Love life

versus head versus heart.

 

Three little words.

Three little words with the maddening power to make my rib cage expand to bursting point.

Three little words that have been ricocheting between my thoughts for days. But now the days have melted into weeks and, to my horror, months.

These words have been haunting me for months; they’ve been with me as I’ve stood waiting for the lights, climbed the escalator and strolled the grocery aisles. They have invaded my existence.

I don’t know.

(more…)

a step into the unknown.

Scene from “Duck Soup” (1933).

Confessional: despite the fact that I blog about my love life, I actually have very little relationship experience.

Yeah, ironic, I know. Or perhaps that’s doesn’t come as a surprise at all… (Hmm. Let’s not dwell on that, ok?) Also, please do not use my blog as relationship advice. That would be a very bad idea.

(more…)

secret diary.

The confessions of an over-sharer…
Image

This bears far too much resemblance to my childhood diary for my liking. Yes, I was a 90s baby. (Image: Justice)

Confessional: I have very rarely been a dedicated diary-writer.

Whenever I did write in my Secret Diary as a kid (which was covered in blue sequin material, thank you very much) I was sure to make my entries original. “Ohmygosh, I like this boy!”, “Ohmygosh, it’s SO unfair!” and “Ohmygosh, she is so mean!” were the ideal complement to my ritual “padlocking” of the said diary so as to ward off the Sibling…who wouldn’t have been interested in reading its contents anyway, now that I come to think of it…

Anyway.

Now, it would be fairly safe to assume that this blog is the adult version of my sequin-spangled, flimsily-padlocked childhood diary, open for the interweb to read, right?

Not quite. (more…)

double dip.

A post that has nothing to do with hummus (and a lot to do with men).

Image
Would you give him another shot? (Yes, obviously.) #dishy

What’s your stance on double dipping? Do you see it as the ultimate social faux-pas that is on par picking one’s nose or do you really not give a damn?

Well, for those of you who are interested, I just Googled “does double dipping really spread germs” and the Mythbusters came up with the answer. And their answer is basically “no”. And if the Mythbusters say it’s true, then it’s gospel.

Alex! You said this wasn’t going to have anything to do with hummus! You said this post was going to be about men!

Well remembered, you clever little cracker. Apologies for getting sidetracked.

It had been a considerable amount of time since I had contemplated the conundrum that is double dipping in great depth, but I found myself doing just that at the start of this year.

It all began with liking a photo on Facebook. The start of every great modern love story. 

It wasn’t just any photo – it was a photo posted by a business. And perhaps I happen to know one of the business’ co-founders. And perhaps I briefly dated this co-founder guy and perhaps we agreed that we liked each other and perhaps we didn’t continue seeing each other because the timing was crap. Perhaps.

And so one day I happened to like this photo of his – simply because it was a great photo (and, for once in my life, not as a ploy an excuse to re-initiate communication with him). However, he took it as an invitation to re-kindle things between us.

Well, that sounded arrogant. How on earth did you know that, Alex?  Well, after months and months of not talking to each other there was suddenly quite a bit of communication between us. All initiated by him. All with the suggestion of seeing each other. Oh, and he started liking my status updates on a regular basis.

I was unsure how to respond. It was like having to choose between salted caramel and chocolate fudge ice cream. i.e a tough choice. See, on the one hand, there was some potential that something could develop between us given our previously-established mutual attraction. I already knew that he was a really lovely, talented, interesting guy. Why the hell wouldn’t I go there?

Well, the other half of my brain quite eloquently reminded me that it hadn’t worked out between us the first time round. Yes, the timing wasn’t great – but you can always find an excuse. The reality was that there was a reason why things between us hadn’t progressed (including, but not limited to, some sub-optimal communication skillz), so why would it be realistic to think that things would be any different the second time round?

This was how I came to ponder a non-consumable version of double dipping. That being, is it ever a good idea to give a guy whom you’ve already been romantically involved with another shot? Is it ever ok to “double dip” when it comes to men?

