I'm a typical Virgo, sue me.

According to the random astrology website I found via google; Virgos tend to like the following:

• Intellectual stimulation
• Details
• Facts
• Lists
• Bringing order out of chaos
• Improving things
• Planning things in advance
• Stability
• Security
• Routines
• Organization

These things describe me to a tee. Uncertainty makes me nervous, change, makes me come out in hives, not having plans can cause me to spiral into despair. As you can imagine, these personality traits are not conducive to the modern dating world.

Tinder, and the likes have given birth to this awful phenomenon called 'ghosting'. Ghosting, for the uninitiated (lucky you) involves one party simply ignoring the other, for absolutely no apparent reason. One minute, you're chatting, organising a date, the next minute; nothing, nada, zilch. Other people's feelings and expectations are disposable, in favour of the next girl/guy that you swipe right for.

I'd like to say that I'm innocent here, that I'm the damsel in distress sitting at home whilst potential suitor after potential suitor shuns me. Of course I'm not. Just last week, I was simply not brave enough to tell someone that they weren't for me. He had, throughout our dinner, downed ten beers. TEN BEERS. He was condescending,  over bearing, and far too tactile for my liking. But there was something worse. Worse than his (small) hands reaching for mine awkwardly, his patronizing voice telling me that my religion and therefore way of life was 'pointless', and his clear over reliance on alcohol to make him feel like a relatively palatable human. Worse than all of that; he was a dead ringer for Boris Johnson. Not just 'if you squint, you can see BoJo'.. more people in the restaurant were staring and not quite sure if it was or wasn't him. He had even dyed his hair that unusual shade of white/blonde, to embrace his doppelgänger status. To be frank, it made me feel uncomfortable. He messaged me as soon as I got home. He was aggressive (probably fuelled by his ten beers), and wanted feedback on how the date went (what is up with people asking for feedback?!). Quite frankly, I was put off, and couldn't be bothered to dissect, so I just..ghosted him. Not nice, I'm not proud, but, BORIS JOHNSON!?!

More times than i have ghosted, I have been ghosted. Two weeks ago, the cute American ex marine who was moving to the UK cancelled our date very last minute, promising to make it up to me and 'poof' in a flash of smoke, he was gone. Lately, I was 'reunited' with an old friend (my first boyfriend to be precise) who simply decided to ignore me as soon as we had locked in a date. That one is bad. We're even friends on Facebook for goodness sake, why not just be honest?

Neither of these were as hurtful as the guy that I went on three dates with, and then just disappeared. I had organised us to see a film at my favourite cinema. It's my favourite cinema because they serve you drinks and nibbles to your sofas. SOFAS! I put very little effort into the rest of it. I just wanted to show this guy one of my favourite places. Unfortunately, the film was about suicide. It brought up 'raw feelings' for him. Our date ended awkwardly, and I never heard from him again. Worse than that, he ruined my favourite cinema, and he didn't even pay for the nibbles.
Even worse than him was the guy that walked out of our date because I 'didn't look like my photos'. He literally real time ghosted me (and left me with the hefty bill for his unopened bottle of wine that he had presumptuously preordered).

So here I sit, at nearly midnight on a Tuesday. The flat is quiet. My favourite candle is burning, I'm watching trash TV. It should be pure bliss.  Instead, I sit here, baffled by men (as usual) contemplating my next move. In true Virgo style, I need a plan. Do I give up? I already deleted the latest ghosters number, to quell any temptation to text him 'WHY WON'T YOU JUST TALK TO ME, WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?'. Even I know that can come across as a crazy. Should I fill the evening we were meant to meet? What if he texts? What if he was just busy? What if he lost his phone, or got mugged? What if his client has fallen out of a car and died? Or what if, most likely, he swiped right for someone else, or simply didn't want to meet up with me.
So I wonder, do I try and change my own behaviour? Stop being so reliable, so available, so utterly rigid in my need for plans. Do I just play the elusive 'game'? Is it even possible to stop being so goddamn typically Virgo? I do know one thing for sure. My Prince Charming is not, and never will be, the spitting image of Boris Johnson.

