Swipe Left for the Bund: Confessions of a Shanghai Single

Marriage, they say, is a noble institution, but who wants to live in an institution? And so, we must date.

 

The modern romantic begins by building an online persona so polished it could blind the neon signs on Nanjing Road. Should I use the photo with the tiger at that sketchy Chongqing zoo? Or the one from three years ago, when I still had a jawline and hair? The ladies, of course, face their own dilemmas: Xiaohongshu filter on ‘milky jade skin,’ or go full meiyan until even my mother wouldn’t recognize me? (Spoiler: They choose the latter.) Some opt for the ultimate power move—posting a photo of last night’s omakase at Ultraviolet, paid for by some poor gongwuyuan who didn’t realize he was sponsoring her audition for the next season of ‘If You Are the One.’ 

 

Then comes the big day: your date arrives! She was, naturally, ‘working late’ with a ‘client’ until 4 AM, but she has kindly reserved a Sunday afternoon tea for you—how nice! You arrive, already sweating Monday’s 996 work schedule, only to discover that her profile picture was taken before the 2010 Expo. But no matter—you tell yourself that enough baijiu might make her still look like her Tinder profile picture. (It doesn’t.)  

 

As the xiaolongbao goes cold, so begins the interrogation: “What’s your salary? Do you own property—and no, your shared laopoxiao in Jiading doesn’t count. Why did you come to Shanghai—were you neijuan’ed out of your hometown?” She punctuates each question by flagging down the waiter for another glass of The Great Wall Château (the fake one from Taobao), all while casually mentioning her other dates—their hukou status, their stock portfolios, their performance in certain unspoken areas. At this point, you find yourself weighing two equally appealing exits: a sudden ‘work emergency’ or a dramatic swan dive into the Huangpu River.  

 

Reader, take heed: The road to love in Shanghai is paved with expired didi coupons and broken dreams. If you must walk it, I suggest serious preparation—maybe have your ayi nag you relentlessly, or spend a week trapped in Line 2 at rush hour. Either way, tighten your belt. The dating scene here makes The Art of War read like a children’s book.