This was what traversed my brain for a solid day (or three).

If you’re a regular reader of this blog you probably won’t be surprised to hear that I spent this time talking to myself. A lot. Certainly my most endearing quality. For those of you who are new to the gang you can click here or here or here or there to find out what I’m talking about. Basically, I over-think everything and this occasion was no exception.

Spoiler alert: After a fair bit of internal debating I consciously decided to not pursue anything with this guy – which, I have to say, I was so very proud of myself for doing.

Why? Because I realised that, despite the fact that he was and is rather wonderful, I wasn’t actually attracted to him in the way that I had previously been. So, I responded to his messages, but I didn’t actively fuel the conversation. I saw him once briefly in a social setting, but I didn’t take him up on his offer to retrace our romantic steps. Basically, I totally wanted to give myself a handful of brownie points.

The deep irony is that since making this decision, this guy has started seeing someone else (which I found out about courtesy of social media – but of course!) Upon making this discovery, my first instinct was to Facebook stalk the hell out of this new girl… ok, and Insta and LinkedIn stalk her too. Who is SHE? Wow – she is SO pretty. They’re on a weekend away? Man, it must be pretty serious.

I felt torn between being really happy for him (ohmygosh she looks like a gorgeous human who is supremely well-suited to you. Therefore, you should definitely marry her!)* and feeling an odd pang in my chest which manifested itself in the form of a slightly furrowed brow.

Huh? You were the one who said no to him, you idiot! Yes, I know. I know, ok?! But that didn’t stop me from feeling just slightly jealous. Firstly, she is, objectively, a babe. But more so, she is seeing a guy who is pretty great… whom I liked at a stage… and who liked me. Which, in a weird way, makes her my replacement of sorts. Not really, but kinda. Good god – get over yourself, woman!

Feeling these wisps of sadness and envy was quite bizarre considering I’m actually really happy that this now gives me permission, in my mind, to be friends with him (and like his photos) without worrying that he may read anything into it. I knew in my head that choosing to not date him again was definitely the right decision for me – and I hope it was the best thing for him too – but my heart was still half a step behind…

Perhaps it was just my way of processing the loss, of sorts, for what could’ve been.
Perhaps I should just have both the salted caramel and chocolate fudge ice cream, after all…
Yes, I think that’s a good idea.

On that note, Happy Easter, chickens.

Alex x

* I would love to tell you that this thought didn’t actually cross my mind, but lying has never been one of my strengths. Sigh. I’m a work-in-progress, ok?!

lessons in lingering.

Image

The moments are melting away and I am trying to catch them between my fingers. But they slip into oblivion because my hands are like two colanders – great for draining pasta, not so great for trying to stop the passing of time.

And it’s passing, and my attempts to hold these seconds and minutes are futile.

So, I turn back to you and inhale, knowing that all I can do is relish this while it is still here.

And we are still here, and the surreal sparkle between us is still here, too; the only welcomed third wheel I’ve ever known.

My hand is upon your chest, simultaneously growing accustomed to the rhythmic rise and fall, whilst reminding myself that this will not last. Why is there so little middle ground?

It’s somewhat like a fine wine: as soon as it is opened it begins to deteriorate. You cannot save it – all you can do is drink and enjoy it before oxidisation reduces it to a stale red liquid.

But what is better? To leave the wine there on the shelf – forever looking forward to it, forever longing to taste it – but never opening it? Or uncorking the wine and, for one short night, enjoying its taste, body and warmth – a truly remarkable vintage – but never tasting it again?

Tasting is the better option, I guess. But then there is the undeniable pain of knowing that you’ll never taste the same vintage again, for that year only yielded one bottle of wine.

I lift the glass to my lips and savour the intoxicating flavour on my tongue – willing it to linger a little longer.

Breathe, Alex. Breathe and enjoy it.

The minutes are passing.