A 30 something year olds guide to being Catfished

I try and keep this blog upbeat, a sporadic commentary on the life of a single girl in London. I try and keep the paragraphs light hearted, informative, amusing (I hope). As such, I've only alluded to my past relationship, until now, the thought of sharing it through this medium was quite frankly, frightening. Frightening because I would be judged, for my poor choice in men. Frightening because I would be judged by my stubborn insistence to carry on with the whole debacle for 10 long months. Frightening because putting pen to paper (or words to screen) actually makes the whole thing public, and even worse, real. However, today, I texted my best friend and said 'I'm ready to write about my ex'. For the purposes of this, I'll refer to him by the moniker 'Mr Wrong', to protect the identity that he was very keen to hide (weird thing to say but read on). So, in order to stay true to my desire for this blog to be an upbeat commentary, I will share the (very abridged) story, and then, my learnings.

The Early Days
I met Mr Wrong on a cold Novembers day. I remember it was November because, at the end of our 8 hour first date, he took me to see the poppies outside the Tower of London. In true 'this is doomed' style, the exhibition was actually being dismantled when we went. I should have known then. We then went for Vietnamese food (and both got food poisoning - another sign). After our whirlwind first date, we embarked on an intense relationship. He was, as far as I could see, the best thing that had ever happened to me. He accepted my quirks, loved me for who I was and appeared to think I was beautiful the way I was. He always said the right things. We would go out for dinner together, go to art exhibitions, walk out of the art exhibitions because they were boring, cook for each other, go for walks. I look back on those early days like a hazy 80's montage from a TV Sitcom. Of course, there was a catch, and the catch was, he didn't live in London. He lived two hours away in Nottingham. That would mean, every two weeks, he would get on a train to see me, and I would meet him, like a teary excited puppy dog, usually on the platform. He was kind, thoughtful, and seemed so grounded. Every time he left London, he would leave little notes under my pillow. I honestly felt like the most special girl in the world.

Doesn't it sound perfect? This amazing, issue free knight in white shining armor coming to whisk me out of my single oblivion and teach me what it was to love again? Well, that would make the most boring blog post ever, right?

Catfished
Whilst I was living in a rose tinted bubble, my family were noticing glaring issues that I was stubbornly choosing to ignore. For example, Mr Wrong had the tendency to disappear from the face of the earth, when we were meant to be seeing each other. The first time it happened, I got worried, I started googling hospitals in Nottingham and checking the local papers. My friends were saying to me 'you're so neurotic, act cool'. Cool? COOL? Don't my friends know that I'm genetically not wired to be 'cool'.  When he eventually surfaced he had a story. He was on a night out with his colleagues, and clients. One of the clients had drunk too much alcohol, so they'd put him in a cab. In his drunken state, he opened up the taxi door and fell out. He'd died in hospital. Mr Wrong had been there by his side, giving statements to the police when it happened. WHAT A HERO, I thought. The poor little lamb, I said, he must be so traumatised. It was too awful an excuse not to be real. Plus, this guy was perfect.
Of course, those who weren't wearing rose tinted glasses saw right through that excuse, and all the other ones. My mother started googling. Now, this is where I'm grateful for having a 'crazy Jewish mum'. Her mother instincts were so sharp, she started to suspect him. When nothing came up with his name on Google, she got a bit more in depth with her search. She called up his place of work (no one of that name worked there), she started searching through the birth records (no one of his name), she started to panic.
I'm fully aware that any future prospective suitors who read the above paragraph may be put off for life. However, unfortunately, my mother was right. 
Mr Wrong had lied about his identity to me. Not everything, he had told me where he worked (my best friend's genius stalking involving instagram and google maps confirmed that one), but big glaring things. His name, that's a big one. The fact his mother had died (we used to be on the phone, and he would hang up because his mum was call waiting.. we found out she'd died 15 years previously.), all the stories about his whereabouts. All lies.
Technically I wasn't Catfished because I met him in person. But obviously, being in a relationship with someone for four months who was untruthful about their identity did put somewhat of a downer on the whole situation.
So, here is what I learned

