting fussy in my old age, but there has to be that initial spark, a physical attraction or a witty profile, one which might not even be there when you get around to actually meeting in person, but I’m not going to swipe right if something doesn’t stir initially. I’m sorry. I’m shallow. I also don’t want to waste your time.

So pause a moment then and look deeper. Bobby, 50, was standing in front of a hanger of clothes, all neat on wooden coat hangers. Perhaps he had watched the documentary as well. But weren’t those women’s clothes? Shaun, 55, must have been Kondo-ing. He had a garbage bag, bursting at its seams, on a neatly made bed. Clothes, or his last Tinder date, it was hard to tell. Steve, 54, posed in his best suit, in front of a clinical work desk. All work and no play? And as for Mark, 47, in that bathroom. I don’t need to see your mess. Or your bare ass in the mirror.

This is question I asked myself again and again, when I hit up the wardrobe. What memories, what emotions does something evoke? There’s Doc, 52, with a beanie and a map, an actual paper map, on some journey, somewhere, a smile. He sparked joy. A map, not an app.

There’s William, 56, at the SCG, I’d be a good cricket date. And Andy, 54, in front of some snow capped mountains. Let’s go.

But no, Paul, 49, a photo of your Scott racing bike does not spark joy. Been there. And neither does your nose ring, Dave, 51, nor that snake draped across your shoulders. Goatees do not spark joy, nor do sunglasses perched on your forehead. Nor duck face selfies or your caravan or your Spiderman suit. Cute on a six year old, not a 50 year old. I need a grown-up.

I don’t know how to spark joy myself so how I can I expect it in reverse? Here’s the one pic of my face I took in the past six months that made me look reasonably ok. Do I post pics of me doing things I like? Here’s me on a walk, or with a good book, at the beach. I’m yet to do that. I ask myself if men actually read profiles. I do. But why waste time trying to be witty and smart when I assume all they’re looking at is that first pic. Would I have better luck if I asked myself would my profile spark joy in others? Maybe.

Perhaps I should be thinking about this process with more gratitude. Let’s face it, if we’re close to 50 and on Tinder, life has thrown us a few curve balls. All of us. So you can’t take a good pic, me neither, so you’re stumped with what to write in your profile, me too. Where’s the information that suggests you might be an okay person to have a beer and a chat with at least, without being that person who swipes right on everyone. And if it doesn’t work out, say thank you and move on.

When I think about the men in my real life who’ve sparked joy, that joy returns even when I think of them. Men who made my heart flutter with one text, one look. Men who made me feel safe, and in danger all at the same time. Men who comforted me, but kept me on my toes. Men who made me want to be a better woman.

And, for that reason, this better woman is sticking to her resolutions. No more Tinder. The only person getting close to my drawers is Marie.