“He wore flip-flops…to dinner!” The girls around the table nod knowingly as we dissect the night, instantly recognizing this near-universal ick as irredeemable, foreclosing any possibility of a second date. But flip-flop offenders are only the beginning. In their wake trails a lengthy catalogue of other icks, ranging from the seemingly innocuous – wearing skinny jeans or using an umbrella in the rain (one should simply evade the water) – to more substantial character flaws, such as disrespecting restaurant staff or lacking basic communication skills.
Not all icks are created equal, and of course, they shouldn’t be treated as such. In this respect, the term ‘ick’ is something of a misnomer: traits like bravado, poor communication, and abrasiveness are not trivial turn-offs but genuine red flags. While there are no hard-and-fast rules about whether these qualities warrant a breakup or maybe just a difficult conversation, they undeniably speak volumes about the person you’re with.
Still, a dilemma remains at the heart of ick culture. Can fashion faux pas, alongside being rude to waitstaff, really be classified as an ick? Although the word “ick” has earned its place in the dating lexicon, the idea is highly subjective in both definition and consequence. So what do we do when the ick reveals itself? Do we quietly file it away in a mental checklist and press on, or does the ick itself justify a breakup? While established relationships tend to relegate icks to the periphery, those still in the talking stage often choose the latter. Once an ick takes root, it becomes so firmly ingrained in the mind that no amount of contrary evidence can fully redeem the person in question.
This culture is only magnified in Oxford, where social circles are demarcated by college friend groups with limited crossover between them beyond shared classes. As a graduate student, I’ve drawn a personal distinction between Oxford’s clubbing scene (predominantly undergraduate territory) and its pubs, which offer an alternative but equally viable social landscape and have since become staples of my weekly routine. The result is that I inevitably see the same people again and again.
So after fielding my mother’s weekly phone calls asking whether I’ve “found a boyfriend yet”, I started examining Oxford men under a microscope. Perhaps this is merely the unavoidable consequence of attending a university in a small city. When you encounter the same faces day after day, even the most carefully constructed facade begins to fray, and any potential ick becomes magnified. Jumping over a large puddle? Ick. Sending a barrage of inexplicable emojis? Ick. Some people (my mother, the self-appointed ringleader) would call this picky. Preposterous, even.
Writing someone off for some objectively trivial offence may seem an act of self-sabotage, a tailspin of masochism, which only narrows the already limited dating pool. And, whilst I agree that this reflex should probably warrant some self-reflection, it’s equally possible that TikTok-induced ick culture (Ick-Tok?) is simply giving language to female intuition. That inexplicable knot in your stomach when a guy looks perfect on paper, yet something deep in your gut remains unconvinced.
And yes, it may have become a hackneyed phrase, but female intuition is rarely wrong. Maybe icks are simply a manifestation of the intuitive sense that you don’t like someone, even when you can’t point to a single, tangible reason why. I once went on a first date with a guy who did everything right: he opened the car door, paid for drinks, and asked thoughtful questions. Yet when I debriefed the night with my older sister, I found myself enumerating a series of small icks. I conceded that I was probably being immature or overblown, but she reframed it: if I actually liked him, I wouldn’t scrutinize his behavior so closely. This insight gets to the crux of ick culture: sometimes it’s difficult to admit you don’t like someone who has done nothing wrong. Instead, we latch onto minor quirks or habits and label them as icks, allowing us to justify that feeling without having to name it.
The whole debate surrounding the ‘ick factor’ reflects a much older pattern of casting women as dramatic, overzealous, overly ‘emotional’. In fact, we’ve been socialized to distrust our gut reactions, in case they are dismissed as irrational or excessive. What emerges is ick-culture, cloaked in TikTok trends and viral language, functioning as a proxy for intuition. Rather than relying on an abstract gut feeling to end a relationship or forgo a second date, we point to specific behaviors, however trivial, to legitimize our decision. Ironically, this reliance on surface-level flaws often reinforces the very stereotype it’s meant to counter: that women are too dramatic. In the end, it’s a zero-sum game.
So perhaps the discourse around the ick and the readiness to label women as hypercritical deserves deeper scrutiny as yet another incarnation of a misogynistic script. And maybe it’s not the flip-flops themselves that provoke such disdain, but the accumulation of micro-signals leading up to them, with the footwear being merely the icing on the cake.
That said, flip-flops at dinner should still be absolutely avoided.
