Earlier this month I had a sudden thought…to online date or not to online date? That is the question. To throw yourself back into the realms of online obscurity and anonymity or to keep the fatalistic, romantic part of you alive and kicking as you frequent social events with an agenda (albeit a hidden or subconscious one) of meeting a single, lovely boy?
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife…not so these days I’m afraid Miss Austen. It is a truth universally acknowledged in this day and age that thanks to such brilliant discoveries as The Internet and other ‘forward thinking’movements in our society; a single man in possession of a fortune (good or otherwise) must be in want of a date/phone number/potential friend with benefits or, for some unknown reason, someone to ‘Poke’ occasionally on Facebook.
As I write this my ‘Old Soul’ head takes over and I’m totally with our Jane. A huge part of me (the overwhelming part that also believes I have lived many lives) yearns for a more simpler time when it comes to the rules and regulations of dating and relationships and all that malarkey.
Sometimes when I’m scattily wandering the more upper class areas of London after a delightful afternoon getting lost in the flagship Waterstones; I imagine myself all trussed up in corset and camisole, sewing a pointless picture and gazing out of a window, awaiting the arrival of a man who will ask my Father’s permission to court me. Instead I find myself hounded down Ballard’s Lane early one evening, whilst innocently walking home from work, by an inebriated, strange little man known only as ‘Anthony’ who, in his own words was ‘hoping to take me on a date’. Now putting aside both the fact that he was clearly old enough to be my Father and a drunken chav, who the HELL does he think he is? Hoping to take me on a date? You’ve got more chance of Megan Fox turning up naked on your doorstep matey let me tell you (and that’s only because I have a sneaking suspicion she may be easy). And as for asking my Father’s permission? Good luck finding him, try ringing the Daily Mail.
I won’t go into any kind of remote detail about a gin-fuelled evening at one of my favourite haunts ending in a bitter argument between two young best friends (one was cute and the other had the mysterious intrigue mastered), but it was one of those 5 am crashing back to earth moments when I had to stop and ask myself ‘what the f**k was I doing?’ I don’t know if those two made up, I never saw them again.
And then there are the countless occasions when we head out for an evening of dancing and merriment only to encounter nice young men who you might hang out with for a while, have a drink, have a dance, discuss current affairs (or belief in fate – I have a bracelet, it attracts that kind of attention) and then complete the evening with a hasty exchange of phone numbers as the bouncers are throwing you out and maybe a cheeky kiss. Only to never hear from said nice young man again. Ever. A very good friend of mine had yet another encounter with one of these creatures recently, we’ll call him Parklife. And much as it pains us to say it, the sudden break off of contact has led to many an afternoon at work discussing the possible reasons why someone, who seemed very keen and followed up the evening’s events would change their mind. We’re strong women, we pick ourselves up and move on, but this behaviour continues to baffle us and destroy our faith. So what to do?
Well with these continual delights the men-folk of
I’m going to tell you a story, a familiar one.
Once upon a time, on a crowded street in
And it was on those cold stone steps that they first caught each other’s eyes. He had lovely blue eyes, a touch of Ricky Wilson with Tom Meighan’s Irish heritage thrown in. But where was his neck? She was sure he had had a neck hidden under the Larne and Scott shirt he was wearing in his photos. He couldn’t make out her hair colour in the light, she was something of a chameleon in her photos (no tongue jokes please), but he had to admit he was impressed. Nevertheless, into the pub they ventured for drinks and small talk. And they talked…for five more dates.
They had lots in common, music and fashion mostly. He introduced her to the wonders of sushi and interactive table ordering, she introduced him to ‘Send In The Boys’ and The Backhanded Compliments. He listened intently to her stories of wrong-doings in her previous job and they both talked long into the nights over fine dining and sickly-sweet apple and cinnamon cocktails. Things were going well. Then came the third date kiss…
She was enjoying the kiss, it had been a while coming but she was enjoying it with this lovely, tall, elfin, slightly ginger….oh wait, she was pretty sure you weren’t supposed to imagine kissing someone else during a first kiss were you? Something was wrong. Was it the cocktails repeating on her? The lack of neck still? She tried to put it to the back of her mind, but it haunted her, was this whole seemingly sweet scenario of dating a set up for a rather huge fall?
Still, on they struggled for two more dates, including a mood-killer film trip to see ‘Precious’ and an awkward trip out with his work. But it wasn’t the same. The light brushing of hands wasn’t exciting it was weird, the conversation became stilted once they had decided which Kasabian album was the best and he had repeated his ‘I met Hugh Jackman’ story a few more times. Until one day, the conversations stopped completely and the love affair that could have been, faded away to oblivion.
I know this story only too well, because, if you hadn’t guessed already the young lady in question was me. Yes, both cajoled into, and intrigued by the world of Internet dating I decided to give myself a heads up in London City and help Mr All-Seeing and All-Knowing along on his then-miserable way in the process. Plus I was massively impressed by Goldie’s recent Internet find in Sheffield Sam (he turned out to be a twat too).