1. Don't bother trying to fix people
Chris Martin (of Coldplay fame) is a total twat. He sung this beautiful song with the immortal words 'and IIII will fix youuuu'. THAT IS WHAT I NEED TO DO I thought. I went up to Nottingham, and part of the extent of his sad life was revealed. I agreed to stay with him, if he went into therapy (duh), never lied to me again, and agreed to find a job in London and move down. He agreed, tearily (very ugly crier).  What was sad, is that so much of his life was fabricated. The buzzing social life he told me about was a story. The family that he spoke about, was broken and at odds with each other. He lived a life of utter misery, and according to him, I was the only thing that made him happy. How could I take that away from him? I could just help him instead.
We embarked on another 6 months of turmoil. My family, rightfully were encouraging me to break up with him. He was unrealiable, fucked up, selfish. My friends were divided, some saw right through him, others saw how much I loved him, all wanted me to be happy. And me? I just truly believed that if he listened to me, if he went through the carefully laid out steps I put in place, that we could be happy. The well intentioned advise of all my loved ones started to drive me nuts. I was completely torn, constantly in a haze of confusion. I spent hours googling 'how do you date someone who is depressed' and 'can you be in a relationship with a pathological liar?'. Looking for fixes, I was sure I could find a fix.
Well, dear readers, that is not the case. You cannot fix anyone that doesn't want to be fixed. Don't waste your emotional energy, it is beyond your power. Let go. Move on.

2. Don't settle for crumbs
Someone once said to me, 'don't settle for crumbs in a relationship'. Well that makes sense, why would I? I'm a strong (ish), independent (ish) woman. I have my own life, own a property (ish) my own car. I go on holidays, I have friends, why on earth would I settle for someone giving me less than what I deserve? Well, I'll tell you why. Because when push comes to shove, I just wanted to be loved. I was never the girl at school who had boyfriends. Quite frankly, boys scared the shit out of me. I was the chunky sidekick of the beautiful girls, everyone's friend, no one's girlfriend. When this guy came by, and swept me off my feet, and made me feel loved, I ignored the crumbs situation.. despite these screaming voices in my head telling me THIS IS NOT ENOUGH FOR YOU. HE IS NOT GOOD ENOUGH. If you don't believe you're enough, why would anyone else treat you that way?

3. Scared
I have spoken to a lot of friends in their late 20's early 30's having issues with guys. Fundamentally, when you peel back the layers of why a girl would put up with a bad relationship, it comes down to one common theme. We're scared. Scared to be alone, scared to expose ourselves emotionally to another person, scared never to be loved again, scared to go through the emotional turmoil of a break up. I guess this blog serves as a bit of a warning to my fellow single girls. Beneath the jovial stories, the awkward moments, the bad dates, there is still a fundamental yearning to be in a couple. And when you contemplate leaving a situation where you are part of a pair, it's frightening.  Who would voluntarily go through the pain of a break up, when you're at least 40% happy? That's enough, right?
Well, all I can say here is, it is scary and no, it is not enough. You do have to sit alone, go to weddings alone, not spend your days in your rosy haze of love. But, really, what do you think is going to happen? Do you logically think because one guy isn't right for you, another one won't be? Being scared isn't a logical or helpful emotion.

4. The warning signs
Despite the obvious warning signs here (clearly he was a sociopath) there were others that I pushed down and ignored. For example, I started to become irritated by him. He was pushy and bossy. He would get flippant with me and hurt my feelings. More than that, I noticed a lot of things that I was just not attracted to. He made this awful face when he was crying which looked like he was simultaneously smelling something foul and highly constipated. He (apparently) started therapy and would constantly tell me that I couldn't break up with him because he had 'separation issues'. Do you know how unsexy it is to be guilted into a relationship by someone's therapist? His aftershave made me feel a bit sick. By the end, I basically didn't fancy him, but I ignored that in favour of being in a couple.
We eventually did break up because I couldn't ignore the warning signs any longer. He ruined my 30th birthday with such aplomb, I can only look back and applaud him for how fundamentally selfish he was. He not only ruined my weekend, but he ruined it for my friends and family, who sat through my beautiful party, watching me run to the bathroom and cry, and him and I having a row in the hallway. When I finally snapped and broke up with him he told me he has bought me a beautiful Smythson travel wallet, that he had personalised, he would send it to me, he wanted me to remember him positively. It never materialised, I stopped caring a long time ago.

