I love my husband. Let’s just start with that. We’ve been together for twenty years. We met through friends back in the dark old days before internet dating. It seemed simple: we met, we got on, we fell in love, we had a child, we got married, we had another couple of children, we remained married, and we are still very much in love.
So, as a romance writer, when your main character meets a younger man on a dating website, and you have no idea how dating sites work—research has to be done.
At 10 am, I say to my 49-year-old husband, “I’m going to have to set up a Tinder profile.” He rolls his eyes. Is it another one of my little research projects, or am I looking to replace him?
I see him flexing out of the corner of my eye. I need to keep him on his toes.
I go about setting up my profile. It’s 12 pm, and I’m a Tinder virgin. It makes me nervous. I find some decent pictures of my 46-year-old self and add some interests to my profile. My character is 37, so I add that date of birth to my profile and immediately regret it. The website asks to share my location, otherwise I can’t use it. I hesitate for a moment. I just wanted to nosey around the back end and get the information I needed for my story, not alert all single men in the area that I’m on the market (or not). So, I reason in my head that I’ll extend my research and be on the website for 24 hours. This will give me a good handle on how things work in the modern dating world.
I set my distance for 50 miles and my age preference from 28 - 59: a wider net is always better.
I decided it was a good idea to spaff a tenner on Tinder Gold to see how many men like me. I don’t want to face the humiliation of liking someone who wouldn’t like me. It doesn’t matter, Holly; you have a husband.
At first glance, things seem bleak. I’m struggling to like anyone; it feels wrong, and quite frankly, no one catches my eye.
I trawl through profiles. Most guys seem to be under 6ft. I’m 5ft 10in and over 6ft in heels.
My swipe left becomes strong:
Construction worker? Swipe left.
Football fans/players/kits? Swipe left
High Vis jackets? Swipe left.
Photo in the cabin of a van? Swipe left.
Bad quality pics? Lazy. Swipe left.
Holding a pint of lager? Swipe left.
I see a lot of teeth—bright white opaque veneers. Dare I say, Turkey teeth? Swipe left. Their judgement is clearly flawed.
I stumble across Pete, 58, who says, “I can do a headstand and balance a spoon on my nose…but not at the same time.” Do I like that, Pete? Or are you a bit of a prat? It certainly got my attention. Either way, I click on more info to find a few more pictures of him, including a headless shot of him from behind on a beach holding his deck shoes. The only other information is that he’s looking for a short-term thing, and he’s unvaccinated. This confirms that he’s probably a bit of a prat. And for some reason, I bet his wife thinks the same too. Swipe left.
I feel weird matching with anyone. Will I tell them straight away that I’m married, really 46, and this is for research? Or will I chicken out and just delete my account?
I like someone very quickly, hoping they won’t like me back. (Is that how it works?) He is a sales manager, 6ft 3, has three children, and doesn’t want anymore. He goes to the gym and looks like he lives far enough away not to come angrily knocking at my door.
I keep catching the height issue. At 5ft 9in, Matt, 39, seems very nice, but I’m stuck on the height. I then have to catch myself; this is not real; I’m not going to date anyone. Their height doesn’t matter. He’s an architect and dresses well—maybe too well? In one of the pictures, his sister is wearing a Valentino bag. Hmmmm. I'm not too sure.
By 2 pm, I have 452 likes (I’m obviously fresh meat). I scroll through. Bobby, 54, from Manchester, looks like he could be AI-generated. He’s 6ft 3in, very muscular and covered in tattoos. His expression in all his photos is serious, almost scowling. In one of the pictures, he’s hulking out of a blue knitted waistcoat. I also notice he wears two watches. Intriguing.
His profile says that he’s always positive and tries to see the good in people. He wants to meet someone who likes to be spontaneous.
I'm looking through his top Spotify artists and appreciate most of them. His anthem is The Stone Roses I Wanna Be Adored. This says everything about Bobby’s soft centre.
At this point, my husband struts into the room. “Do you think Bobby’s real?” I ask him. He doesn’t hesitate “He’s used AI to generate those shots.” I was beginning to soften to Bobby, but I’m not sure now.