Cymbals clash and roar, tearing through the silence beside us, but we remain unmoved.

 ****

“Off limits”.

Of course I understand it in theory when distance allows me to be rational. But theory and practice are two very different things…

They are the person whom you are under no circumstances allowed to be romantically involved with.

The teacher with the sardonic smile, the tutor with olive skin and more sass than Beyonce, the boss whom you find inexplicably attractive, your best friend’s ex, your brother’s ex, your best friend’s brother, your sister’s boyfriend’s brother, your best friend’s boyfriend’s ex, your best friend’s mum.

All off limits. There are principles and limits. Society says there is right and wrong and that this? This is simply impermissible.

It’s unfair. It is decidedly unfair. Why can’t this last? Why can’t you stay? Why won’t they let us?

Because there are principles to uphold.

But what if there is something there – something with the potential to become something real and brilliant?

There are principles and there is the collateral. What about all of the people who would get hurt in the process? How about all of the relationships you’d damage? Are they worth it? You know it is selfish to say “yes” when doing so will upset someone else.

But what about my own happiness? What if saying “no” means missing out on something rather wonderful?

Damn principles.

****

Then reality comes hurtling in like a car roaring up to the front door.

And before I know it, this is over.

There are niceties to fill in the final seconds.

And then we turn back to our mundane days.

****

I can remember the contours of your face,  but your scent has become blurred in my mind. I can only recall that I liked it – and that it wasn’t Lynx.

I can’t remember your voice. I didn’t have time to burn it into my memory.

And I’m still unsure whether I would have preferred to have ever uncorked that wine or not.

Either way, we made our choice and now we’ve finished the bottle.

And I’ll never taste it again.

 

Alex x

 

it’s a date.

Is it really?

Image

Image courtesy of We Heart It.

“One should always be drunk. That’s all that matters…But with what?
With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you chose. But get drunk.” 

― Baudelaire. 

I’m trying to decipher this and, well, I’m just not sure. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to help me?

If so, let me recreate the scene for you…

****

We’re friends. Just friends. Vague friends with some mutual friends.

And we decide to go out one night because I owe him a drink. Inconsequential, n’est-ce pas?

My tutorial finishes in the early evening and I bring some extra makeup with me in a vain attempt to freshen up the foundation that’s starting to slip down my cheeks. I have no idea why I ever bought a pinky-burgundy-brown eye-shadow palette. Pink on your eyes, Alex? Good lord.

untitledIs it a coincidence that it’s called “Blushed Wines”?

I get the off the bus and walk the last 200 metres. This is the time for multi-tasking as I reach to unravel my bun whilst crossing the road. I glance a figure I recognise out of the corner of my eye, but I am trying to play it cool so I pretend to not notice. But he notices me and we greet each other in the middle of the road, whilst still striding towards our meeting point.

We cross the road and descend into a bar that is rimmed with impersonal opulence with a dash of Pre-Raphaelite charm on the side. Cocktails. We order cocktails under the dim lighting and we discuss the world. The minute mingle smoothly and I find myself laughing and enjoying this more than I anticipated.

One drink turns into two. Two drinks turns into three. Three drinks turns into dinner.

Our brisk heels tap their way down George Street. Darling George has seen a fair bit of my antics life over the years. We turn down a lifeless alleyway, cos that’s where all the cool bars can be found.

Now we’re drinking wine. We share a bottle at our table for two, because it’s economical and because tomorrow can wait.

I’m too busy enjoying my dinner and the company to notice that we may look like a couple. Anyway, we’re just friends.

****

The following week something is niggling in the back of my mind, but I Can’t. Put. My. Finger. On. It.

So, I keep on mulling.

Mulling. Mull. Mulled wine. Wine. Wine!

A + B = C, right?

Therefore, someone who is a lovely person + great company + intelligent + amusing + rather good looking = unexpected attraction.

Wait. What?!? Are you serious?!