So, I look back on the (almost) year we were together, with a mix of anger (why the hell would you pick on me and try and mess up my life?) disgust (that ugly crying face... it was so bad) shame (why did I stay with him?) and sadness (mostly for him.. not me). And whilst I've tried to make this upbeat, what I realised, when writing this, is actually sometimes, releasing the above emotions is really quite cathartic. Sometimes, my life is funny, awkward, amusing for all. And sometimes, I'm just a normal girl, who put themselves in a bad position, and has spent the past year getting over it. Well, I've either realised that, or, listening to Coldplay whilst blogging about your ex boyfriend, brings out your emotional side. You pick which story you prefer.

Pen Pals

One year. 
I have been single for one year this week. 
I am starting to view my last relationship as the emotional equivalent of jumping in a cesspit full of sharks and piranhas , and being thankful for the opportunity to swim in it. With that realisation, I am almost ready to write about 'Mr Wrong'. Until then, I shall regale you with my normal light hearted stories about the heinously awkward situations I get myself into, in my (seemingly) endless plight to find Mr Jonestein.
If I'm honest, those situations have been a little light on the ground of late. I have had a genuine apathy towards (all) men, and have found a slew of new hobbies (diversions). However, this week I had a date that there is no doubt was worthy of documenting.

We were talking for two weeks. Every day. You see, modern dating can go two ways. The first is pretty simple; you swipe, match, chat, arrange a time, and meet for a drink, no harm no foul. The second, is slightly more arduous as it involves having a pen pal. Of course over the weeks that you talk, you become fond of someone, and the build up that ensues can lead to a colossal crash, and crash my most recent date did.

After two weeks of chat, flanter, and two (yes, TWO) cancelled rendez vous (him, not me) we settled on a balmy (rare) late summers evening at a restaurant in central London. To say I was nervous was an understatement. In my year of singledom, there have been few people that I have been remotely excited about, and I was hoping that this could be the reason that I could eventually delete the file of dating apps on my iPhone. During the day, we talked sporadically, and it was clear he was also very very nervous.

It didn't start well. He was late, 30 minutes late, and when he eventually did turn up, he was clearly a bit of a wreck. His hands were shaking and there were beads of sweat forming on his brow. Strangely, this put me at ease and we embarked on a couple of hours of pleasant small talk, picking at the mezze that he ordered for us. 
Unfortunately, he did not calm down. His animated gesticulations knocked things off the table, and he tripped over his words, muttering words under his breath to centre himself mid sentence. More than once he asked me (out of the blue) if I was ok, had he offended me, was I upset? I was fine, I reassured him, slightly perturbed, but not wholly put off. What happened next was nothing short of odd. 

We started to talk about politics. Whilst I was berated by many of my friends whilst telling this story after, in the political climate of uncertainty we're living in, it seemed like a natural subject to approach. He informed me that he had voted to Leave the EU. I was a little blindsided, and asked why. He stammered something about his friends putting pressure on him so he did it to shut them up (very bad reason to vote for anything). I thought, I'll give him a lifeline and asked him 'Who would you vote for, Hillary or Trump?'. Now, dear readers, I'm not shy or quiet about my political leanings, even when I cannot affect the end result, and what he said next shocked me. He said 'Trump', with a wry smile on his face. Again, I asked him 'why', but this time, with my head in my hands. This is when things got very uncomfortable. He stuttered something about his friends telling him that Trump is the better candidate (who are these people he surrounds himself with?) and being good for business. He was clearly not informed or clear in his convictions, he admitted that he had not read anything about either Brexit, or the American presidential elections and was influenced by the views of his social circle. We entered an awkward exchange whereby I started quickfiring my opinions at him, whilst he got more and more uncomfortable, to the point that it was totally unbearable, he could not defend any of his previous opinions.
I suggested we call it a night and watched him clam up more, sweat dripping off his face, and he started muttering things like 'I've messed up, again, I'm so stupid', refusing to look me in the eye. It was awkward, very very awkward. I hot footed it into an uber, and texted him (before he could text me) to thank him for a lovely evening, and wished him luck in his dating endeavors. 

