I’ve fallen off the wagon. Yes, for some whole weeks I stayed off internet dating. But, somehow, possibly without my knowledge, I’ve signed up to Match.com. It’s not that I had anything against Guardian Soulmates, they were fine, cute and moderately dandy. It’s just that, well, if I signed up to that one again then all my ex-dates would see that I was back and it would be revealed just how really sad, terminally foolish and obsessed I am.
Also, my friend, whom I met through Soulmates, would realise that all my swearing off internet dating and swearing on being single was a complete, utter and overwhelming sham.
The problem seems to be that it might be addictive. Like any good drug it is the promise of some high that is better than some low or medium elevation. Just click on this man and your life will be better.
This time, however, I have it all under control. I’ve got it sussed. No more disappointingly unanswered emails, winks, nudges, adding to favourites. Rejection is not on the agenda. There will be no more lying in bed at night wondering why WhiteKnight34 hasn’t contacted me, why HeavenGuy11 doesn’t want to have sex with me, why Wnaker26 hasn’t proposed yet.
I have a cunning and infallible plan.
This is it:
I won’t email anyone, or wink at them, or nudge them, or poke them in the bollocks.
It will be like coffee. The smell will be better than the tasting. For I am simply a voyeur. I will read the profiles but not touch the keyboard. I will fantasise but not indulge. I am not addicted.
Showing posts with label Why I'm Single. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Why I'm Single. Show all posts
Monday, 7 July 2008
Sunday, 6 July 2008
How to Talk to Men in the Not Real World
Having recently retired from internet dating I decided that what I needed to do was practice talking to men in the real world. Since I don’t live in the real world this proved tricky. So I practiced talking to men in the gym.
This is what happened:
Expedition 1 -
I sat down at the rowing machine. A man sat down at the rowing machine next to me. So far so good. I chatted for a jolly thousand meters or so on topics as wide ranging as my children, my children and my children. The man was moderately interested in the theme. Even had a word or two on the subject himself. I then realised that it was the ex-Beloved and father of the aforementioned offspring. Still, at least I’d spoken to a man.
Expedition 2 –
I sat down at the rowing machine. A man sat down at the rowing machine next to me. So far so good. I checked that it wasn’t the ex-Beloved. It appeared not. Conveniently the display on his machine was broken. I helpfully suggested that if he followed me stroke for stroke he’d know how far he’d gone. He ran away.
Expedition 3 –
I waded into the Jacuzzi. A man was sitting next to me. We sat watching the swirling waters for some time. He looked at the clock. I said ‘What time is it?’ He said ‘Ten to ten’. I said ‘Thanks, I haven’t got my glasses on and am therefore completely blind.’ He laughed a nervous high-pitch laugh. He got out to reveal that he was wearing a bikini.
Expedition 4 –
I waded into the Jacuzzi. A man waded in next to me. I peered as closely as I could to ensure a genuine gender check. We sat watching the swirling waters for some time. He looked at the clock. I said ‘What time is it?’ He said ‘Ten to ten’. I said ‘Thanks, I haven’t got my glasses on and am therefore completely blind.’ He laughed a reassuringly deep although nervous laugh. ‘You look like a nice sort of chap.’ I ventured. He may or may not have smiled. At last, a result.
This real-world stuff seems a lot safer and more productive than online romance.
This is what happened:
Expedition 1 -
I sat down at the rowing machine. A man sat down at the rowing machine next to me. So far so good. I chatted for a jolly thousand meters or so on topics as wide ranging as my children, my children and my children. The man was moderately interested in the theme. Even had a word or two on the subject himself. I then realised that it was the ex-Beloved and father of the aforementioned offspring. Still, at least I’d spoken to a man.
Expedition 2 –
I sat down at the rowing machine. A man sat down at the rowing machine next to me. So far so good. I checked that it wasn’t the ex-Beloved. It appeared not. Conveniently the display on his machine was broken. I helpfully suggested that if he followed me stroke for stroke he’d know how far he’d gone. He ran away.
Expedition 3 –
I waded into the Jacuzzi. A man was sitting next to me. We sat watching the swirling waters for some time. He looked at the clock. I said ‘What time is it?’ He said ‘Ten to ten’. I said ‘Thanks, I haven’t got my glasses on and am therefore completely blind.’ He laughed a nervous high-pitch laugh. He got out to reveal that he was wearing a bikini.
Expedition 4 –
I waded into the Jacuzzi. A man waded in next to me. I peered as closely as I could to ensure a genuine gender check. We sat watching the swirling waters for some time. He looked at the clock. I said ‘What time is it?’ He said ‘Ten to ten’. I said ‘Thanks, I haven’t got my glasses on and am therefore completely blind.’ He laughed a reassuringly deep although nervous laugh. ‘You look like a nice sort of chap.’ I ventured. He may or may not have smiled. At last, a result.
This real-world stuff seems a lot safer and more productive than online romance.
Friday, 20 June 2008
What I Probably Shouldn’t Have Done
A letter came today. You may never see me or hear from me again. I thought I’d better warn you.
Other consequences may include:
Obesity and/or starvation.
Out and out war between rival factions of Physicist, Lawyer and Writer.
Sore bottoms.
A greater knowledge of all things.
Not getting my critical study finished.
Learning how to cook but not actually doing it.
Not writing that novel.
A greater degree of culture (not in the yogurt sense).
Not ever finding Mr Right.
Never having sex again.
A beautiful hand-sewn quilt.
Complete and total social isolation.
And
Possibly
Death.
This is what the letter said:
Get three months Sky subscription free. That’s all the Sky channels. Which is about a zillion. Call this number.
I called. I have free Sky subscription. Now. Already.
It’s better than Mr Right, it’s better than sex (ok, not better than sex but no one sent me a letter saying ‘free sex for three months just call this number’).
It’s on until Sept 20th.
Help! Please bring food, drink, spare AA batteries, After Eights, Before Eights and a change of clothing (for me and children, I expect you to arrive in clean clothing as is appropriate for a guest who may end up staying until the autumn). No we can’t watch the sports channel. I cancelled that one.
Other consequences may include:
Obesity and/or starvation.
Out and out war between rival factions of Physicist, Lawyer and Writer.
Sore bottoms.
A greater knowledge of all things.
Not getting my critical study finished.
Learning how to cook but not actually doing it.
Not writing that novel.
A greater degree of culture (not in the yogurt sense).
Not ever finding Mr Right.
Never having sex again.
A beautiful hand-sewn quilt.
Complete and total social isolation.
And
Possibly
Death.
This is what the letter said:
Get three months Sky subscription free. That’s all the Sky channels. Which is about a zillion. Call this number.
I called. I have free Sky subscription. Now. Already.
It’s better than Mr Right, it’s better than sex (ok, not better than sex but no one sent me a letter saying ‘free sex for three months just call this number’).
It’s on until Sept 20th.
Help! Please bring food, drink, spare AA batteries, After Eights, Before Eights and a change of clothing (for me and children, I expect you to arrive in clean clothing as is appropriate for a guest who may end up staying until the autumn). No we can’t watch the sports channel. I cancelled that one.
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