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So I did what any solo twenty-something guy would do: I installed Tinder on my mom’s phone and asked her to find me a date. It's a warm late-summer night in New York's West Village, and I'm on my way to rendezvous with a woman I met on the Internet.

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(We met in person and then reconnected via Twitter DM, a romantic device my mom is definitely not yet familiar with.) We don't live in the same place, and we aren't dating, though we try to see each other when we can.

We're good where we are, and happy not to define it.

Every date and relationship starts with some form of flirtation, whether it’s a smile across a room, the brush of a hand on the armrest next to you, or witty back-and-forth banter at a bar.

The excited butterflies form in your stomach and your heart begins to beat faster — yea, there are few things better in life than a good flirting session.

("I think you can't find love just by swiping," my wise mom had said.) It was never going to work. When this was all over and, a few weeks later, I re-downloaded Tinder to take some snapshots of my mom's conversation with Anna for this story, she was nowhere to be found.

Maybe she deleted the app—or maybe, in a karmic twist that was almost too perfect, I'd just been I thought about how easy it is to pop out of an i Phone and back into the real world, to flicker back and forth from 2D to 3D and back again. I wondered if nowadays, with an endless stream of people to be right-swiped into your life, you would notice the guy on the yearbook staff who drives you to a meeting on a snowy day—or would you be in the passenger seat, swiping through pictures of thirsty dudes you don't even know?

The plan all along was to tell her that it had actually been my mom talking to her, using my Tinder, but I very quickly had a crisis of conscience.

I realized that many people do use the app as a means of connecting with new people (with success!

She'd arranged the meeting through Tinder, I heard my mom's voice in the back of my head from a few days earlier.

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