I Swipe Left On Every Man Who Uses This Word In His Dating Profile. I Finally Figured Out Why.

I was sitting on my couch, curled into a fleece blanket with my knees tucked under my chin. It was that sweet spot in my day: the time I’m willing to lose a little sleep to enjoy. Thirty minutes before the neighbourhood wakes up. That quiet, wonderfully wasted half hour of morning me time.

Instagram? Facebook? Check. Trump still breaking democracy? Unfortunately. Tinder? With my phone in one hand, coffee in the other, I systematically pore through the information world. Most mornings, this ritual is uneventful. But that day, I dismissed an entire category of men before finishing my first sip. 

“Why do all the hot ones have to be outdoorsy?” I thought.

I’ve been Tindering off and on for four years, and I have noticed some trends. Actually, trends might be code for “peeves.” And peeves are personal. Some people never notice a shirt tag. Others cut it out immediately. Things that bother us get loud. For me, Tinder gets loud with the following: fish, cars, shirtless selfies, “no drama” and tacos. “Outdoorsy” was the last to join the list.

I have my reasons for writing all these guys off. Fish pictures say, “I could’ve provided for you in hunter-gatherer times.” Cars say, “I’m overcompensating.” If he’s shirtless, you can bet he’ll tell you he’s into natural beauty while posing like a fitness influencer. “No drama” says, “I drive women crazy and I’m not emotionally supportive.” Tacos? Are great, but loving them is not a personality. Give me ants on a log or lentils or literally anything else.

But “outdoorsy” confused me. I didn’t want to date them, but I couldn’t explain why.

There’s a whole genre of men who proudly label themselves “outdoorsy.” These profiles are a predictable cocktail of backcountry hiking shots, summit selfies and sometimes a kayak. They mention biking and climbing and use phrases like “seeking a partner in crime” for weekend adventures, which usually translate to someone equally fit, active and down for anything. You get the sense they’re not looking for connection so much as someone who will match their pace up a hill and not ask for emotional terrain maps. 

When a guy says he’s outdoorsy, I hear: adrenaline highs, expensive gear, constant movement, a lifestyle built around pushing limits. I also hear something quieter. We talk about outdoorsy people like they’re aspirational: fit, adventurous, whole. There’s a pride in being outdoorsy, a kind of status boost.

We’ve created a whole dating culture around lifestyle presentation, and what gets idealised is rarely rest. Or joy. Or creativity. It’s motion, energy, visual proof of success. Which often means: money, health, mobility and. let’s be honest, thinness. That makes sense in a way; dating apps mirror the same hierarchies we see everywhere else. And in that context, desirability isn’t just personal taste; it’s a reflection of who gets prioritized in the broader culture. 

There’s nothing inherently wrong with being outdoorsy. But when that becomes the default ideal, it sends a quiet message about who belongs and who doesn’t. People without the budget for gear or weekend trips. People with chronic pain or mobility limits. People who just like being home. There’s no equivalent wave of “indoorsy” profiles looking for someone to hang out and split snacks with on the couch.

That Christmas, I bought a crewneck sweatshirt. It read: “indoorsy.” The first night I wore it, I went out to a bar and ran into my friend Jeff. Jeff is outdoorsy. Definitely outdoorsy.

We sat down. I took off my jacket. He saw the sweatshirt.

“Indoorsy?! What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I take pleasure in being inside,” I said. “Inside has a lot to offer.”

Jeff stared. I pushed on. “Creative people often prefer the indoors.”

I was waiting for a nod, a simple, “OK, fair.” Instead, Jeff called his friend over to back him up. He pointed at my sweatshirt like it was a threat.

“When you see this, what do you think?” Jeff asked. Then he fed his friend ideas like: lazy, Netflix, binge watching, delivery apps. That moment told me everything. Outdoorsy wasn’t just a lifestyle. It was a value, a virtue. And indoorsy? That was a slur.

But there’s no inherent moral value to whether or not you enjoy rock climbing or a difficult hike. For all the curated flair, a picture of a tent in your profile doesn’t mean you’re grounded. A passport stamp doesn’t mean you know where you’re going. 

The great outdoors has plenty to offer. But so do the great indoors.

I’m indoorsy because, given the free time, I’d rather paint than hike. I like making lemon zest more than jogging down the street. I love the way sunset hits my kitchen table, casting a beam across my cat’s whiskers. I stretch on my yoga mat with a podcast in the background. I’m surrounded by clay, engraving tools, wire. If you ask me to go birdwatching, I might not hear you over the piano I’m playing. If you want to play a game, come over for Risk. Bring your tarot cards. My people are out there. The next time I wore that sweatshirt, a friend said, “Indoorsy? That’s cute. I love that.” He’s creative; he cooks, films, teaches improv, hosts game nights. I smiled. 

Maybe embracing the label is more than a joke. Maybe it’s an act of resistance against the aspirational performance of dating apps, a quiet challenge to the idea that we have to prove ourselves through action and adventure (and money and social status). 

Maybe saying I’m “indoorsy” is just saying: I’m here. I’m real. And I’m enough, even when I’m still. 

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