****

Let’s do a quick recap: two friends go out for a drink… which turns into multiple drinks and dinner. They have a good time. And then one of them wonders whether they are attracted to the other. But they’re friends.

Now, as I said, I needed your help. See, I have a conundrum:

Was that a date?

Alex x 

PDAs: the single promises and the loved-up amnesia.

A love-hate relationship with PDAs and how they highlight my double standards.

Image

How was your Valentine’s Day? It has a special way of bringing out the best and worst in us, wouldn’t you agree?

We make someone feel special (or atone for our mistakes) with sugar, red-petaled plants and new lingerie. We hurl profanities at anyone who reminds you of your distaste for the day. We buy expensive cards. We crave what we want, but don’t have. We remember that we are pretty damn lucky. We sulk at our desks when seemingly every other colleagues receives a ribbon-tied delivery. We do stupidly cheesy things which we wouldn’t dare do any other day of the year.

Yeah, it’s a bit of a mixed bag, isn’t it?

Personally, what I was most confronted by this Valentine’s Day was my Facebook newsfeed.

Now, as many of you may know I am a self-confessed cheese. Quite simply, I love all things cheesy and cute. Yes, it’s fairly terrible – I’m well aware. Despite this, the amount of love-themed paraphernalia plastered all over Facebook over Valentine’s Day was beyond my limits. Seemingly every man, woman, guinea-pig and brand I had ever liked had to chip in their pink coloured five cents. My eyes felt violated by the sheer amount of hearts and roses on my screen to the point where I actually found it repulsive.

Yes, that’s right: the girl who loves all things cheesy became the Grinch of Valentine’s Day simply from scanning social media. That, darlings, is what we call “the power of love”. 

Well, unfortunately for me I realised earlier this year that this isn’t the only area where I have some fairly prominent double standards…

See, whenever I’m even vaguely loved up I am not only into the guy, I’m also seriously into the PDAs. All of that dopamine released into my system means that I totally forget about the fact that I am even in public… let alone the fact that my fellow civilians didn’t ask to witness my public displays of affection… but I forget all of this because I’m far too intoxicated. Or “Drunk in Love” as Bey and Jay-Z would say.

Bus? Boat? Plane? Train? The bus stop? The traffic lights? The park? The communal table at that bar?

Nothing is sacred, cherubs. And for that I apologise. Sincerely. I really do… but when I’m in the moment, I feel like I’m in a rom com or an iconic moment like this…

doisneau_kiss (1) Robert Doisneau, 1950, Le baiser de l’hôtel de ville, 1950.

But when it’s someone else’s PDA I turn into a combination of two Manhattan brunettes: Marnie and Blair…

Image  

Image

Uhh… Yeah… So… somewhat hypocritical. Look, I’m sorry. I really am. And to the passersby that I have inflicted my own PDAs upon in the past? Yeah, I’m sorry to you all, too… but the thing is, is that I only remember to say sorry when I’m single and I see a couple making out from the corner of my eye.

Look, I’m not that bitter. I would actually deny being bitter at all. I am very happy for people that are madly into each other to the extent that the world feels off balance and as though it’s melting. Evidently, I kind of adore PDAs – but only on the condition that I am a participant. PDAs are not a spectator sport.

As I said, double standards.

I’ve been trying to understand what it is about (other peoples’) PDAs which bothers me and I think I have reduced it down to this: I feel a twinge of jealousy. No, not the coolest thing to admit, is it? There are two people who are both really attracted to each other. Two people who probably still have that nervousness and anxiety of the beginning of a relationship. Everything’s new and fresh, brimming with a whirlwind of lust and potential.

Or perhaps I’m reading too much into things and they’re just two drunk strangers.

Either way, who am I to resent someone else getting a taste of that intoxicating dopamine?

Alex x

after all this time.

I hate to admit it, but there is still a tiny part of me which still isn’t over you.
(Yeah, I know.)

