A petite girl with tiny eyes and sharp features
began to devour her basket of food, occasionally looking up from her phone she
was immersed in. At another four-person table, one individual was sat with a
sour look on his face, he wasn't alone though, two large burgers were there
to keep him company.
The windows were fogged with steam and breath. After
seeing a mediocre film, we were sharing a cosy fondue.
''I'm using this app where you like or dislike
different users, and can chat with them, then, if you both match,'' I said.
Her eyes popped. "I actually know this
one!"
She pointed at me. "Bidder!”
"What?" I asked.
"It's called Bidder, the one where you swipe
and make a bid for people."
"Sort of. You're close. But it's actually
called..."
"Don't tell me," she pondered for a few
more seconds, moving her lips, though I think she was just reciting 'Bidder'.
"Okay, go on, then. What's it called?"
"Tinder," I retorted.
"No," she shook her head. "I
preferred my one. Your name for it actually just doesn't make sense."
I really believe that certain people arrive in your
life as catalysts, to help you grow and move forward. My friendship with Eimear
is just that. Nourishing, medicinal. She's bonkers, but there's more to her
too. We have a laugh but we also talk about the important stuff, what it means
to be strong, as well as life and heartbreak. We're careful with each other, we
tiptoe. We know when to just agree in general ways, when not to
pursue a topic, we are alert to hints. Also, she's been around long enough not
to be afraid to shout bullshit at ninety percent of my assertions.
That night, dating came up in conversation and I
explained to her in varying degrees of detail about my strategy towards it, she
listened very carefully and then pointed out a few flaws in my plan I hadn't
noticed. I don't remember if she was mean about it or if I was just humiliated
on principle.
These were dangerous waters, even for her, to
submerge herself in.
Because the thing is: anyone who knows me
understands that I love online dating, it's an outlet that brings me alive
(hey, we all get our kicks somewhere). I find it's like stepping into a
different reality. It allows me present an airbrushed version of me, more
marketable, easier to love. I can dispense information on a need-to-know basis,
experiment with my identity and push it to further limits. I'm like an onion
offering lots of layers to unpeel.
I'd been abstaining from it for a few months. In
September, I had that moment where I finally realised a relationship isn't
going to cure me of all that makes me unhappy. I needed time to recognise my
own power, my own sense of purpose. Become the producer of my own contentment,
the administrator of my own rescue. Learn that I can create my own happiness
and the right guy will solely add to that, not determine it. My heart can only learn its
true capacity to love once I've sorted myself out first.
However, since entering back into the game things
have been progressing frustratingly slow. Yes, I learned my lesson and was no longer
seeing myself as an extension of another person, but something was still not clicking.
After disclosing this to Eimear she offered to have a go at it with
me, and see where I was falling short.
We sat side by side, both of us properly focused on
the task at hand. No sidestepping.
Three minutes into mission impossible, she wanted to throw me out the
window in despair.
"Next!"
"Swipe left."
"Nah!"
"Never!"
"Sick!"
"Ha, please!"
These were all words that came out of my mouth.
"Sick!"
"Ha, please!"
These were all words that came out of my mouth.
"What about this one?" she asked wearily.
"No, thanks. Marathon runners do not impress
me, they're all egomaniacs."
"This guy seems nice," she suggested
sweetly.
"Keep going, I'm getting double chin
vibes."
"You're being a snob," she declared,
leaning forward to force me into friendly eye contact.
"Well, I think there's something to be said for
someone who knows what they want and is unapologetic in getting it. I'm not
settling because I know my self-worth," I asserted.
The more she questioned my choices, the more
committed I'd become to them. I tend to do that in the face of opposition. Ask
my father.
It doesn't take Einstein to see what I was doing.
Because when it comes to dating, to judging people full stop, I've been an
absolute dick.
Upon further investigation, beneath the surface at least, being picky has been my coping mechanism
for justifying still being single. Leading this façade where I made out I can
only see the virtues in 10/10s not 9.5s has been my way of harnessing my fears
and governing my doubts.
And the sad reality is I didn't give my long list of
criteria a second thought, because that stuff is just obvious, isn't it?
