I have stumbled upon some news that Tinder hopes to match with Gen Z by borrowing some credibility from TikTokers. Dating has entered a new era, one in which romance is increasingly shaped by algorithms, curated profiles, and the influence of social media. Tinder’s decision to partner with TikTok creators reflects a growing awareness that younger generations need more than an app promising endless possibilities; they need a reason to trust it. By turning dating into a story that audiences can follow, discuss, and relate to, Tinder attempts to make digital romance feel more personal and less transactional.
The campaign acknowledges a paradox of modern life: although Gen Z has unprecedented opportunities to meet people online, many young adults are becoming tired of swiping and are looking for more meaningful, authentic connections.
Yet, when the promotion of romance relies on influencers and carefully packaged personal experiences, we must ask where authenticity ends and marketing begins. Is social media helping young people rediscover the excitement of dating, or is it simply teaching them to consume romance as another form of content?
But there is another side to this door, one that becomes more visible when we look at modern dating from the perspective of an older generation.
Having grown up in a world where relationships often began through shared environments, spontaneous conversations, and face-to-face encounters, we may see today’s dating culture as both fascinating and unsettling. Dating apps offer convenience, access, and opportunities to connect beyond familiar social circles, but they can also transform people into profiles to be evaluated, compared, and discarded with a single swipe. For a generation accustomed to building intimacy gradually, the speed of digital courtship can feel at odds with the patience and vulnerability that lasting relationships require.
At the same time, it would be unfair to romanticize the past: meeting in person never guaranteed sincerity, compatibility, or commitment. Perhaps the real difference is not that young people have forgotten how to love, but that they are learning to navigate love in an environment where attention is abundant and genuine connection can feel scarce.
So I’ve spent the past six months exploring some online dating apps.
I knew it was possible to meet and fall in love with someone you met online; I’d met my wonderful late husband on a site, ten years ago. Both of us wrote simple, honest profiles that stated who we were and what we were looking for. We wrote back and forth on the site, exchanged phone numbers, enjoyed some sweet conversation, met in person, married four months later. Looking back, it was a pretty straight line from A to B: write, phone, meet, court, marry.
Even then, I did encounter some players, guys looking for a quick hookup. Jon was different. He knew exactly what he wanted and politely expressed interest in marrying me on our first date. His communication was tactful and calm, but very direct. We weren’t playing games.
Both of us were honest about our intentions and our situations. We compared baggage, decided it would work, met each others’ friends and families, and took the plunge. And for the next eight years, it was a wonderful marriage. We loved each other, my kids loved him, life was good.
Until he got sick, and became paralyzed, and rapidly went downhill. All too soon, I was alone again, grieving, wandering in a fog. It took another year to realize Jon would want me to go back out there and try again.
At first, I was hopeful, remembering how Jon and I had met.
I quickly discovered online dating had degenerated into something much worse than what I’d encountered ten years ago. There weren’t just players and liars. Now, scammers had taken over the market.
During the first few months, I figured out most of the men who contacted me weren’t who they claimed to be. Their profile said they were from the East Coast, working for an American company, but they didn’t write or speak as an American would. Their phrases were off, their cadence just “wrong.”
They were overly effusive, calling me beautiful and gorgeous and — a phrase I learned was a major red flag: “my princess.”
I became jaded, realizing they were probably from Nigeria or Ghana, India or even China, depending on the phrases they used. Most of them stole pictures other men had posted online, then wrote up a fake profile. Even when I uncovered this and reported them, they’d just make up another name and repost, using the same photos.
I could easily spot the ones who claimed to be from New York City. I know the city fairly well, having worked there years ago. Lots of scammers claimed to be from Connecticut for some reason. But I drive through Connecticut all the time. I’d mention a popular site in the area — and realize they had no idea where it was.
It got to the point where I’d ask a few questions, block them and move on, annoyed they were wasting my time. It was sad, too, because you’d be attracted to someone by their photo, then wonder if they were even a real person. Most of them actually weren’t.
Then, I found a site called Date My Age. This app promised “nearly all of our pictures are verified.”
Surely, if their pictures were verified, this would be a safe bet, right? I mean, at least I’d be talking to a real person for a change.
It didn’t take long to realize most of the guys on Date My Age were overseas. There were quite a few from Venezuela, Panama, Brazil, Mexico, Colombia even China. All eager to fly out and meet me, and move to the States.
And despite the site’s promise that I’d meet men close to my age (which is 70), video chat requests kept popping up, mostly with young men in their twenties and thirties. Sometimes I’d be chatting with one man, typing away, and unintentionally find myself clicking on a video chat that popped up in the middle of my text.
And I had to pay ten credits for each video chat, whether I wanted it or not. You didn’t get to say no; the charge went through anyway.
On Date My Age, the clock is always ticking. You buy a bunch of credits at the outset, but they don’t last long. When you click on the fine print, you discover that chatting is billed by the minute. Every email, every chat costs ten credits or more. Want to send someone a gift, a picture of flowers or perfume? Be prepared to cough up 2,000 credits.
50 credits cost about $40, so this adds up quickly.
I set my pictures to private and removed most of my information, but messages kept flooding in from guys desperate to fly out and meet me. It didn’t take long to sniff out a plethora of scammy activity. I hastily cancelled my membership within the first 24 hours, disgusted by all the fast-paced nonsense. Date My Age uses high-pressure tactics designed to lure unsuspecting, desperate women into spending all their cash on some alluring Latin lover.
Um, no thanks. Self preservation kicks in, along with a dose of sanity.
I don’t like being pushed into anything, and this site is set up like a pressure cooker, building up steam, ceaselessly nagging you to open your wallet in a desperate bid for something that pretends to be love.
More like a desperate attempt to part you from your money. I’ll look a little closer to home.
My suggestion: avoid this app. You deserve better.