Resilience…
Possibly not my strongest point. Make a mistake? It will keep me awake at night for at least 5 years. Embarrass myself? It will randomly ignite crippling anxiety attacks for the next decade. Say something you may misinterpret or if I accidentally upset you? I will worry you hate me for all eternity.
Don’t get me wrong, 40 years of questionable life choices toughens you up a bit. I am nowhere near as bad as I used to be. However, I have recently embarked on the most horrific online dating journey and, fuck me, I have never needed resilience more.
I have been in some kind of relationship pretty much continuously since 2003-ish. My marriage ended in 2020 and a few months later, ‘the one that got away’ returned for a short lived sequel, before ending my belief in the concept of ‘the one that got away’ in March 2022. I have been single ever since.
I was absolutely fine with this, until I wasn’t. I enjoyed my own company, appreciated the chill, gave more of myself to my kids, had a ball celebrating all my friends’ 40ths. There were pangs of “What will I do when my kids are grown up? Are the next 40 years just binging on cult documentaries and working?” But I’m intelligent. I’m resourceful. I have friends and family. I have enough to keep me ticking over for the rest of my days.
Yet it started to bother others that I was single and, possibly as a result, it started to bother me. I do miss connection. My 750 WhatsApp groups take the edge off but there is no denying that it is nice to go home and have a cuddle after a bad day at work, rather than crying alone in the yogurt aisle of big Tesco at 8pm on a Wednesday evening. Yes, that happened.
The dating world has changed dramatically since I last met someone. I have met all of my previous partners through work. That’s not worked out so well and my current workplace offers zero suitors, which is undoubtedly for the best. So it seems I have little choice, other than to tentatively head into the world of dating apps.
For those who haven’t experienced it, modern dating is like having your innards sucked out by a Dementor from Harry Potter, then having them scorched by Smaug from The Hobbit, before being chewed up by a pack of wolves (struggling for a cultural reference here), spat out, lapped up by next door’s cat and then shat out all over your nan’s nice, neat front lawn. I have learned many lessons already:
◦ Not all Irish men are as hilarious as I imagined.
◦ Being over 6ft 2 doesn’t automatically make someone a good option.
◦ Although I like weird, I only like my brand of weird and that really is VERY specific.
◦ People still find swearing offensive. Plus, I have discovered that I am not actually be able to display my superb comedic talents on demand.
I’ll be the first to admit that my list of ‘icks’ is a bit unreasonable at times: poor spelling and grammar, Turkey teeth, men who stick their tongue out on photos, bios stating ‘no dramas, no pen pals, no time wasters’. Friends have told me I don’t give people enough of a chance and I create problems. But some of the offers and conversations are mind blowing. In all the wrong ways.
It’s only been a matter of weeks and
I have already had the offer of a slave (handy but no), chatted with a man who told me he doesn’t have the internet (must have been communicating with me via telepathy) and been asked on a date by a man in Dublin (clearly struggling with geography). Two men have told me I need Jesus. They are probably not wrong but still…
The whole thing can be soul destroying. I can deal with conversations petering out. I can cope with someone not responding. What I have struggled to handle is someone giving me all the signals and then getting nasty. It makes me question my worth. It makes me obsess over how I look, who I am and my general value as a human. Nothing prickles your insecurities quite like the constant pressure to be interesting and funny and entertaining and attractive.
I have only had one actual date. Beforehand, I had an enormous panic attack, in case he thought I was a catfish and was disgusted by how fat I am in real life. Then I worried that he was a top shagger who was going to play me, before finally settling my irrational fears on the horrifying concern that he was going to rape and murder me in the car park at Liverpool One. I shared my location on my phone with my brother, just so he knew where I was getting murdered. Help locate my body more easily.
Thankfully, the man was adorable. He was handsome and kind and we had fun. He tolerated my endless nervous verbal diarrhoea. He didn’t mind my potty mouth and general vulgarity. But he just wasn’t for me. He asked me on a second date and I gently declined. He gracefully understood and told me, with real sincerity, that I deserved to meet someone, which made me well up. There are wonderful people out there and it infuriates me that I did not want him to rip my knickers off and carry me off into the sunset. He does, however, give me some hope that not everyone is a complete and utter arsehole.
I don’t believe in “The One” or the great “Love of My Life.” I have thought several people were both of those things and have been categorically wrong. You meet people, you choose each other and, hopefully, no one chooses leaving as the best option. Love is a choice. I also don’t believe that I will meet someone online. I don’t know why I am doing it really. It passes the time but nothing makes me dislike men more than this whole process. But if nothing else, it is an endless source of entertainment for my friends and the kick I get from making them laugh is probably greater than the kick from a date. Plus it is a lesson in resilience. The biggest lesson in resilience I have ever endured. So if you online date, girls, get your rhino hide on because you will bloody need it.
The Jeminist 