The paradox of modern dating is that no one wants to be on the apps, but they are increasingly the only viable way to meet people.
In my 30s, I’m not old by any stretch of the imagination, but I don’t go out as much as I used to, so it’s harder to meet people organically and fewer people approach others these days.
So you’re stuck in this depressing loop of swiping, unstimulating chit-chat and bad first dates, and I should know; I’ve been using Hinge, Bumble and similar apps for most of my adult life.
Because of the nature of these platforms, it feels like everyone you interact with is just one of many “options”, someone disposable you owe absolutely nothing to.
Throw in the exorbitant cost of living, especially for us single folk, and things become dire. Romance goes out the window, as people won’t pay even £20 to spend time with someone they’re only lukewarm about.
And if you somehow move past the first few dates, you feel locked in, whether you’re right for each other or not, because of the emotional (and financial) investment you’ve made. It’s the classic sunk-cost fallacy.
This summer, for example, I considered sticking it out with a match because we had been on nine or so dates and I’d spent money on a restaurant meal (something I rarely can afford these days). But then I reminded myself that staying with a man I wasn’t into because I’d spent £100 on small plates was even more moronic than spending £100 on small plates in the first place.
That said, are we missing a trick if we’re not willing to invest in our love lives at all?
I have been using the free versions of these apps and have written before about my scepticism about paying for premium subscriptions. But am I unwittingly taking myself out of the running to save a couple of quid?
That’s why I decided to throw money at the problem: subscribing to premium features in the hope of securing some dates and potentially even my future husband.
The test
I upgraded to HingeX for £49.99 per month. The bundle lets you send unlimited likes, see who’s liked you, and add advanced filters, including age, height and family plans.
Next, I bumped up to Bumble Premium for £19.99. Like Hinge, you get access to all your admirers, unlimited likes to dish out, and you can rematch and extend timed-out conversations to your heart’s content.
Finally, I went upmarket and bought myself a Raya+ membership, which, for those of you who don’t know, is kind of like the Soho House of dating apps.
The advanced membership option costs £44.99 and lets you see who’s liked you, access a larger pool of singletons and see members further afield. Celebrities and public figures use it too, which draws many people in, though not me personally.
I then set myself the challenge of spending an hour every day on these apps.
Through profile prompts, Hinge encourages users to think outside the box and show their personality.
The trouble is, however, far too many people copy each other’s answers, resulting in cookie-cutter responses. (The gall of the men who demand that women be funny, intelligent, active and sexy when the most interesting thing about them is that they spend Sundays eating roasts and watching Formula 1.)
Then there’s the quality of the matches themselves. While you may get the odd attractive match with engaging, thoughtful answers, large swathes of users – usually the ones Hinge tells you you are “most compatible” with – tend to be... well, odd.
I don’t just mean looks; many send creepy chat-up lines and others look like they’re possessed by a demon. It’s truly depressing at times.
On Bumble, long-standing bugbears of mine were the time limits and the expectation that women had to make the first move. Setting up a date is difficult enough without those added barriers, and women are often forced to hold one-sided conversations on these platforms as it is, so having the onus on us was draining.
I was heartened to hear a few months ago that they were getting rid of that silly rule and had also extended the reply window from 24 to 72 hours. Even so, I don’t gel with this app. It probably has the most attractive users, but everything on the platform seems designed to keep you from meeting someone.
Despite what I said earlier, I have to admit: nothing gets the pulse racing more than casually stumbling upon an A-list actor on Raya, except perhaps the idea that those A-list actors have seen your profile, too. But once you get past feeling starstruck and match with regular men (by that, I mean hedge fund managers who DJ on the side), things tend to get pretty monotonous.
You might talk to a man for a while who, in his pictures, poses on a yacht in the Mediterranean or enjoys a touch of après-ski in Courchevel, but the reality is he spends most of his time doing just that. You can never meet up because he’s never in your country.
You can run into many of these issues with the free or basic versions of these apps. But when you pay for a “premium” subscription, you expect more. You feel you should receive a better experience, more matches and a higher chance of securing a date because these companies claim you paid for the privilege.
I noticed I initially received more promising profiles, but the quality dwindled again after a few days. I felt a little conned and this type of algorithm is why people become hooked in the first place. They see brief signs of hope and feel drawn in, thinking that if they pay a little extra, they will return to that elusive sweet spot.
The results
During the month, I spent £114.97, racked up 31 hours and had 200 matches across all platforms, about six of which showed real promise. I spoke to roughly 150 of those matches; the remaining 50 went dormant, and only about 80 of those active conversations continued after the first day (some of that was down to me and my inability to keep up; I never said I was innocent in all this).
But in the end, none of these premium subscriptions gave me what I wanted. I secured no dates from these apps during the month-long period, never mind a life partner.
Interestingly, I went on more dates through these apps during the summer when I wasn’t paying a penny.
They say that dating is a numbers game, and while that may be true, I didn’t find any joy from my little test. More matches didn’t result in a higher likelihood of dating. Instead, I came away jaded, with a hole in my pocket and significantly higher screen time.
I guess money can’t buy love, after all.