285503b6f32a9451a43d4394c295a060


“Just because I finally got over you, doesn’t mean there are days when it all just comes rushing back” – a quote I found on Pinterest. 

After all this time I still think about you and what we could’ve been. It’s not like you were The One That Got Away (and I don’t think that I was that person for you either), which is a good thing as it’d be quite depressing you were.

What I mean, is that, despite knowing rationally that there were very good reasons why things didn’t work out between us, there is a little part of my brain which likes to create these narratives about you and I. Yes, that’s right, rascals – I have too much free brain space and I am a sad human being. Don’t worry – my sibling already reminds me of these things regularly. 

It can be as simple as a song which reminds me of you and only you. Or seeing you post something on Facebook. Or hanging out in areas where I know I could bump into you (I’d just like to clarify for if we do bump into each other, that I just like hanging out there and I was in those bars before there was something between us… but let’s not lie: I secretly want to bump into you.) Or it could be doing things which remind me of you cos they’re things that you love doing, too. Or it could be someone who looks like you – with the same kind of build and facial hair. Or an accent which is just like yours and which makes me melt in exactly the same way as yours did.

All of these little things remind me of you. I can’t help it. I just can’t seem to shake the memory of you.

Does it mean that I’m not over you? Or that I want someone or something new in my life? Or something else altogether? It means you have a hankering for brie, girl. Obvs.

Am I crazy for letting you roam around in my imagination? Uhh. How is that even a question, Alex?  Ok. So evidently I am. It is not a helpful thing. I get that.

But, wait. What if we had stronger feelings for each other a second time round? What if the timing was better? What if you were more emotionally available? What if I was a better version of me? What if…

Do you know what the most annoying thing about all of this is? I got over you. I did cleanse you from my system. I didn’t Facebook stalk you and I was actually very happy that things didn’t continue between us. And then? Then I have these moments where I let my mind wander…

I know that, objectively, thinking about all of the things that could have been with gents from a long time ago is genuinely stupid – even for me. Why on earth am I torturing myself like this? And how did you get so far under my skin? How can I deep cleanse you from my system once again?

I guess this is the part of the blog post where the ‘resolution’ of sorts belongs: where we find a solution to my mild ‘thinking about men from my past’ addiction. But, honestly? I don’t know. It’s not like I can predict when you’re going to appear in my thoughts and its not like I want you there in my mind. Perhaps I need to put some preventative strategies in place. Yes, that could be a good start.

But how do you stop an over-thinker from over-thinking?

Something for this chick with too much spare brain space to ponder, I guess. Perhaps that’s it – perhaps I need to overload my brain with other stuff that has nothing to do with my love life. You could actually be onto something, Alex. In the meantime, suggestions would actually be great. I’ll thank you for your help by showering you with brownies. (And I make great brownies, if I do say so myself.)

In the meantime, at least Snape and Bon Iver get me. That’s a comfort.

Alex x

****

I have buried you
Every place I’ve been
You keep ending up
In my shaking hands

You keep ending up
Every place I’ve been
In my shaking hands
Every place I am

“A Song For a Lover of Long Ago”, Bon Iver

****
Image

the dictionary according to Alex.

My friend eliminated one word from my vocabulary and it changed my love life. Completely.

Raspberry-MochatiniI can’t exactly remember what that cocktail looked like. All I know is that it tasted good.

This post comes typed to you from Downtown Vancouver to the sound of my favourite ear-gasm: London Grammar.

I recently spent quite a bit of time one-on-one with a close friend  (and by ‘quite a bit of time’ I’m referring to the ‘together 24/7′ variety). It was a bit more than we’re used to, but it was great – especially as we didn’t end up at each others’ throats. Always a bonus. 

Anyway. During our time together she laughed and noted that I use quite a lot of bizarre expressions on a regular basis. Of course she already knew this about me, but she commented that she hadn’t realised quite how often I used these Alex-isms.

