time spent offline

“Whagwan, sweetie!” It’s a Friday night, I’m downtown walking to catch the streetcar while fumbling with the Hoopla app on my phone to find a song that has randomly started playing in my head: Welcome to Heartbreak. Hoopla is of no use; I can’t find the dirty version and the clean version usually makes me unreasonably angry. If I were on Spotify, I could have what I want when I want it but I have made my peace with my choices a long time ago and I settle for the next best thing I can find: Ready to Die. [Parental Advisory Explicit Content] I look up following the sound— Whagwan, sweetie. I’m caught off guard; these things rarely happen anymore, and the only person randomly calling out at you on the streets is disheveled, and properly and obviously unwell. Everybody knows to ignore these people; to look away, through them, and keep walking. I make eye contact and I giggle.

There is a part of me that is utterly delighted to have this silly encounter, this random attention from a random stranger. I’m surrounded by many strangers, the city overflowing with them, but we rarely acknowledge one another, we rarely pay attention, and when the online surveys ask how we feel, we say we are lonely. He continues, “Yo, come here,” it’s direct, directive, playful—  Nostalgic. I continue giggling, walking away. This interaction is the IRL equivalent of swiping left on the apps, but there’s eye contact, audacity, laughter involved. It’s real. Before the internet, before the dating apps and the people that lived inside our pockets, all attention required reality.

That Sunday, on the subway ride home after dinner I tell the story from that silly encounter on Friday. “So, I got catcalled Friday,” I begin. I say it like it’s the best thing that has happened to me all year long; I’m all smiles teasing out the punchline: “And it was delightful!” I conclude. Before I even get the last word fully out, she’s all smiles— Nodding, agreeing, our words colliding together. She understands. “Of course I walked away,” I continue, I say it like it’s the most obvious thing, the thing one does when such things happen, duh, “but it’s been so long, and it wasn’t gross or anything,” and we are giggling. Before you know it, you can almost miss the things you used to despise; the thing that used to make you kiss your teeth, roll your eyes, and walk away annoyed and hurriedly. The better friend amongst us kindly reminds us of such things we used to despise, and we listen carefully. Under this silly declaration of such delight lurks a certain desperation.

At dinner, all in agreement of how much dating apps suck, someone asks how my offline dating experiment is going: “That’s the friend I told you we’re going to try offline dating with!” she declares and I begin. It would be easy to huff and puff, to say how hard it is, almost impossible— a fool’s errand— but I hate losing, and nobody likes the sob stories at dinner— It kills the appetite— so I ignore the desperation and tell the table a recent experience I had: “The bus driver gave me his number!” I say it like it’s the best thing that has happened to me all year long; I’m all smiles, daring the table to take the bait, to delight and it is a hit. “Girl! The bus driver!” she’s teasing and we’re all cracking up, our words and laughter colliding together. I egg on; “He said he would take me anywhere I want to go,” and once we’re done with the jokes and banter someone asks if he was cute and if I’m going to text him. By the time I got off the bus, after politely taking his number— not sure in the moment whether I was interested or not, I tell the table I decided I wasn’t interested. Such things disappoint me but I’m grateful for the experience nonetheless. This interaction is the IRL equivalent of swiping left on the apps, but there’s eye contact, audacity, laughter involved.

“A bus driver,” she’s still chuckling from across the table, milking the moment for what it’s worth, and I make my point then: “Well, I met someone offline!” I protest. I’m awfully proud of this feat. Despite the silliness of the whole experience, the way I told it to entertain and delight, I still want it to count, to be counted. This is the second number I have exchanged IRL this year, after declaring I was done with the apps for good, and they said it was impossible. They said I needed the apps, we all do, they said, if I were to meet anyone, anyone at all. Just like they said I needed social media, LinkedIn, a smartphone, and I find out through sheer stubbornness that none of these things are a requirement for living. Nice to have things, sure, convenient and advantageous but not a requirement, not a need. Definitely not enforced by any law of the land, transgression punishable by death, and yet everyone acts like they have no choice except to swipe for love, despite how much everyone hates having to endure scrolling through endless avatars.

I prefer reality. No rhyme and reason, no guarantee, no safety: Awkward reality. One minute I’m annoyed I forgot my bus pass at home and the next minute I’m talking to the bus driver and he’s asking if he can give me his number. He could have been the one. Our conversation leading to that, the ability to connect with another human IRL, is always a welcomed experience I cherish, despite the outcomes, because I don’t have the avatars in my pocket to keep me entertained. Of course, you can’t date offline like you can date on the apps. You can only live; endure and enjoy reality, make yourself available for miracles, and trust the gods will provide. And because all my other decisions to get offline have worked out very well for me thus far, I have no reason not to believe getting off the dating apps will work in my favour as well. As with all things in life, of course, only time will tell.