- Right, breakup schmakeup, let’s get back onto the dating scene
- Hmm I work in a 99% female environment
- I’ve also already dated all eligible friends-of-friends
- Ok, back to the internet we go
- Going to stick with just Bumble, I mean I’m the one who needs to make the first move here, so that’s me reclaiming my power right?
- Yay setting up a new profile, fun times
- Looks like no one’s taken a decent picture of me since 2014…
- How do I sum up myself in a couple of lines? #existentialcrisis
- Ok photos chosen, witty-yet-modest profile written, COME AT ME BOYS
- **Swipes left for half an hour
- Beginning to remember why I deleted this thing in the first place…
- Oo hello tall guy working in London with a cute dog, righty swipey for you
- WE MATCHED I AM ON FIRE
- Crap, need to come up with an opening line that is suave and funny and flirty and not at all desperate or boring
- Shit this is really hard
- Does sending an emoji count? How does Bumble qualify these things??
- ‘Hi how’s your week going?’
- Good work Charlotte, good work
- Now the guy has only 24 hours to respond?! Most of my friends take at least two days to reply to WhatsApp messages, let alone someone I’ve never even met!!
- What’s the etiquette on swiping right on someone you matched with on Tinder about a year ago?
- At least it’s comforting to know that I’m not the only one trying and failing to meet someone
- Oo hello new match, let’s see who you are
- Hmm. Must have been a drunk right swipe…
- Ok chats are developing with Cute Dog Guy, I feel a date coming on
- **2 days later** Christ I’m not here for a pen pal, just ask me out for a drink dammit
- Oh hello, look at all these new matches
- Three chats going on, such a player right now
- And all three of them have asked me out for a drink! Get in
- Hmm, this week and next week are already pretty busy. Forgot how time-consuming this dating thing is
- It’s Friday night and I’m meant to be going on a date but all I want to do is get into loungewear and eat pizza and watch Netflix. Maybe I’m not so ready for this dating thing after all…
For those of you that don’t know, over the last few months I’ve become a bit of a running enthusiast. With two 10k races coming up this summer, training is well under way, and part of this training is running the 9.5k journey home from work once a week. It’s a well-established fact that when you run home from work, a backpack is required (purse, keys, oyster card, clothes etc.), and this week mine decided to chafe. I mean, really chafe. I now have symmetrical marks on each side of my neck that look a lot (aka exactly) like hickeys. Fan-bloody-tastic.
Ah hickeys, those symbols of teenagerdom and fleeting romance. That internal struggle between wanting to cover them up but yet wanting everyone to know that you’ve got one. That glee you got from pointing out a hickey on a friend’s neck, squealing ‘who gave you THAT??’ in carrying tones. A hickey was part badge of honour, part rite of passage. And also part ‘ewww why did you let a guy bite you?’
In a weird way, my present non-hickey has made me slightly nostalgic for the real hickeys of my youth. Or rather, the simplicity of relationships back then. In my little boarding school bubble, everything was remarkably easy. You snogged a boy, you established that you liked one another, and hey presto you were boyfriend and girlfriend. Simples! There was none of this faffing about for months ‘seeing each other’ and then a really painful conversation along the lines of ‘where is this going?’ You’d always know if your boyfriend cheated on you because the whole school would know before you. Hell, half of my year knew I was going out with a guy before I had even been consulted. You knew a guy’s history before you’d had his tongue shoved down your throat (the annual ‘pulling tree’ drawn out by bored girls was a real help here), you saw each other every day, and when the ultra-meaningful three-week relationship came to an end (he kissed someone else/you got bored/he wouldn’t respect your lack of desire to give him a handjob) all you needed was a Bacardi Breezer-fuelled school disco to find your next snog sensation.
Of course, it was all terribly complicated and traumatic and dramatic at the time. The teenage years were littered with tears, fumbled attempts at ‘going all the way’, and year groups divided over whose side to choose in a break-up. There are certainly parts of it I don’t miss: where would we be if every drunk mashing of faces turned into a relationship? And thank heavens we aren’t forced to encounter the object of our (somewhat misguided) affections on a daily basis. Then there’s the gossip, the rumours, everyone knowing more about your relationship than you do yourself… Although having said that, some work environments can bear a striking resemblance to school in certain aspects.
Maybe I’m just nostalgic for the 17-year-old me. The girl who didn’t think that 90% of men are bastards, and who wasn’t going on endless disappointing dates. Sure, I had my fair share of teenage angst, but that was child’s play compared to what the last eight years have thrown at me. I distinctly remember one house party where I literally ran screaming out of a tent when my ‘boyfriend’ started to unzip his jeans and guide my hand to the terrifying thing that lay beneath. At the time I was mortified, but now I’m proud of Teenage Me for not doing something she didn’t want to do. You go girl!