Why Is Everything a Subscription?

I have spent the last few weeks trying to cancel subscriptions I didn't even realise I had. At this point, I'm fairly certain I'm financially supporting half the internet.

It starts innocently enough. You buy a program. An app. A streaming service. A photo editor. Makeup. Something that promises to organise/beautify/fix your life, improve your photos, teach you Italian, make you fitter, thinner, smarter or somehow transform you into a better version of yourself.

You click "Buy Now."

What you don't realise is you've actually entered into a lifelong financial relationship. Nothing belongs to you anymore. You don't buy software. You lease it. You don't own music. You rent it. You don't own movies. You subscribe to them.

We've somehow accepted the idea that paying once is old-fashioned.

Now everything politely helps itself to your bank account every month while sending you cheerful little emails thanking you for your continued membership. Membership?

I only wanted to edit one photograph. The worst part is cancelling them. Signing up takes approximately twelve seconds. Cancelling requires an archaeological expedition.

The "Cancel Subscription" button is never on the first page. It's hidden somewhere between "Manage Preferences", "Account Settings", "Privacy Choices" and "We're Sorry To See You Go."

Then comes the guilt. "Would you like to tell us why you're leaving?" Because I don't want to pay you forty-three dollars a month forever, Karen. Then they offer you fifty per cent off. Then seventy per cent off. Then a free month.

It's a bit like breaking up with someone who suddenly becomes the perfect partner the moment you walk out the door. And somehow, they all renew at three o'clock in the morning.

Nobody ever gets an email saying,

"Congratulations! We noticed you haven't used this service in eleven months, so we've cancelled it for you and refunded your money."

No. That would be ridiculous. Instead, they quietly keep collecting money while I continue to forget the app even exists.

The other day I looked through my bank statement and discovered subscriptions I'd completely forgotten about. One was teaching me a language. Based on my progress, I can now confidently order one coffee and ask where the train station is.

For several hundred dollars.

Companies love subscriptions because they're predictable. Consumers hate subscriptions because they're invisible. Twenty dollars here. Nine dollars there. Another fifteen somewhere else. Individually they don't seem like much. Collectively they're funding someone's beach house.

I miss the old days. You walked into a shop. You bought a thing. You owned the thing.

The end.

No monthly fee. No automatic renewal. No reminder in six months that your "introductory offer" has quietly become a premium package.

Maybe I'm just getting old. Or maybe we've all become so used to renting our lives that we've forgotten what it feels like to actually own something.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and cancel three subscriptions I only remembered while writing this.

Assuming, of course, I can actually find the cancellation button.