I haven’t had Tinder on my phone for probably over a year now. Forgive me for not marking the day I deleted it, but rest assured, it was an important moment for me.

I lost a good deal of weight throughout my college career, and it left me with a bad habit of comparing my physical appearance to almost everyone and everything about me. I was excited about my new body and wanted to show it off to the world.

Where’s the best place to do that? Probably not Tinder.

But the younger me wasn’t so wise. I thought that this newfound version of myself would do great in the world of online dating. I thought I had equipped myself for such an environment. But I didn’t have much luck. In fact, Tinder made me miserable.

I had a difficult time focusing on anything other than my ongoing Tinder conversations. Since matches were so rare, the stakes for every conversation reached a boiling point. If the girl I was talking to decided to stop replying, it might be months before I found another interesting conversation.

All of this was in the back of my mind when I had these conversations, and I worried that others perceived my attempts for genuine connection as a man desperate not to be lonely anymore.

That might come off as a vulnerable thing to say, but that was the fear I had. It’s commonplace for a straight guy to give off the wrong vibe. I’ve heard and seen plenty of Tinder-related horror stories. The villain in these scenarios is almost always the straight guy who’s either misogynistic, selfish, pathetic or some combination of these traits.

It’s a fairly well-deserved criticism of straight men, who have been at the top of the sexual totem pole for too long. Even more frustrating is the straight guy who “isn’t like the other boys.” I’d hate to fall into that stereotype just as much as I’d hate for others to perceive me as an overly-aggressive jerk. Both fall into the same category of selfishness.

While I had Tinder, every buzz on my phone was a heart attack. My romantic fate constantly felt as though it were in jeopardy. The next notification could be the start of a years-long relationship or another case of a minor, but still profound heartbreak.

So I got rid of the app. I got rid of comparing myself to everyone else. I got rid of the virtue-signaling that comes hand-in-hand with writing a bio that lists every attractive thing about yourself while downplaying the negative aspects or perhaps acknowledging them in a self-deprecating but funny and hopefully attractive way.

I decided instead to throw myself into my interests with the hope that sooner or later, by pursuing these interests, I’ll run into someone who shares them, and maybe something magical will happen.

To be clear, this is not a condemnation of dating apps, nor is it a critique of those who use them. I’m sure there are plenty of people out there who have found love, peace and security by meeting someone perfect for them through these platforms.

But for me, I’m not really a “six pics and a bio” kinda guy. And I’ve learned to love that aspect of myself.

Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone.