What happens to romance when love becomes a marketplace of curated profiles and endless options?
I swiped right on him one evening in mid-February, not long after wrapping my final show for London Fashion Week. At 3 a.m., I was sitting on the floor in vintage Prada, phone in one hand and chopsticks in the other, annihilating a box of Chinese fried rice. Though I’d never really been a fan of the “apps,” as my peers called them, curiosity eventually got the better of me. I just wanted to see what was out there.
Growing up, I was raised on a steady diet of rom-com meet-cutes—getting stuck in an elevator, or colliding with someone on the chaotic streets of Soho while your Fendi Baguette spills its contents and Mr. Right rushes to help.. However, in our digital age, I’ve had to accept that organic connections are increasingly rare, perhaps even a thing of the past. Welcome to the digital age of romance. We matched on Bumble and started talking. Fast forward through a few dates (and a few sleepovers) to now, and I’m writing this with his message glowing on my phone. It’s going well (gasp).
However, I can’t ignore the peculiar digital petri dish from which our budding romance emerged. As a self-diagnosed shopaholic with a chronic online shopping addiction and a woman of the swipe-right generation, it got me thinking: when did dating start to mirror fast fashion?
Apps like Bumble, Tinder, or Hinge feel eerily familiar if you spend time on platforms like ASOS or Net-a-Porter. Scroll, swipe, click. Filter by height, job, and location, just like you’d sort dresses by colour or sleeve length. We’ve internalised the logic of consumerism to the point where selecting a partner is treated like curating an outfit. Profiles, after all, are just carefully styled façades, an algorithm-approved lookbook of someone’s best life.
One side effect of turning romance into a marketplace is the constant swiping and scrolling mentality. Just as online shopping presents us with endless options, dating apps give the illusion that the next match could always be better. I had a friend who I would describe as a constant user of the “Apps”, hopping from one date to another in pursuit of “the one,” though it started to seem like he wasn’t entirely sure what that even meant anymore. One week, he was texting three women at once; the next, he couldn’t remember who was who. He’d scroll through matches while we were riding the tube, critiquing bios and photos like a fashion buyer at a showroom: swipe left for effort, swipe right if she had a decent Spotify top five. He wasn’t a “player”, just someone caught up in the logic of abundance. Dating culture has become a kind of scanning for compatibility, much like the specifications on a product page.
There’s a name for this effect: choice overload. Behavioural economists have long studied how too many options can lead to indecision and dissatisfaction. In the context of dating, it manifests as perpetual uncertainty, the belief that something or someone better could be just one swipe away. A 2023 study from Stanford found that users who engaged with dating apps frequently were more likely to report regret and anxiety about their choices. When the pool is endless, nothing feels final. And when nothing feels final, nothing gets a fair shot.
I’ve been there too. Before this current relationship, I’d swipe late at night, not even sure what I was looking for. Boredom? Validation? Maybe I just liked the rhythm of it, the sense of control. But I also remember the moment that rhythm broke. When I matched with him, the guy from mid-February, something shifted. I actually wanted to stay in the conversation, not refresh the page.
Maybe I was just lucky.
It’s a form of romantic FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out), and it’s engineered into the design. UX experts note that dating apps draw heavily from the psychology of slot machines, featuring unpredictable rewards, intermittent reinforcement, and an infinite choice of options. The same dopamine hit you get from a “like” on Instagram or snagging a Jacquemus sale find? That’s what the swipe gives you, too. So you keep swiping, chasing the hit, often long after the thrill is gone.
Just as fast fashion has taught us to view clothes as easily replaceable, dating apps may be teaching us, subconsciously, to view partners as disposable. After all, if one connection fizzles or hits a rough patch, the temptation to go back online and find a brand new person is always there, gleaming on our home screen.
This mindset has real consequences for how we value relationships. Emotional investment can feel riskier when everything and everyone appears replaceable. Committing to one person means not sampling the infinite buffet of others, a choice that today’s consumerist mindset finds difficult. I’ve caught myself thinking in cost-benefit terms about dating, Is this match worth the time? Am I settling too quickly when I haven’t seen all the options? It’s as if the language of shopping and economics has seeped into our love lives. We talk about “having chemistry” in the same breath as someone being “a good investment” or not wanting to “waste time” on a relationship that might not pan out. The lines between pursuing love and pursuing a product have blurred.
Yet, amidst this commodified whirlwind, here I am, cautiously optimistic with the guy I matched with a post-fashion week Chinese meal. The irony isn’t lost on me: we met through the very system I’m critiquing. But perhaps that’s precisely why I’m reflecting on these issues. It took wading through the superficial tide to appreciate the depth of what I’ve found.
So, how do we reconcile all this? On the one hand, I’m dismayed by how dating has been transformed into an algorithm-driven bazaar, where we present polished versions of ourselves and treat others as easily replaceable. On the other hand, I have to credit this system for bringing someone who continues to show up in my life. It’s a very 2025 predicament: critiquing the swipe culture even as I partake in it and even benefit from it.
I believe the key is mindfulness and balance. Experts agree that dating apps can yield positive experiences if used in moderation and with intention. For me, that meant being more selective with my swipes, not in a superficial way, such as focusing on taller, hotter, or richer profiles, but purposefully pausing to ask if I truly felt a sense of curiosity or connection beyond a cute photo.
The intersection of hookup culture and consumer culture doesn’t have to mean doom for genuine romance. Yes, apps have made casual flings extremely accessible, like a fast-fashion take on intimacy, but they also give us opportunities we never had before. The spectrum of what people want is broad: some are there for quick chemistry, others for long-term love, and many are undecided, opting for a “we’ll see what happens” approach. I’ve learned to set my expectations accordingly. Not every match is meant to be the one, just as not every trendy Zara piece is intended to be in your closet forever. And that’s okay. The trick is identifying what (and who) is worth investing real effort in versus what’s a fleeting thrill.
For a Vogue-esque analogy, perhaps it’s time we approach our love lives more like a capsule wardrobe than a fast-fashion haul, choosing quality, versatility, and personal meaning over quantity and hype. After all, one great little black dress outshines a closet full of cheap, trendy pieces. Likewise, one genuine relationship is worth more than a carousel of Mr. and Ms. Maybes. I’m holding on to that thought as I navigate this new chapter. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll even be able to say I found lasting love on Bumble without immediately adding, “…and here’s my think-piece on how dating apps are basically capitalist hell.” For now, I’ll settle for this balanced take: our dating apps reflect our consumer culture, but they don’t have to define our capacity for love. That part, thankfully, remains in human hands, not algorithms.