Yes, it’s true. I use lots of weird phrases. Regularly. ‘All the time’ kind of regularly.

Let’s see. We have:
“Ready spaghetti!”
“Cool beans”
“Cool bananas” (feeling the food vibe yet?)
“Amigo” (or “amiga” depending on the person’s gender)
“For the love of peanuts”
“Honey bee” (for my darling canine, anyone under the age of seven or a close girlfriend)
“Boom!”
“Fandango”
“Shebang”
“Negatory, ghost rider”
“Roger that”
“Non-sober”
“B!#chcake”
“Zing!”
“Dingus”

I’m fairly oblivious as to how often I use these words. Put it this way: apparently I wasn’t paying much attention in primary school and I subsequently left some gaping holes in my vocabulary where some more eloquent phrases should reside. Yes, that makes a lot of sense.

Now, a few months ago I was sipping on a cocktail with my good friend. In fact, he had kindly let me have his cocktail and he took mine cos mine was kinda gross and his tasted like chocolate, but he liked my weird one. Whatever! I was unpacking my most recent quandaries (gentleman-related quandaries, obviously) to him. Suddenly, mid-conversation he turned to look at me and said, “Alex. Can I give you my unsolicited advice?”
“Of course”, I nodded eagerly. I’ll take any good advice I can get my grubby mitts on.
“Firstly, for the love of god, never use the word ‘singledom’ ever again,” he gasped. “You’re not… you’re… your being single is not who you are,” he reasoned. He paused, exhaling with exasperation. “Secondly, that guy?… Meh,” he said as he gave me the biggest, most non-committal, truly ambivalent shrug I’ve ever witnessed.
“Huh?”
“Put it this way: if he’s not being emotionally honest now, how can you ever expect him to be emotionally honest with you in the future?”
(He’s got a good brain upon his shoulders, this one.)

And you know what? He had been far more insightful in those few minutes that I had been in a long, long while. I couldn’t see that I was letting my relationship status govern how I saw everything else in my life and how I saw myself. And hearing that from him did, in fact, change my perspective. For if I was indeed defining myself by my (long-term) lack of a long-term romantic relationship, then who was I without this identifier? ‘Hi! I’m Alex and I specialise in singledom’ had to become, ‘Hi! I’m Alex’. And that had to become enough.

What my friend reminded me in those few words was that I am a whole entity just as I am, rather than a four fifths hoping and waiting to be made whole.

Oh, and what he said about that emotionally dishonest guy? Hit the nail on the head there, too. Yep. Twice within two minutes.

So, since then I have been quite conscious as to the words which tumble out of my mouth. Specifically, I’ve been correcting myself as I get out of my subconscious habit of using the word ‘singledom’. Initially, it was a little hard (and it was surprising when I realised just how often I was using the S word), but now it’s fine.

Anyway. I’ve added a new word to my jargon to fill the void which ‘singledom’ left: “Babetown” – a word reserved for the description of the most physically delectable of the human species and a word which I’m using with fervour.

Mmmm. Babetown. Mmm chocolate cocktails.

Alex x

is that a challenge?

“It always seems impossible until it’s done.”
– N. Mandela.

Although I do forget it sometimes, it is a well-established fact in my life that I relish a challenge.

My brother, whom I fondly refer to as The Sibling, is the comedian of our family. One of ‘his’ lines from a few years ago is, without a doubt, “IS THAT A CHALLENGE?!” delivered with a mock booming voice (which isn’t that hard for him considering how low his voice is). So, “Is that a challenge?!” definitely has a special (and random) place within our family’s vernacular.

I digress.

Now, you may or may not remember that a few posts ago I mentioned that I had some Contentment items on my 2014 Bucket List. You may be asking, “How can you make contentment an item you can tick off a Bucket List, Alex?”. To which I would respond,
“You are a smart cookie and, in short, you can’t.”
Then you give me that cute confused look that you do oh, so well.

See, rather than creating something to do this year, I’ve come up with something to not do.

