To the deep conversations we never have.

 

I’m trying to get outside the house more—

to meet new people,

to make new connections,

to expand my opportunities.

 

And one of the ways I’ve been doing this is by participating in events organised by gay groups on Meetup.

One of the most recent ones I went to was a picnic at Carlton Gardens during the Easter Saturday long weekend.

 

I didn’t have much expectation when I got there.

And I did have mixed feelings about it.

 

It was good, in the sense that we were able to talk and mingle with a lot of different people.

The event host encouraged us to get up every 30 minutes or so,

to talk to someone new,

to shift into different groups,

and we just… started talking.

 

But what I found—

and I should have expected—

was that every time you meet someone new,

you have to reintroduce yourself.

 

What’s your name?

Have you been to events like this before?

What nationality are you?

How long have you lived in Australia?

What are your interests? Your hobbies?

 

The event went for four hours.

And afterwards, on my way home, I counted how many people I’d talked to.

 

Eighteen.

 

That’s eighteen times I had to say who I am, what I do, what I like.

Eighteen mini versions of myself,

cut, pasted, passed around.

 

And it was—honestly—exhausting.

 

I do thrive on one-on-one connection,

peeling back the layers of someone,

getting to the core of their personality.

 

And to speed through people like this,

to graze across the surface over and over again,

was definitely not something I’m used to.

 

In the end,

I didn’t feel like I’d connected with anyone on a level that made me want to exchange contact information.

I’m sure the people I met are sophisticated and layered.

But the amount of time we’re given—

it’s just not enough to really see someone.

 

Even the ones who might’ve been a potential match,

I wouldn’t have known.

Because we never got there.

We never reached that level of intimacy.

 

But I did walk away with something valuable.

 

Towards the end of the get-together, a few of us were chatting about dating apps.

Someone mentioned one I’d never heard of before—

Hinge.

 

So, like the curious gremlin that I am,

I went home, checked out the app,

created a profile.

 

And honestly?

I was surprised.

It’s not like Grindr or Jack’d.

 

Everything about Hinge feels intentional.

 

They make you upload at least six photos of yourself—so no blank profiles.

You’re required to fill out prompts, ones that actually encourage conversation.

And the way each profile is set up—

it’s like a photo album,

sprinkled with little texts,

little insights into a person’s world.

 

It’s beautiful.

It’s refreshing.

It works.

 

So far, I’ve had a few meaningful conversations with people I probably wouldn’t have reached otherwise.

 

So would I go to another event like that picnic again?

Probably not.

 

But then again—

it depends on how I’m feeling that day.

 

Either way, it’s still a win

 

because I found out about the Hinge app,

another tool in my pocket,

for this muddy, confusing, occasionally beautiful landscape

we all call dating.