Several weeks ago, Bumble rolled out some of the funniest and most relatable advertising I’ve ever seen — if only for anyone who’s ever been human, single, and horny.

It was a commercial+billboard campaign along the following storyline: girl gets frustrated with dating rigmarole, girl joins nunnery, girl lusts for handsome gardener, fellow nun slips her a phone open to Bumble. A nationwide campaign followed with: “You know full well a vow of celibacy is not the answer.”

“Full well.” Brilliant.

(As usual, decision makers on both sides of the aisle went crazy).

In response to the outcry Bumble pulled their ads and published a mea culpa. Hail Marys were uttered and penance was granted via donations to domestic abuse hotlines and contributions to other marginalized groups.

Which according to Eventbrite’s 2024 Dating Report, was too little, too late.

The word on the street lately is that people are dropping the apps in droves in favor of face-to-face connection.

Looking to investigate this phenomenon myself, I bravely put on pants and left my house after dark. 30 minutes in I found myself making a mental list of other places I’d rather be— digging a trench, practicing weighted kegels, and unclogging my shower drain.

When I couldn’t stand the tension any longer (I swear you could cut it with a knife in that near-empty room), I bit the bullet and went up to a stringy, sad-looking specimen staring with laser-like intensity at his phone.

I asked him dutifully if he’d like to sit with my group (“as he waited for his friends to arrive,” I added). He might as well have pulled out a rape whistle, except — the music was so loud you could hardly hear your own bitter thoughts, let alone a lone incel’s cry for help.

I handled his rejection with grace, however, dutifully returning to the seven other geriatrics in the corner, self-quarantining on the only surface in the room that remained dry (Gen Z is notoriously bad at holding it’s liquor).

Alone but together we all bobbed listlessly to the ear-splitting music, maintaining a 6-foot distance from each other so as not to risk eye contact or some other social disease. Together but alone we rued the decades of dating mistakes that had brought us here, to this place on this night.

The other day I pored over a Forbes poll that reported the majority of singles today a) think dating was easier before the pandemic but b) crave relationships just as much as before.

I’m not sure how much “harder” dating is now as a result of the pandemic. Maybe we’re all just 4 years older (and a whole lot grouchier). And while there are unprecedented levels of political and existential suspicion, trauma, isolation, and polarization in the mix —

I’m left wondering if anything in life gets easier with age beyond learning how to say, “no.”

In psychology, we’re often taught that all-or-nothing thinking is a trauma response, a distorted binary of the world in which the full locus of human experience is reduced to two cognitive extremes — good and bad.

And while we can all agree that there’s no shortage of trauma to go around — romantic or otherwise — I don’t think we should lose our sense of humor over it.

As it goes in the Cole Porter song, “Don’t take it serious, life’s too mysterious.”

Bumble is a highly imperfect tool but a valuable one if you’re still in denial over the fact that every one of us must, in fact, die alone.

Which is to say that as single as I am right now, with my eggs (and my high hopes) on ice in a lab in Chelsea, I’m still keeping the faith with Bumble and with “maybe.”

It’s the sweet whisper of “maybe” that’ll have me and my fellow involuntary celibates back on Bumble before the month is out; the gentle murmur of “maybe” that will have me reworking my profile (maybe even with current pictures this time); and the quiet promise of “maybe” that will get me to give the apps that hurt me yet another chance.

So as I dream of a newer and brighter dating future for every one of us, I’ll close with a toast: “Next year… next year… may (we all) be off Bumble for good.”