Help, our children are on Tinder!
Our junior's new, great love lasted just six months. And bang, from one day to the next, he was first shot at and then shot down by her. Done. Finished. Over. The fact that this break-up coincided almost simultaneously with the end of our daughter's relationship with her boyfriend - and even more so during lockdown - has temporarily put the emotional balance in our household in a somewhat precarious position.
While the little daughter chooses to talk to her friends and ponder why the end was drawn and tries to use the solo time that has now begun to come to terms with herself, the son takes a different approach. Distraction is the name of the game. I nod and basically think it's a good idea.
I enthusiastically suggest leaving the pain behind, at least in the meantime, and making new friends, be it on a warm evening by the lake, during a cinema break or at a distance at the bar. «Mum,» groans Junior, rolling his iris under his eyelid, «that's so yesterday's news. Our generation uses Tinder!» Tinder? «My children are on Tinder?» I exclaim in horror. «Only one,» echoes back immediately from my daughter's locked room.
Tinder market equals cattle market
I grew up in a village in Graubünden where a cattle market was held every year. Farmers from all over the valley and the surrounding mountain hills drove their most beautiful cows to present them on the market meadow. It wasn't just the horns, coats and udders of the cattle that shone, but also the noses and eyes of the farmers, at least the longer the market and the day lasted and the more schnapps was used to seal successful sales deals.
«The principle is similar on Tinder,» I explain to the boy, «the only thing that matters here is looks. If you don't like the nose, you swipe left, but if you like the eyes, swipe right.» I don't need to explain the principle to him, the boy replies, he already knows exactly what he's getting into here. And superficial things can also take place in a dusty old-age disco.
I see. And so I have the Tinder app explained to me by my boy who pays attention to inner values. I create my own profile: Profession, sport, hobby, etc., all as favourable as possible (this increases the market value), but also fairly realistic (this saves possible disappointment on the first date). Add a few meaningful photos and a few desirable criteria that describe the future partner, such as age, gender, distance, etc., to name just the more harmless ones.
And then all sorts of splendid profiles pop up that could suit you. And - fortunately, this is where equality comes in - both sides are judged equally. So it's not just the boy who hearts or says «nope» to his suggestions, but the Tinder girl on the other side hearts or says no to our junior. The cows and calves at the cattle market should have been offered that too!
Match, chat and meet, yeah!
I now also quickly recognise the typical hand gesture. «You're tindering again,» I say to my son at lunch when he only needs his mobile phone for a quick check of an important message at the table.
Haha, for once! Of course he has his tactics here, he's long known about his mum's curiosity, so he replies curtly: «Did you know that Antonia is on Tinder?» He holds his mobile phone in front of my face and I recognise the daughter of a friend. «Gosh,» I say, «you could talk to her directly, you don't need an app for that!» He grins: «Mum, you don't understand. This is about distraction, a kind of self-confidence booster, easy from the sofa.»
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Tinder as a heartbreaker? Tinder as a painkiller? «Just no more relationships!» he moans. But hasn't he just been chatting with a match? She would like to meet him, but don't worry, it's definitely not going to be serious! «Mum, is that cool shirt in the wash? I really need it today!» Oh, haven't I heard that before?
