Weirdo

Recently, I went on a couple of dates with someone I really liked. It doesn’t happen often. Apparently, I am too picky.

Sadly, he didn’t like me so much. And that’s cool because, you know, the world would be really boring if we all liked each other and I would have literally NOTHING to write about if life was all plain sailing.

He was a nice guy. Is a nice guy. He was kind in his rejection of me and I really hope he finds his person. Good luck, petal. Bon soir. Namaste. Mange Tout, Rodney. Mange Tout.

There is always a bit of reflection that goes with rejection, particularly if you are a chronic over thinker like moi. But this time, reflection came right at me head on, before my brain could engage.

The day after I received the text (you know, the ‘thanks but no thanks, off you fuck’ text), I was idly scrolling through Instagram when the algorithm slapped me in the face with a wet fish. A meme, as if posted by God himself, shone it’s bright light into mine eyes:

Now, I shit you not when I say this was genuinely one of our conversations. I told him all about coercive control and Stephen Hassan’s BITE model, and Keith Reniere of NXIVM getting 120 years in prison.

Just for good measure, I bequeathed unto him some of my childhood trauma: ripping the cornea off my eye when I was 10 and being attacked by my nan’s budgie. Then I threw in the tale of sharing a bed with my best mate for 6 months during our second year of uni because we had nowhere else to live. I may have even told him that I can get my whole fist in my mouth (small hands, big gob.)

So on reflection, yeh. I am a weirdo. I am a lot. I can see why I might not be his person. Fair play.

But it got me thinking about the absurdity of having a “person.” Now… I am going to go all Carol Vorderman on you (only a bit less sexy). Trigger warning: there is some serious maths to follow…

I’ll focus on heterosexual relationships here because that is my sphere of experience. No disrespect to my queer friends, who will have a different set of challenges and experiences.

You ready? Here goes…

There are 8.1 billion people in the world. Let’s take 20% of the population out to account for other sexualities. So we have about 6.4 billion (ish? Is that right?) Roughly 50% of that population are the opposite sex. So, globally, there are 3 billion people up for grabs. But only 75% of these are over 15. To be honest, I am not up for dating anyone under 35, never mind anyone 15, but I can’t find global data specifically for over 35s. Let’s just say 2 billion of these people are of dateable age for a 41 year old woman.

However, I am a povvo without a private jet, so am going to stay right here in the UK and look for someone. And I am still looking for man so that gives me 29.2 million options. Let’s just say 80% of these men are straight. So we have 23 million men.

I am remaining in England, because I dont have the time or money to be swanning off to John O’Groats, Cardiff or Belfast on the regs. In England, according to Statista.com, there are about 32 million people between 25 years old and 60 years old. That age range is a stretch to be honest. But hey ho. Let’s crack on… We need to take our gay 20% off, then half it to take away gals and we have now about 17.5 million.

I have done long distance romance and it’s hard so I am not leaving the North West, where we have a population of around 7 million, about 2.8 million of which are male. You still with me?? We started with 2 billion. We are now on 2.8 million.

There are around 1.1 million males between 30 and 55 in the North West. Take the usual 20% off. We are on about 800,000. According to North West Demographic, 44% of people are married and 11% cohabit with a partner of the opposite sex. That is leaving 360,000 men. In theory.

Many of these 360,000 of these might be in relationships but not cohabiting. Some won’t like blondes. Some won’t like chubby women. Some won’t like loud oversharers. Some won’t want a 41 year old. Some won’t like women with kids or appreciate individual childcare arrangements. Then there are the ones who won’t travel more than 10 or 30 or 50 or 75 miles.

We still need to take away the 5 people with whom I have had serious relationships over the last 25 years, the 8 people I have been on dates with recently and the 100,000 people I have been in some kind of talking stage with since October last year.

I reckon we are now on roughly about 300 possibilities. But I am not really willing to travel further north than Preston, further south than Speke and further east than Warrington. I have taken west out of the equation completely. The Isle of Man is too far and I can’t see me being keen on anyone languishing on the floor of the Irish Sea.

We probably have 30 men now. At best. And that is not even thinking about whether the illusive “chemistry” or “spark” is there. This is purely an “on paper” situation. We’ve not yet considered whether they can cope with cult obsessions or bird trauma or strange sleeping arrangements from 2003. We haven’t even considered their football allegiance or their taste in music and comedy. Or whether they are kind and patient and have a good heart. You know, the real stuff that actually matters.

There is a real possibility that we are on 0 by now. I am not saying I don’t have a person. However, my fellow weirdo could be one of the global 2 billion men dying to date me. He could be drinking steins of beer in Munich or investigating cults in Salt Lake City or studying birds in the Galapogos Islands. It’s all very feasible.

The fact remains that the world is vast and we are small and limited by our circumstances. Does that mean that most people’s ‘person’ is really some kind of compromise? The perfect fit could be on the other side of the planet.

In light of that, perhaps I am too picky (even though I was rejected this time). Maybe there are multiple people because no situation or person is ever perfect and everyone has to compromise. Maybe there isn’t someone for everyone. Maybe there won’t be anyone for me, in my very specific geographical area and personal circumstances. And maybe that is ok.

Actually, I think it is ok. Because the fact of the matter is, I have someone who loves researching cults. I have someone who is comfortable sharing random aspects of their life. I have someone who can laugh at all the various situations I got myself into in my 20s. And that person is me.

I don’t need to be Nice Guy’s person. Or your person. Or anyone’s person. Statistically, it’s so hard and I’ve spent way too much time dicking about with figures here to illustrate a small point. But that’s ok because I only ever write for me anyway. And that’s ok too.

It’s ok not to be someone’s person and, indeed, not to find your person. Because you loving your weird is more important than anyone else loving your weird.

So go forth and be weird. Be that person on that date talking about Jonestown. Or Waco. Or any other weird and wonderful thing you love. Be a lot. Be you. Love your weird, even when they don’t. Your weird is wonderful.