I don’t think I was looking for anything, nothing more than friendship maybe, plus I was developing a huge crush on my then Commercial Director at the Hell-Hole and this needed to be stopped in its tracks as quickly as one can say ‘Staff Christmas Party’.
So on I went, creating a profile and writing facts and figures about myself and anything that I felt people might want to know about me. And this is exactly the reason I decided not to venture into the world of online dating again.
It’s not that I am against the idea. I know several couples (Mr A-S A-K included) who have met and wooed electronically and have gone on to sustain very meaningful relationships. I also don’t believe the same stigma of yesteryear is attached the idea these days either. It seems as if busy people are taking control of their lives and making it easier to network in the short free time that they may have. But writing this alone, I die inside a little bit. It all seems very clinical, as if we are vetting someone on a flat screen for potential chemistry and picking out the likes and the dislikes and then making an informed decision. My experience mentioned before, forced me to question why we met and what compelled us to keep meeting? Something kept us going but, in hindsight, I doubted that the chemistry had ever been there as it should have been. I kind of hate the idea that someone would choose not to date me because of my taste in music or the fact that I like knitting, more so than the relentless knock-backs and disappointments I have faced on nights out. It feels exactly as it is, virtual reality. It’s not real life, it doesn’t compare to real feelings and my thoughts and ideas are further encouraged by the news that a very dear friend of mine recently found her Father emailing another woman. I wondered if that’s where we’re all headed. A virtual world where emailing someone who is not your wife is only virtual cheating and, therefore, not akin to real life. So that equates to virtual dating too for me in that case, ‘you tick certain boxes but the fact that you hate ‘Two Door Cinema Club’ means we’ll never meet or get on’. It’s to the point and stark and, for me, incomparable to the chemistry and fireworks that I have both experienced and dreamed of for so long, be it unrealistic or otherwise.
Call me old fashioned, or delusional may be closer to it, but I have always loved the excitement of sparks flying across the room or butterflies in your stomach as you realise the man you have been talking to for the last fifteen minutes (because you really fancy his friend) actually has lovely eyes and a sexy smile. There is no vetting prior to those moments, no informed decision making on a character without having said so much as three words to each other, there's just that moment when you either decide to pursue or walk away, to put yourself out there or forget it entirely.
What I really want is a dumbed-down ‘fishtank’ moment from Romeo and Juliet or a re-enactment of the end of ‘Sense and Sensibility’ and I just don’t feel ready to give that up yet, not for a flat profile and ten words to sum up my character. It may be a relentless task meeting and dating out there but it’s the real world, with real people and real moments and that feels better and more hopeful to me right now.
* * *
Lovemenot and I ponder this over a morning cuppa at work, the whole meeting/dating thing. She too is not interested in the online dating world. We’re discussing past evenings out and deciding to put an end to analysing acquaintances we made/half made both weeks and months ago to no avail whatsoever. Wondering why ‘insert name here’ didn’t call, why ‘insert name here’ ever bothered to take our numbers in the first place if they had no intention of ever using it and why we should ever bother giving out our numbers again.
She hasn’t heard from the last man she met and really rather liked, with no good reason of course, and I’m further fuelling my inexplicable, enamoured admiration for the French with my new literary revelation, ‘What French Women Know About Love, Sex and Other Matters of the Heart and Mind’. This Bible of a book teaches us to be more ‘in the moment’, more flirtatious, less analytical, not really give as much of a f**k as English people normally do about sexual politics and to learn to be comfortable in our own skin. Simple then. Be French. I can see this is the sort of person I want to be, but I can also see the long, painstaking process it may take to get there. After all it’s been 26 years and I’m none the wiser. But we’ll start as we mean to go on. So…devouring the last of our chocolate croissants (you have to start somewhere), Lovemenot and I hatched a forward-thinking plan and it starts with a little word called Serendipity.
Lovemenot and Belle’s Two Simple Steps to Dating Contentment
1) We will now be capping all excited spouting about potential men-folk interest at a strict three month ‘trial period’ where we shall be telling nobody ANYTHING for fear of having to let them all down again. This will be difficult but we feel we may near enough need to be traipsing down the aisle before admitting to our friends and family that we are, in fact, ‘seeing’ someone.
2) The phone numbers thing is getting downright irritating so, to avoid future disappointment in this field, Lovemenot and I will be making like Kate Beckinsale and employing some ‘Serendipity’ fairy tale notions into our nights out. If a boy wants our phone number we will literally tell them our full name, where we work and that if he really wants to see us again, he can find us at that way. Serendipity is employed, no phone-staring will be allowed (except for wallpaper settings) and the world will make sense again.
So is it working? I’ll have to get back to you on that one…..
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