All images by the author.
I’ll admit—it felt unreasonably strange to text my friends asking for a blind date setup.
Not because I’m too shy, but because it simply doesn’t happen anymore in the dating app era.
Since my last relationship a year ago, I’ve tried hopping on and off dating apps. I’ve never been a fan, and most of my friends know it. Still, one of them persuaded me to try, calling it “a way of putting yourself out there.”
And it’s true. Putting yourself out there online is now the standard.
In Singapore, 36 percent of Gen Z residents and 42 percent of Millennial residents have used a dating app before. Online channels are now the number one way people in Singapore meet their partners.
Strangely, however, I get the sense that even though a good number of us are ‘on the apps’—as they say—few really enjoy it. Dating app horror stories are a dime a dozen. More and more young people are suffering from dating app disillusionment. Swiping through dating apps is hard.
But so is meeting someone offline. And so we swipe numbly, hoping to make a connection that will deliver us from dating app purgatory.
Over the past year, however, dating has felt less like a search for real emotional connection and more like LinkedIn meets Pokémon Go. A game of date fast, not date to last.
This new norm behind a screen made me more visible than ever, but less emotionally vulnerable. Ironically, I felt everywhere but ‘out there’.
So I decided to do something different. To try what a fellow RICE writer jokingly called “traditional blind dating”. The aim? To see if it’s possible, in this day and age, to build a connection offline. And, perhaps, along the way, I’ll find out whether Gen Z’s general fear of meeting someone without perusing their profile first is unfounded.
A Not-So-Blind Lead-Up
I luck out when JJ, a close friend of mine, says she’s found someone “not opposed to” entertaining my antics.
She tells me Rachel* likes plays and films, and that she went on exchange to Europe. JJ also puts a hard embargo on mentioning my age early into the date, because I’m a year younger than Rachel.
(Full disclosure: Rachel is aware that I’m going to write about our date, and she’s cool with it. She has asked to remain anonymous, though.)
JJ’s mini intel briefing has me in stitches. I didn’t expect her to play cupid for me so thoroughly, especially for such an off-the-cuff request. It’s a small thing, but it stuck with me. JJ’s put more care into my dating life than I have in months
Swiping on profiles hasn’t just embedded a quantity-over-quality mentality into me; it’s also dulled my own instincts of what it means to genuinely click with someone. It makes me wonder why I would even trust an algorithm over a friend to matchmake me in the first place.
I don’t want to let JJ’s efforts go to waste, so I spend an embarrassing amount of time ruminating on the best place to have our little blind date.
What food might Rachel like? What about a cat cafe? Is she allergic to cat fur? Should I pack an EpiPen? I quickly realise it’s a fruitless endeavour to curate a perfect first date experience with someone who’s technically a complete stranger.
Perhaps the allure of dating apps for so many Singaporeans comes from the ability to ‘screen’ potential matches. There’s also the illusion of control—you get to curate the first impression that other people see.
I decide that it’s time to stop marinating in my thoughts, and on instinct, send Rachel a text asking if she’d like to have lunch at Swee Choon, my favourite dim sum place in town. I figured that sharing good food is always a decent start.
Dim Sum Dating
I feel the nerves wash over me on the way to Jalan Besar.
It’s been a few months since I last went out with someone. But the jitters don’t just come from rustiness, but also the lack of preamble. Whether I’ve met a person on an app or not, I usually text them for a week or two before asking them out. Knowing nearly nothing about Rachel feels paralysing.
She arrives before I can spiral too deeply. We exchange warm hellos, acknowledge how mildly absurd this is, and walk to the restaurant.
But once we sit down, I feel the anxiety start to boil over inside me. I find myself zig-zagging across a myriad of conversation topics, scrambling to connect the dots between us.
We ping-pong between our views on our times abroad, on-campus experiences at university, and internships in creative industries.
At one point, my brain decides to fry mid-sentence, and she finishes my thoughts for me.
I hadn’t realised how much dating apps had flattened the spontaneity of conversation. Online, you get to pause and curate your charm. In person, you don’t have the luxury of deleting a sentence before you send it.