We then moved from the sublime to the ridiculous. He begged me for another chance, informing me that he was nervous, and he'd behaved badly. He really liked me and he would like to try again with a clean slate. I thought about it. I can't necessarily write someone off for their political leanings (but really, Trump?!), but perhaps if he were to read and be more informed that could change. It was really his reaction to me challenging him that made me uncomfortable, and I wasn't sure that that I would ever be less challenging, or he would ever be comfortable with being challenged. 
On the other hand, he had been a gentleman, had rejected my protests to split the bill, he had even paid for my Uber, he was complimentary, and clearly wanted this to work. I acquiesced and we organised to meet again. I wasn't 100% sold on the idea, and spent the next day trying to talk myself into it, focusing on the good bits. By the evening,  I had failed to convince myself, and decided to text him and reassert my initial decision that we should part ways, and started with a 'Hi, can we talk?'. He didn't respond. He didn't respond until lunch time the following day, whereby I got a well crafted 'rejection text' with some crap about us being too different for things to work but could we stay friends blah blah blah. Damn, he got there before me. 
He then asked me for feedback... yep, you read that correctly, FEEDBACK, and revealed that he was a deeply insecure person, that I'd made him feel anxious as I was more informed than him, and that he was essentially scared of everything and everyone. 
30 minutes later, I found myself sitting opposite him in Starbucks, with an iced coffee (on him), cursing myself for yet again, being a magnet for the fucked up whilst he twittered on about his issues. Whilst he talked, incessantly, without stopping to breath I found myself being super productive:
- I planned my dinner for that night, 
- reminded myself to confirm my haircut, 
- counted up the number of people coming to my birthday party to confirm with the restaurant
- drafted out an email I needed to send
- decided he was a narcissist 
He did not notice my eyes were glazed over,  he simply took the opportunity to wax lyrical to a relative stranger (read that as free therapist I guess) about how messed up he was. My mental list making continued until I was rudely interrupted by six words that I'm not sure I'll ever forget 'You see' he said 'I think I'm gay'. Cue me choking on my iced coffee. I unsuccessfully tried to replay his monologue to see what I'd missed. He looked at me expectantly, clearly looking for an answer to a question that I had missed. How on earth had this conversation got to this? What the hell did I miss? 
Channeling my inner Freud, and hoping that I didn't spit coffee down my top, I replied 
'what makes you think that?' 
his response was fairly straightforward 
'Well, I've had relationships with men, and, I'm more attracted to men than women. Do you think that means I'm gay?'. 
'Well yes, I think those are pretty good indicators that you are, in fact, gay' I replied.
I'm sad to report that he looked shocked and confused, it seems that his avoidance of reading anything vaguely informative about politics also extends to the dictionary definition of homosexuality.
I walked away from the Starbucks sure of a few things. Firstly, that at 38, it was deeply sad that this guy has been unable to be honest with himself and others (including, his ex wife) about the fact that he is interested in being with men. Secondly, I was deeply impressed that I didn't have a drop of coffee down my top after that bombshell being dropped. And finally, I should definitely stick to my gut, I KNEW that we should have called it a day at 'Trump', we should have stayed pen pals, although the post high crash was far more impactful for him, than me.

Raison D'être

I've recently been thinking of how I feel about writing these blog posts. Granted, it is a long time since I last posted, but, I feel like I expose my misfortune for others to laugh at. Sometimes, said misfortune is actually quite painful to go through, and the blogposts are written days after I have cried (usually on the phone to my mum) digested, and become comfortable with exposing these ridiculous stories to whom ever had the time/inclination to read them. So why do I do it?

I broke up with my boyfriend (the reason for my long silence) 5 months ago. We had a tumultuous 10 month relationship that I won't bore you with the intricate (blog worthy) details of, for fear of further enhancing my reputation of being unlucky in love. (But yes, it wasn't great).

Since then, I have been on a string of terrible dates, which I will tell you about, despite that being a direct contradiction of the above statement (that's one for the therapists amongst you to unpick). 

Date one: The Handshaker.