It all began a few weeks ago when I was chatting with a close girlfriend of mine. She’s someone who listens to me ramble about my latest love life, man drama, sagas various and their accompanying stress on a pretty regular basis. i.e. she’s a gem and a patient gem at that. We were discussing Tinder (naturally) as we were crossing Oxford Street at Taylor Square when she shared her recent observations of my love life and I. It went down something like this:

Her: “I don’t think you’ve been very happy.”
Me: “Oh?”
Her: “Yeah. You were really happy being single and now you’re not.”
Me: “Hmm. I think you may have a point… When do you think it started? Post-Hot Muso?”
Her: “No. I think it was just before him.”
Me: “So, around the time I started using Tinder?”
Her: …
Me: “This could explain a lot…”, as I hit my head against a myriad of light bulbs which had suddenly been illuminated.

It took me a bit of time to unravel exactly why Tinder, aka Ego Stroke In The Palm of Your Hand, had actually turned someone who was very happily going about her life with a big dollop of contentment into someone who was (even more) preoccupied with her love life (than usual)… and someone who suddenly found it very dissatisfying.

Here’s my hypothesis: I found Tinder disappointing. See, if you’re inundated with a myriad of ‘matches’ then it’s reasonable to think, “Hey! There’s actually a fairly solid chance that something could actually come of this Tinder thing!”, right? Well, anyway, that was my subconscious logic. And then for nothing (positive) to really come of Tinder I was left feeling… well, disappointed. No, actually ‘disappointed’ isn’t the right word. It made me feel like a less valuable version of myself, because I reasoned that if nothing came to fruition for me on Tinder for god’s sake then what kind of hope did I have in the Real World?

So, during my experience of Tinder I basically went from:

Image

to

Image

and then

Image

to

Image

to

Image

and then finally

Image

Tinder didn’t make me feel good about myself. The Ego Stroke high lasts for about 5 seconds – just in the way that you can have a mega sugar high and then crash after a slurpee. Tinder is my crappy sugar – no real sustenance or nourishment. I started Tinder in a place of contentment and what did I get from it? A big fat wad of discontentment. Brilllliant.

Once I had FINALLY come to this realisation, I knew that going back on Tinder wouldn’t make the discontentment go away. So, I decided when I was writing my Bucket List for this year that my challenge would be to go for a year without any form of online dating. Tinder. RSVP. OkCupid. eHarmony. Zoosk. Elite Singles. Seeking Arrangement. Be2. Ashley Madison. Match. ALL. OF. THEM.*

That’s right, chipmunks: three hundred and sixty-five days sans online dating. Of any kind.

IS THAT A CHALLENGE?! 

Uhh. Yes, it is. Also, how the hell will you survive, Alex?!

My internal protests lasted for about twenty eight seconds, because as soon as I committed myself to it, I was surprised to realise that I felt tangibly more peaceful. I exhaled deeply. I hadn’t even realised how shallow my breathing had been – it had been that long. Bizarrely enough, I think I found the knowledge that there would be no online dating rather comforting.

Of course, I do genuinely wonder if I’ll meet anyone interesting this year, but I do find it encouraging to remind myself that all of our parents and older family friends met each other without the help of RSVP and eHarmony. It’s also reassuring to know that I do have a track record of meeting people in somewhat bizarre places (if you can consider that reassuring?)

It’s been tempting to log back in over the past nearly four weeks, but so far I haven’t gone back to the dark side… and the vast majority of the time I think I really like it this way. I can feel the contentment I’ve missed so badly slowly, drowsily waking up from its anesthetic.

And anyway, there’s the chance that when I’m spending less time looking down at my smartphone screen I’ll be able to make eye-contact with more gents in real life…

Image

…. and perhaps one of them will bear some resemblance to Dan Humphrey.
Alex x

* I would like to assure you that I did not have an account for each of these. (Or did I?) No, Alex, you didn’t.