Do not mock the humanitarians of Tinder. Do not resent them, or be horrified by them, or assume that the images they have posted to a proximity-based hookup app are specimens of white privilege or liberal guilt or thoughtless violation of the categorical imperative.
Instead, celebrate the humanitarians of Tinder! Revel in the complexity they are attempting to bring to a smartphone-enabled dating culture whose sexual-economic logic is otherwise stark! Admire the layers of humanity these people are trying to bring to Tinder's two-dimensional approach to romance!
Do, in other words, what Walt Whitman would do: honor these young, striving souls. Appreciate them for their nuance, for their earnestness, for their insistence that sex and love and hunger and generosity are tangled together in the messy web we clumsily shorthand as "the human experience." Celebrate the multitudes they contain. Join them as they take to their iPhones, share their bodies electric, and sing songs of themselves.
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I believe in those wing’d purposes,
And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me,
And consider green and violet and the tufted crown intentional,
And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something else,
And the jay in the woods never studied the gamut, yet trills pretty well to me,
And the look of the bay mare shames silliness out of me.