First dates are a veritable minefield of potential awkward moments. For example, the greeting- do you go for one kiss on the cheek or two? You could end up in a premature lip touching moment that would result in red faces and awkward mutterings. Or, who buys the first drink? Being a lady of the 21st century who successfully manages to feed and clothe myself as well as hold down a job, my own flat and a car, I feel it's presumptuous and old fashioned to expect a man to pay for an entire dalliance. However, the words of an ex fling ring loudly in my ears when he told me that I emasculated him by insisting on going halves on a date. No one wants to emasculate someone, or subordinate themselves... Answers on a postcard please!

But this guy, he was just WEIRD. Firstly, he shook my hand upon greeting me. Not the old 'handshake and then draw in for a peck on the cheek' but, a full on, 'I'm here to do business with you' handshake. In an effort to break the ice I pointed out that this was formal, and he seemed unmoved by my plea for a less corporate environment, he was after all wearing a full on suit and tie, in a pub, on Sunday, so he's obviously set the tone in his mind in advance. 

Our date was pleasant, if not a structured affair, a bit like an interview, to which I obviously performed well in, as, after another bone shattering but perfunctory handshake, he asked me out again. 

Date number two, this time in a suit, but with an open shirt collar, after another bloody handshake, he started to open up a bit. He told me his (offensive) views on therapists ('con artists, therapy is unnecessary' me 'well, my mum is a therapist' him 'how does she live with herself?') and opened up about his ex wife stealing all his money (in my head 'perhaps she thought your marriage was just a business transaction and the handshake was a gesture of closing the deal'). 

Meeting number two went well as I got a text from him the following day asking me to meet up again. At this point, I was utterly bored with this guy, and found his challenging my mother's worthy profession offensive, but, I was polite.

Him 'Lovely to see you again last night, would you like to meet up again?'

Me 'so nice of you to think of me, what did you have in mind?'

Him 'would you like to come to synagogue with me on Saturday' 

Me 'well, I have plans in the day, and wouldn't we be sitting separately as men and women'

Him 'oh don't worry there are lots of women you can talk to'

That's just weird behaviour right? Why on earth would I want to spend my Saturday in a strange synagogue, with people I don't know? I have loads of productive things to do, like wash my hair, or watch paint dry, or organise my receipts in date order starting from 1997. 

Date two: wash bag guy.

This man gets the award for being the worst date I've ever been on.

Alarm bells should have rung when he called me the day before our date and told me that he'd been looking through my Instagram photos and would like to advise me that he preferred me with less make up on. Right, probably best not to tell me what to do, because, you know, you're an ass. But, I gave him the benefit of the doubt, despite him informing me that, at the ripe age of 31, he had already gone through not one, but two divorces. 

The date didn't start well. He messaged me 25 minutes before we were meeting to tell me he was going to be an hour late. I was already en route. 

Our initial plan was to meet at Leicester Square station, so I said, ok, where shall I meet you if you're running late. His suggestion should have rung further alarm bells, he said, 'why don't you sit in the casino where its warm'. I'll tell you why, because the only single women sitting, dressed up (I ignored his no make up edict) in a casino on a Saturday night are most likely looking for paying customers. 

I said I'd meet him at the W hotel. An hour later, he turned up, unapologetic, holding onto a wash bag. We walked up to the bouncer to have a drink before dinner, and the bouncer refused us entry. When I asked why, he pointed at my dates shoes, and said they weren't smart enough. This prompted a tirade that I can only liken to a toddlers tantrum. Wash bag guy informed the bouncer that his shoes had cost him £200, and how dare he challenge his dress sense. The bouncer was (unsurprisingly) unmoved. 

I suggested we should go to dinner early, and asked where our reservation was. It was after all Saturday night in soho.. He looked at me nonplussed. I realised that this guy, who had turned up late, holding a godforsaken wash bag hadn't put any thought into our date. 

This prompted a 45 minute walk around soho, in the freezing cold, with his stupid wash bag swinging from his arm. 

We eventually found a place and sat down. At this point my mind was racing with excuses about how to get the hell out of there quickly. I scanned the menu and saw one thing I could eat. He ordered a starter and a main, and (rudely) told the waiter that he was on a diet and therefore would send back any food with salt in it. I was confused, he ordered a caeser salad (average 320 kcal) bread (a slimmers worst enemy) and mozzarella sticks (don't even get me started on fried cheese). I ordered risotto with truffle on top.

