By Mariam Karagianni,
There was a time when love and its affairs were a cosmo-fueled conversation (or any cocktail of your choosing, really) at a low-dimmed Manhattan bar, a pair of new Manolo Blahniks clicking against the pavement, echoing as Carrie Bradshaw chased after her elusive Mr. Big. No denying that it was a messy ordeal—it was also very simple. A girl and a boy meet on the street; after a rather awkward encounter, they flirt and decide to keep in touch, just in case something more develops. Truly, a tale as old as time. Fast forward to today, the romantic landscape resembles a labyrinth; one you will never get the hang of. We swipe left and right —judging from zodiac signs and appearances— trapping ourselves in ominous situationships and getting ghosted faster than your best friend musters the courage to tell you, “Maybe he’s not that into you, sweetheart.” Commitment issues replaced Cosmos, and whether or not you are wearing Manolos on your feet, one thing is for sure: we are collectively chasing clarity in a world of ambiguity.
According to a 2024 survey by SSRS, 56% of adults aged 18-29 have used a dating app or site at least once in their lives. Of course, apps like Hinge and Tinder promise us a Cockaigne of abundant matches —tailored to our individual preferences— and an effortless search for love. Like all utopias, though, this one too has a mirage. The more we swipe, the less we see. Profiles turn into colorful pixels, people become just another bystander on our rosters, and the quest for romance turns into an incessant doomscrolling that eventually loses its whole point. We are overwhelmed by what psychologist Barry Schwartz calls “the paradox of choice”; FOMO (fear of missing out) haunts our subconscious, and deciding that the grass must be greener on the other side, we are rendered unable to commit. Just in case someone better suddenly appears. And does it ever?
While dating apps have become a modern purgatory, I’d argue that situationships (this beloved term Gen Z coined) are the inferno of modern dating. Yes, two people have casual sex with each other, but they are not dating; yes, they may be caught doing activities that normal committed couples do, but meeting each other’s friends (or even family) is out of the question. They may be carnally interlinked, but God forbid you double-text them after not receiving an answer to a previous message (“Don’t pressure me. I’m going through a lot.”). And so, while emotions may be acknowledged, they are never fully addressed; and lest one of them (usually the one not in love) be scared off, the other lingers in that gray zone, convincing their friends (but primarily themselves) that “we’re just taking things slow to see where it goes.” But why settle for breadcrumbs when you could have an entire, fresh loaf? It’s clear that we are shifting away from the traditional order of things, and commitment is seen as nothing but a liability —an encumbrance. And through these situationships, we subconsciously normalize the cheating culture. “It’s not cheating if we’re not exclusive,” seems a convenient justification nowadays. “We were on a break!” Ross Geller surely murmurs to himself for the umpteenth time.
And speaking of Ross and Rachel from Friends, unfortunately, pop culture has done nothing but perpetuate a fantasy —dangerous at that— where toxicity is glamorized and viewed through rose-tinted glasses. Whether we go back to Heathcliff and Catherine in 19th-century England or look at the examples of Nate and Maddy on Euphoria, we are collectively fed a narrative where love is equated with something turbulent —a fervent passion often accompanied by pain, whether physical or emotional. It sets unhealthy standards that expand our tolerances in the most wrong ways possible. And while older people repeat that despite the occasional struggles, which are natural, love is something calm and serene, we mistake red flags for passion and drama for undeniable chemistry. Each text, TikTok repost, like, and silence is taken as a mixed signal that leans on the positive side. This leads us to the other problem: social media.
Soft launches and hard launches; thirst traps and cuffing seasons. Green flags and red flags; love bombing, talking stages, and rizzing. Had I not been brought up with social media and had this vocabulary not been integrated into mine gradually, I would have found it very annoying and impossible to know all of it by heart. We trudge through a period of carefully curated Instagram highlights, where people feed their personal lives to the hungry eyes of their viewers. Couples monitor each other’s locations and online activities, and each like, follow, and comment becomes a subject of dissection. Not just within the two, but also within each other’s friend groups. Unwarranted third opinions are heard, and conspiring theories are formed. This constant surveillance breeds mistrust, and the couples’ fights are reminiscent of those of a cat and a mouse. TikTok has given the ground to self-proclaimed dating coaches to hand out their also unwarranted advice, reinforcing toxic stereotypes and giving simple solutions that are rephrased with unnecessarily complex words. Worst of all, they generalize all relationships, which makes their advice dooming; after all, each case is unique, and not everything (even a general truth) might work for people the same.
How is it possible that every ex is a “narcissist” and each disagreement is a serious case of “manipulation” on your partner’s behalf? In the age of Instagram/TikTok therapists (as if the dating gurus were not enough), our everyday vernacular thrives with words such as gaslighting, trauma bonding, a list of attachment styles disclosed (are you anxious, avoidant, or secure?), toxicity, and boundaries. Surely, we are now able to articulate our feelings and experiences more accurately, but while validating, this pseudo-psychology we so willingly absorb also simply allows us to pathologize others, to just define their actions, and allow us to fall into this zone of victimhood with zero regard to reality. Why should one bother to confront the imperfections of an actual relationship when we can just call our significant other one of the aforementioned and call it a day?
Armed with a lexicon of terms we don’t truly comprehend while we wait for our low-commitment, on-and-off situationship to view our carefully curated IG story we posted specifically for them to see, Carrie’s cosmo-fueled dreams of love seem like a distant dream. But amidst this chaos, I find a beacon of hope. By setting aside our devices for a bit and taking a moment away from this truly hellish dating scene, we realize that love, or simply a genuine connection, is not found in romanticized toxic narratives, Instagram likes, or even in the long hours waiting for a text back. It’s something that takes mutual effort to build and sustain, a rather messy but rewarding ordeal that’s always worth it.
And so, in true Carrie Bradshaw style, as I sit in front of my laptop’s screen and type away, I couldn’t help but wonder… in a world where we’re constantly left on read, will we ever find the courage to write our love story? Or will the ghosts of the past keep us from turning the page?
Reference
- The Public and Online Dating in 2024. SSRS. Available here
