23 Jan 2019

Dating. Do you love it or hate it?

IG: @selfcarecorner
Love it, hate it, some people even love to hate dating. I’m the latter. I find it all to be such an effort and although you can have a few good dates, they all just seem like a complete waste of time of late.

I've been dating on and off for few years now, having the occasional break here and there when things start to get that little bit more serious. All until the honeymoon period ends, I find out I'm the other woman, or it really was too good to be true. Then it’s back to Tinder I go. 

This past year I’ve been dating more than ever. I really came to terms with the fact that I'd quite like to share my life and my experiences with someone I was happy and comfortable with and decided that I was (finally) ready to commit. And don't get me wrong, you're not about to read an "I hate all men" stereotypical blog. I’ve met some lovely men along the way, and my male friends are amazing people. But dating the men in London is like a whole new kettle of fish let me tell ya! 

Back up the M1, you’d meet someone on a night out, or match with someone on one of the many dating platforms our millennial selves are unashamedly obsessed with, and you could be engaging in dry chit chat for weeks on end before actually meeting up. It's a lot of effort and for very little return. London on the other hand? Nah. You swipe right, you match, you meet and you either enjoy your evening and decide to see one another again, or you really don’t enjoy it at all and start the process again with only a matter of days wasted. It's a much quicker pace and much less disheartening when you've only wasted 6 texts on your latest catfish instead of 6 weeks.


IG: @frizzkidart
Let me put this all into context for you. Here comes the juicy nightmare-ish bit you were hoping to read when you clicked on the link. One of my first dates in London was with a 27 year old Glaswegian lawyer in November last year. There were no awkward moments and we seemed to enjoy each other’s company. So much so that we had moved from pub to pub drinking and yapping the night away. He appeared to be a proper gentlemen, holding doors open for me, pulling my chair out, covering the bill and even holding an umbrella over the two of us as we continued on our crawl of Clapham's finest boozey establishments. The night ended on a high as we parted ways and we both agreed that we would see one another again soon. Nothing strange about that is there? Well... this is when the weird sh*t begins. 

About 30 minutes after I had left him, he starts inviting me over to his house. We came to an agreement that this wasn’t a great idea, despite the intoxication, but that we would hang out some other time the following week instead as we did really get along. 


The next day he had text me asking to see me again that evening. I politely declined and suggested that it was a little bit too keen but was open to arranging something the following week. The next night, he calls me drunk at 1AM. I didn't answer the calls, because I'm not a psychopath answering calls to drunken strangers at an ungodly hour. I didn't open the texts he'd sent to follow the missed calls but could see that he was again inviting me over to his place. Both flattered and freaked out all the same, I really couldn't believe that this is the same chap I’d spent a really fun evening with just two nights prior. 

Anyway, fast forward a couple more days and he starts to question why I wasn’t responding to his texts. Hmm... go figure mate. But I explained that I had been super busy with work and to stop being so needy. This is when it gets real weird. Just five days after we met for the first time, I received a text from him at 12:30AM saying ‘You doing?’ Noticed that there's a pattern here?

Well I obviously wasn't going to respond, so I didn't open the message so that he wouldn't know I'd seen it and just ignored it. I'd made the decision in my head that I was going to text him the following day to explain it was all a bit too much for me and thank u, next. But before the sun arose, in fact just 10 minutes later I received another text from the Glaswegian gent. This one reads:


 ‘You’re actually just a big fatty anyway’.


Ha, sorry. What? I’ll admit, I haven’t been a size 8 since I was around 19 years old but does this define me? Hell no! Weight doesn’t define anyone. So, Mr. Lawyer, I hope you find happiness one day, so much happiness that I hope you choke on it too.

And so my search for my very own Prince Harry / Simon Neil / Matty Healy continues... offline. 

Do you have any dating experiences you want to share? Reach out! I wanna hear them.

Just Write About It.
Raven Twigg

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