In the iconic 2000s dating sitcom, Sex and the City, Carrie and her girlfriends get together to discuss the men who are causing chaos in their lives.
It makes me a little jealous. When I hang out with my single friends, we talk about how awful dating apps are.
I'm 26 years old and part of Generation Z (currently ages 12 to 27, but ages 18 and up to use dating apps). We have the dubious privilege of being the first generation to come of age in an era when dating apps are widespread.
After my booze-filled college years, there is no one I can casually talk to in a pub or bar with a potential partner anymore. I only talk to my own social circle, but no one has started a relationship with a mutual friend either. Apps seem to be the only way to meet new people.
But rather than making dating easier, online dating has turned our love lives into a grueling, exhausting drudgery. It's no wonder that a recent Forbes survey found that 79 percent of Gen Zers said they've experienced “burnout” because of online dating.
Antonia Lennon says that far from making dating easier, apps have turned young people's romantic lives into a “gruelling, exhausting ordeal”.
On TikTok, young women are begging their viewers to stay away from dating apps with their manipulative algorithms for the sake of their mental health. One typical critic is outraged:[Dating apps] They don't care if you find the right person, they only care about taking your money and keeping the hot people locked up.”
There are even signs they're moving away altogether: Dating app Bumble's shares plummeted 30% this month after it slashed its revenue forecast, and Match Group, which trails Tinder and Hinge, reported a decline in paying users. Dating-app downloads have been declining since 2019.
So what exactly are we complaining about? The truth is, the app has changed since it was released over a decade ago, and not for the better.
Back then, apps made dating feel like a fun (and intentionally addictive) game. They were also a really useful tool for finding love: A survey of 2,000 British couples who married between 2017 and 2021 found that 28% met online.
But now, as app makers struggle to make more money, the terms of the game have changed and my generation feels like it has no choice but to lose.
For example, Hinge groups your “best” matches into a separate category called “Standouts.” You're shown 70 candidates per week, but you can only contact one for free. To contact the rest, you need to buy and send virtual “roses.” Three “roses” cost £10.
Antonia suspects that the app's algorithms are purposely serving up duds in the hopes that users will cave in and pay for the premium service.
There are more expensive options too: the top-end 'Hinge X' subscription costs £89.99 for three months, Bumble's top subscription costs £149.99 for three months, and Tinder's 'Platinum' service costs £116.99 for six months.
The suggested matches are often so strange that you can’t help but suspect that the algorithm is purposely presenting you with uninteresting matches in the hopes that you’ll cave and pay for their premium service.
In reality, dates are often comically bad. Take the example of a friend who recently went to the pub with a guy who turned up in a three-piece suit. He told her that he'd been aggressive towards opposing football fans at the weekend. “I'm a football hooligan,” was his catchphrase.
There's a relentless focus on appearances: forget fun snapshots – it's increasingly standard these days to have self-promotional videos and audio recordings on your profile.
Even if you find someone you like, the dating rules can be surprisingly strict.
My friend Hannah* started dating someone she met on Hinge last year, and they were together for three months and even met each other's parents.
He asked her in person to be his girlfriend, then a few days later sent her a WhatsApp message informing her that he had gotten back together with his ex-girlfriend.
Dr Luke Brunning, lecturer in applied ethics at the University of Leeds, says the private nature of communication on dating apps allows users to engage in cruel behaviour.
He clearly had no qualms about his actions, wishing her success in her career and concluding with two hearts and a smiling face emoji. She never heard from him again.
Dr Luke Brunning, lecturer in applied ethics at the University of Leeds, said the private nature of communication on the app made such cruelty possible.
“There are fewer social consequences for bad behavior,” he explains, “and many dating app users report that they are aware they are engaging in behavior they would regret in real life, but have a hard time stopping it.”
Another friend, Chloe*, matched with a guy and went on a date that ended up lasting 13 hours. They went for a bike ride in the sun, then to lunch and dinner. Two more similarly quick dates followed, and on their fourth date, he stayed over at her apartment and they slept together.
A few days later, he messaged her to tell her he wasn't interested in a relationship that she clearly wanted, then unmatched her on the dating app and removed her from his friends list on social media.
She later found out that his parting gift was a sexually transmitted disease.
Even the few friends who have managed to maintain long-term relationships with people they met through apps often end up feeling cold towards them, and some are hesitant to introduce them to their friend groups.
Perhaps it's because relationships that start on an app feel like they lack the randomness.
Despite this, I didn't follow the advice of TikTok influencers and delete my dating profile, and neither did most of my friends.
It feels like we're trapped in a toxic relationship with apps because there's still a little bit of us that hopes that everyone has one and that it might just work.
I'm sure there are plenty of decent guys on Hinge and Bumble.
But will we find each other in 2024, amidst the dreaded embarrassing profiles, tedious algorithms and dating etiquette? Probably not.
*Name has been changed