The conversation eventually shifts to our love lives.
Both of us have only really been in one prior relationship. But while I’ve been “putting myself out there”, Rachel’s taken a more passive approach.
“My social circle has a lot of strong personalities and many friends who are single,” she says. “I suppose I never really felt the pressure.”
On the flipside, many of my closest mates are coupled up. The contrast makes me wonder: since when did I start trying to live life in the fast lane?
I’ve always felt comfortable with my singlehood. But maybe I’ve started digging harder because I still subconsciously envy those around me who’ve settled into a partnership. Or at the very least, I feel a need to match them.
As she takes a bite into her carrot cake, I look at the custard spilling out of my liu sha bao, quietly contemplating her personal independence. I suppose I’ve lost sight of what it means to feel settled with myself, just a little bit.
As we go to settle the bill, it hits me: “Crap, I forgot to take photos.”
She chuckles. “Yeah, I noticed.”
Coffee and Contemplation
We’re midway through the date, and it’s going alright so far. In fact, it feels so normal that I wonder why many of my Gen Z peers never venture beyond swiping dating apps.
Even when we hit a small speed bump—the cat cafe we rock up to doesn’t take walk-ins—we shrug it off.
It’s a rookie mistake on my part, but Rachel suggests another spot instead. Wandering between the nooks and crannies of Jalan Besar’s shophouses, we come across a humble hole-in-the-wall cafe.
As the cafe door closes, it feels as if the cacophonic hustle and bustle of the street is left behind. It’s unexpectedly soundproof inside. The air feels calmer.
We settle in and browse the menu. She tells me she fancies sweet coffees more than tea.
“I’m guessing mochas?”
“And lattes too,” she adds with a smile and a nod.
Unlike at Swee Choon, where I was trying to fish for our common preferences, this small interaction gives me a stronger inkling of her palate.
Unlike most of my previous dates—especially the ones initiated through apps—there was no backlog of conversations to refer to, nor was there any profile to live up to.
The pace of online courtship made me forget that compatibility doesn’t come by simply flattening conversations into our common denominators, but by discovering our differences. Apps prime you to look for overlap; blind dates leave room for discovery.
By starting with nothing, you have to lead with genuine curiosity about the other person. And there’s something refreshing about that.
As we sit with our lattes, we take our time mulling over stories on our creative ambitions, the plays, shows, and films we loved growing up, and the families and friendships that moulded who we are today.
It feels like we’ve shed the first date vibe. And I forgot to take photos. Again.
Because for what feels like the first time in a year, I find myself truly present on an outing. Eventually, the ice in our glasses fully melts. Nearly two hours have passed us by.
We step outside, chatting all the way back to the MRT station, as I clip some photos on the way so you can read this with something to look at.
Why We Swipe
Back at the office, I lay on the couch staring at the ceiling, mentally replaying the afternoon.
There is no grand revelation. Nor is it a life-changing date. But the afternoon with Rachel still feels special. After all, it’s the first time in a long time that I’ve had a date that didn’t begin in a text bubble.
To be clear, I’m not here to declare dating apps the death of romance. For many in Singapore, they’ve become the default option, not because we necessarily want to, but because meeting people offline feels increasingly implausible.
It feels almost like a vicious cycle: The more we use apps, the less comfortable we are making spontaneous connections IRL. The very thing we long for—organic, unplanned chemistry—starts to feel more and more elusive.
I don’t think Gen Z has forgotten how to date offline, but we’re certainly not great at it. We’ve grown so used to controlling the terms of connection—stalking social media profiles, filtering each other by hobbies and height—that the uncertainty of a blind date feels anxiety-inducing.
Maybe we don’t need to delete the apps. But we do need to remember what it feels like to meet someone with a fresh slate and walk into something unscripted.
As I write this, JJ sends me a text: “How did it go?”
I grin at her earnestness to see the fruits of her labour.
Sometimes, blind faith to try it out with someone might be all you need. That, and a friend eager to play Cupid.
*Name has been changed for privacy
