'It’s an investment,’ my therapist is saying, while I stifle a sigh. For the last two-and-a- half years, she has witnessed my dating life unfold in real time. There was the man who, after a perfect evening wandering London’s South Bank, waited until I was naked, on top of him, to tell me he was married and expecting his first child. The ex who broke my heart three times in six years; the woman I met in a bar with a stage, who taught me to be proud when she kissed me on it; a man whose main attraction was a bathtub in the garden big enough for two. Inevitably, at some point, fun turned into fatigue and now, at 33, I sit in a basement office, asking for guidance. ‘If you’re serious about finding love, you have to invest,’ she repeats.
In 2022, investing in dating doesn’t only mean with time, but money too. Premium subscriptions on apps like Hinge, Bumble, Tinder and OkCupid are popular, promising more dates, likes, control and better access to potential partners overall. Almost 60 years after The Beatles sang that money can’t buy you love, it seems that apps have done a bit of a U-turn. And it’s going to set you back a fair amount – especially if you’re over 30.
Recently, a Which? survey found that Tinder routinely charges over-thirties more than users in their twenties. This is of no surprise to me and my friends, who first used dating apps a decade ago (when they were mostly free). When I was 27, I remember begrudgingly paying £2.99 for the ‘undo’ feature on Tinder.
The apps don’t tend to display their prices, but a Guardian investigation last year found that Tinder Gold, a premium package that includes the ‘Likes You’ feature as well as regular add-ons like Rewind and Unlimited Likes, ranged from £13.99 to £29.49 depending on the user’s age, and Tinder Plus (basically Gold minus a weekly ‘boost’ and SuperLikes), spanned £4.99 to £19.49. And, while they don’t base their pricing on age, Bumble is, for 33-year-old me, £39.99 for one month (or £16.99 a week), Hinge £29.49 and OkCupid £38.99 if I opt for one of their premium services – as increasing numbers of people taking dating ‘more seriously’ do. Most of the apps also offer add-ons like ‘boost’ to put your profile in the spotlight for a week; OkCupid also gives the option of getting ‘read’ receipts (in ‘packs’ of one, five or 20).
It’s easy to see why we might be tempted to try to buy a shot at love.
It’s easy to see why we might be tempted to try to buy a shot at love. This week, a friend, 35, described her recent dating life as a ‘plague’; I listened to another, who has been mostly single for six years, cry with exhaustion after another disappointing Bumble date. There are many factors at play – most of us have had enough time and partners now to know exactly what we’re not looking for, and have enough sense of self to keep those standards firmly in place. Plus, the worst-kept secret in heterosexual dating is that men often set their age restrictions to women younger than themselves. When the odds feel stacked against you, the option of buying your way to the front of the pack – getting twice as many dates, or twice the chances, as Hinge boasts – can feel like a very alluring option.
Yet, amid a burgeoning cost of living crisis, being charged to take a first step on the path to finding love feels... tiring. And increasing the cost for those in their thirties, as Tinder does, can feel unfair. (A spokesperson for the app told Guardian Money that they ‘offer discounted subscriptions to younger members. In addition, we frequently offer promotional rates, which can vary based on factors like location or length of subscription. No other demographic information is considered in our pricing structure.’ After a class-action lawsuit against their age-based pricing, the app paid out $17.3m [£12.4m] and agreed to stop pricing on age – but only in California, where the case was heard.)
Being single in a world built for pairs already costs more. A friend who found herself single after losing her husband at 35 found food shopping excruciating (‘why is everything too much or too little?’ she would say, calling from the supermarket aisle); hotels at weddings are twice the price (once, I camped outside the venue as I simply couldn’t afford a room). According to one survey*, single people are paying £7,564.50 per year more than couples on household outgoings.
Aside from the expense, the idea that we must put a value on ourselves to enter the dating arena – and that it gets more difficult and expensive with age – is depressing.
Add the cost of dating apps on to that – upwards of £120 per month, if you joined all of the main four – and the chasm only grows deeper. Aside from the expense, the idea that we must put a value on ourselves to enter the dating arena – and that it gets more difficult and expensive with age – is depressing. The few times I’ve paid for mainstream apps, I’ve ended up marginally more disappointed that I’ve not only wasted time, but money.
Treating dating like eating well or exercising, my therapist advises, can have an effect on how much effort you really make. Trouble is, make too much effort and you’re desperate, make too little and we wonder if we’re ‘putting ourselves out there’ enough.
Last year, my most meaningful spells of dating were people who came into my life from the offline world and made me laugh and feel safe and desired at a time I was happy and confident. This is not to say it’s better to meet offline, but that matches happen when we’ve invested in ourselves, first. If we want to pay later, then so be it. But, for now, I’m continuing to do just that – and making sure I’m never blindsided by bathtubs again.
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