Height: 5ft 10 or more. Relationship with mother: calls every second Sunday.
Eyebrows: maintained without being too feminine. Without realising it my list
extended onto understanding craft beers, getting on with my cousin Sandra at
weddings, the ability to dress well without supervision, owning a low hairline,
having a penchant for smart comedy, giving me the password to his Netflix
account.
I complain about the bio of the guy on Tinder, the
one with the exclamation marks and the overuse of emojis, and the mechanic from
Clare who uploaded a photograph of himself in the changing room of New Look
wearing clothes he didn't actually own. I've openly mocked profile photos of
men with babies, grandparents, sunglasses, Snapchat filters, visible acne.
I condense them down to cruel essentials, make them
sound more lucid than I actually find them. Come up with any excuse to dismiss
them.
JESUS CHRIST! DOES THAT SAY MORE ABOUT ME THAN IT
DOES ABOUT THEM!
It represents many things - fears,
insecurities, betrayals, a Gordian knot of interpersonal complications. But
mostly it's been an unconscious coping mechanism. It's all directly tied.
For so long, I thought me being choosy was my way of trying to
cheat the system, skip the middle, jump past that awkward early era of first
dates to the honeymoon setting in Bali. I figured that if I kept moving fast
enough, then perhaps I could outrun the rulebook. But sometimes chaos is the
road to transformation. Love isn't achieved by following a straight and narrow
road. Copping on to my behaviour forced me to take a really hard look at myself,
but at the same time, I couldn't handle, at first, what it represented.
I used to roll my eyes at all those singletons with
their fanciful notions. They'd mystified me and make me retch with their
ludicrous paths, their sense of entitlement, their ridiculousness. It'd get
dizzy solely thinking about the crap racing through their heads. Certain
suitors require a high-end quantifiable job title before messaging you? Erm,
just because someone is paid well to make important decisions and negotiate
deals, a smokin' career doesn't make them a perfect match, babes. Rookie
mistake - amateurs! Potential partners need to be active gym goers? Hurray to
you for not concealing your contempt for us pond scum. Thank you for your kind
service in wading through the peasants, asshole. Gosh! You people are
limiting yourselves, robbing yourselves of joy, denying yourself the
opportunity of love.
But clearly I was writing people off just as
fast, I was still sneering, I just had my own way of doing it. There's no lesser evil, I still needed to
diminish my ego and cut off that stringent dogma of perfectionism I'd set.
I marvel at the relationships of my friends, their
parents, random couples, how accepting they are, how full of compromise and
trying, and I think, "I don't know if I can do that." But maybe that
sort of compromise doesn't feel that forced after all? It's the crux of love,
really. The cornerstones to intimacy, passion, connection. Doing their
best for each other, because of each other and in equal parts filling both lives with colour and
noise, warmth and energy as a result.
Remembering your favourite takeaway order doesn't
photograph. Being that person to love and support you as best they can doesn't
have a checkbox on a dating site. There's no app for "Hi! I'll be up first
to make the coffee in the mornings and sit through that cringe-worthy reality
show you like so much because I know you cherish it". And the point is
surely, that with the nice ones, the gentle ones, the ones who will make an
effort to chat with your friends, save the last digestive, buy the book you
mentioned casually one lunchtime, not take their dancing eyes off you in the pub
because they're so transfixed by your presence, they can't be gauged or
measured via a swipe.
In realising my bullshit, I've learned to let go. In
letting go, I've learned to breathe. In learning to breathe, I've learned to be
present, find stillness. In that stillness I have grown.
I have been humbled. And with that humility I want
to be kinder, more open to them and to myself. I want to accept the potential
loves of my life in the same way I too only want to be accepted.
That vulnerability, it's fuckin' scary.
Up to now I
haven't actually delved that deeply, I just thought I had. Because these
restrictions I've been applying have only prevented me from meeting so many
desirable prospects. And halfway happy will never be enough, I have to go balls to the wall. Or else I'll always be left questioning: what if?
I wonder sometimes if I'm the only one spending my
life making the same mistakes over and over again or if that's simply human.
Third time's the charm?!
Third time's the charm?!
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