Everyone seems to be a Sagittarius, too. I'm not sure if Cancearians match well with Sagittarians. Holly, this isn’t real.
I notice that there are a lot of men with tattoos. I don’t have anything against tattoos; I’ve just never really been out with a fully tattooed man before. Do I like it? I'm not sure.
Paul, 35, is 6ft. He says in his bio, “Can’t offer a one night stand as my dry spell has lasted so long, once finally broken, I’ll only last 35 seconds. Best to set those expectations as realistic as possible.” Swipe right. He’s a keeper.
By 3 pm, I’m not sure how many I’ve swiped right on, but I’ve received not a single message. I think I’m being too picky. I work out that I’ve sent nine likes. I’m getting a little more swipe-right happy.
Oh fuck! I got a match whilst finishing a bag of Tonny’s Chocolonely Littl’ Bits. John is 41, 6ft 1in from Newcastle. He likes lots of integrity (I’m falling short already), loyalty (I’m fucked), and in his words, he’s “probably too honest” (Sweet Jesus!). He looks like a nice chap looking for a long-term partner. His pictures include him driving a Ferrari, a Mustang and a beefy BMW. All of which appeal to this petrol head. He has a degree and looks like he works out a lot. His style is very good too.
I kinda hope he doesn’t message me!
By 5 pm, I have 536 likes. One of whom is called James, 43, 5ft 10in (❌). To be honest, he looks a lot older and he’s another tattooed beast of a man. His profile states, “No drug users or alcoholics need apply.” Then he gives his Instagram handle and goes on to say, “Don’t contact me if you have your dogs or cats on your bed that’s disgusting.”
Yep. Not feeling the love there. I wouldn’t have my dog on the bed, but I wouldn’t have him either.
I find it odd that men would put their kids on their profile pics. And I find it even weirder when they use a picture of themselves standing with their ex-partner edited or cut off. Just use a different picture! It’s not hard!
It’s only 5.15 pm when I get liked by a man in a gimp suit. Gimp is 41 and 6ft 2in tall. He classes himself as straight, demisexual (no idea what that means) and a bisexual man. He is a genuine, kinky, submissive/bottom type, chunky, tall Irish guy with a good sense of humour. He has a range of kinks and fetishes and a “very dirty mind” who is looking for his “better half”. I have no idea what that other half would look like.
Then I see someone I recognise. The shit just got real. It’s a friend of my husband’s who he hasn’t seen for years. He actually came to our wedding. Maybe he doesn’t recognise me. After all, I would be ten years older than my profile states. I did used to joke that I was seventeen when I met my husband instead of twenty-seven. Now there’ll be a rumour about my husband’s child bride! Oh God!
I didn’t realise how many people were on Tinder. At 6.55 pm I get a message on Messenger from an old college friend. It reads, “Hun….think someone stole your pics and put them on Tinder.” Oh fuck! I hang my head in shame. I’m a regular catfish. I quickly take a look at my likes to see if he swiped right on me. And yes, yes he did.
I messaged him back, saying that it was me, but I was just doing some research on a story. To which he responds, “Okay…I swiped right on you…you looked good in your gym pic lol”
Oh, sweet baby Jesus! This is getting messy. I briefly dated this guy over 25 years ago, and I dumped him in the most appalling way.
In the morning, I wake up to a message on Tinder from Dave. It simply reads “Your body 😍”. I panic and respond, “Thanks!” How pathetic.
Maybe I should lead with my body and forget the face—it obviously looks like chopped liver.
I look at Dave’s profile, and it’s clear this dude works out. He’s the definition of hench and must spend most of his life in the gym. His profile doesn't have a blue tick, so I think he may be a catfish.
As I’ve got a blabbermouth, I go to my Instagram Stories to update my audience about my progress on Tinder. People seem to be invested in the story. I asked them if they thought this guy, Dave, was a catfish and showed a picture of him with his face covered with a large emoji. My audience suggested that I needed to investigate further, so they suggested questions to ask him to gauge whether he was real or a catfish.
I ask where he is based. He doesn’t respond.
At 12 pm, I have 887 likes and six matches. I’ve sent 24 likes.
I start a swipe-left spree: too much nostril on show. Where are his lips? How many more men are 5ft 8in, for goodness sake? I would dwarf half of these men. I’d look like the Jolly Green Giant! I swear all the short men are on Tinder.
Oh shit! Just matched with a guy who put his height lower down in his profile. He’s 5ft 9in. Jesus Christ! I’m a fucking giant—obvs. He recognises this in his message, “I might need some blocks for kissing lol am 5.9 lol”. My response is, “I’ve discovered I’m a bit of a giant!” He says, “Ha ha ha! Pretty one.” I’m done with this punctuation. I send a blushing emoji back.
It doesn’t stop. “Compromise you bend down a little I’ll go on my tip toes. Meet at the lips 👄 lol.” Erm, no.
Quite frankly, I want a taller man. I want to feel feminine and cute. I don’t want bigger feet than my date! You’re not going on any dates, Holly. What are you thinking?
I moan to my husband that most of the men on Tinder are under 5ft 10in. The husband now thinks he’s a bit of a catch. He starts to puff out his chest and stand a little taller than his 6ft 1in. I think this might be inflating his ego a little.
Nick, 43, says, “Message me. I can be quite shy.” in his profile. Now I am never, ever going to message a man first, but something about the challenge makes me want to mess with him. I don’t. I’m too chicken.
This 24-hour period is exceeding its allotted time. It’s 1.36 p.m., and I have 909 likes and ten matches. By 3.25 pm, I have 16 matches and 929 likes.
I think about how I could optimise my profile further. I don’t feel like I’m getting the full potential of men out there. I’ve resisted adding a bio to my profile so far. Maybe it’s time. Or maybe I’m more mysterious without it. I’m not sure—again.
I ask ChatGPT to give me a couple of suggestions. I end up with this:
“Adventurous spirit with a heart full of love! I’m passionate about exploring new horizons, savouring great meals, snuggling up together, sharing deep conversations and laughing at bad jokes. I’m seeking a kind-hearted man to hold my hand and join me on this journey. Ready for a meaningful connection and endless laughter? Let’s create our story together! 😘”
I wonder whether it’s too much. I have to remind myself that this is just a little research trip, not a chance to become the most liked profile on Tinder.
Husband comes in and mutters, “Tick-tock, time’s nearly up. You can’t keep it up there forever.” He looks a little worried.
At 4.07 pm, I have 16 matches and 948 likes.
I had a short conversation with a guy named Mike. He thanked me for matching with him, so I thanked him back. He asked me where I was based, so I told him my county. He only responded with one-word answers, so I felt like he couldn’t be bothered to make an effort. If he wanted me to travel to meet him, this wouldn’t be how to start a beautiful thing. I’m not going to respond.
I’m beginning to get a little bored of the whole thing. I’m getting fed up with the way it’s making me so judgmental.
By 4.49 pm, I have 18 matches, very slow messages and 995 likes. There are a lot of 30-year-olds in the mix, and I find myself matching with someone with Turkey teeth, high-vis clothing, and a fully tattooed gym body. My standards are slipping. I think it’s time to stop.
My conclusion as a 46-year-old married woman researching Tinder? I know how it works now. I’ve become uber-judgmental about looks, height, and star signs. Weirdly, I discovered I have a ‘type’ that I never thought I did. Looking at the guys I’d liked, they all had a similar look. And the guys who I’d matched with also had a similar look but were slightly darker-haired. Odd.
I ended up with 1,135 likes and 31 matches. I lost interest in most of those who messaged me purely because it was so slow and boring. No one seemed to have anything interesting to say. I don’t feel like deleting my account will greatly affect anyone. No 30-year-olds were harmed in the research of this story.
In the end, I looked at my tall, muscular husband who puts up with all my shenanigans and thought, I’m one lucky girl.