He made it known pretty quickly that he wasn't happy with his choice, and asked me if he could try mine. At this point I'd totally given up on caring and said yes. He then, did something that I will find unforgivable until my dying day. He reached over, and picked out some truffle and risotto from my plate WITH HIS HANDS. That is so unacceptable I don't know where to start. He hadn't pulled any antibac out of his wash bag (which was perched on the table the entire meal) so I put down my fork and proclaimed to be full. He was so impressed with my choice that he then ordered his own risotto (NO SALT) and I had to sit and watch him eat that too. He ordered wine (for himself) and dessert. 

So, let's tally this up. He had: wine, risotto, salad, bread and mozzarella sticks, and I had: tap water and half a plate of risotto. So, when he asked me to split the bill with him I kind of lost it. There was no way in hell I was spending my hard earned money on this Neanderthal's dinner. I made my excuses and left, putting down some cash to cover my meagre dinner. I never found out what was in that wash bag.

There have been more, too bland to waste my time writing too much about. There was the guy that informed me that he had his stomach stapled three weeks previously, and told me that I made him insecure that I knew that fact about him (I didn't ask..). Or another guy that told me that he didn't think that we would work out but could I post him my copy of the DVD we were talking about on our date (he sent him the link to buy it on amazon).

This brings me back to why I write these posts. There is the cathartic side of shaping my thoughts and putting them in words, I enjoy writing. There is the entertaining side (my friend aways tells me she'd pay money to read my stories on a regular basis) but none of this solves for what I was talking about at the beginning, why do I expose my misfortune on dates for people to read about? Well, I came to the realisation, whilst sitting on the tube stuck in a tunnel at rush hour (nightmare), that this, is my raison d'être. Somewhere, out there, there are other girls who are also going on crappy dates with douche bags who shake your hand or turn up with a sodding wash bag. So, I want to tell them, you're not alone, it happens to the best of us. My only ask is please, don't go rubbing your smug loved up instaposts in my face when you find the one, ok? 

Take a hike (or not)

Hiking. I've never liked it. I honestly don't understand the purpose. Hours of walking, usually on challenging terrain, in order to end up exactly where you started, bruised, tired and dirty. 

My animosity towards physical exercise is deepset. Aged four, I was wrongly disqualified from the dressing up race at school. You see, I was ahead of the fashion curve when it came to gym wear. Whilst my peers wore black slip on plimsolls, I, was the proud owner of a pair of clean, white Green Flash trainers. The only set back here was that I couldn't do up my shoelaces. Sports day came around and I was entered, along with my classmates, into the Dressing Up Race. Starting in basic shorts and polo shirts, we had to run the length of our netball court, picking up the pieces of clothing that had been placed pointedly along our path. We had to grab them, put them on and the girl who got to the end of the course, fully clothed, won. They didn't only win the race, the kudos, the adulation of her classmates. She also won a ribbon, not just any ribbon, but a shiny green ribbon, the ribbon of winners. On this, particularly sunny day, I decided, that ribbon was mine, I stared the length of the course, limbering up, my chubby four year old legs ready for anything, and I realised, I had one obstacle to winning. Those damn shoelaces were going to hold me back. Strategically, I decided to skip the fiddly laces. I ran, determindly towards the shoes, slipped them on (just like the other girls did) and ran as fast as my stumpy legs would carry me. I looked around in delight, the sweet realisation that I had won, dawning on me. I'd never won a race before! Triumphantly, I walked up to collect my green ribbon. It was glinting, enticingly in the sun, and it was all mine. I had won, fair and square. 
To my absolute dismay, I was informed that as i had not done up my shoelaces, I had been disqualified. I was FOUR.YEARS.OLD, who disqualifies a four year old?! It's ok they said, you can have a 'participation ribbon' and they handed me a small piece of pink material, the loser's ribbon. That was the last time I willingly took part in sports, competitive or otherwise. In netball class, I chose to play Goalkeeper, I figured that was the position with the least amount of running and ground to cover, without the pressure of having to score goals. As I grew older, my disdain grew to absolute contempt, and I point blank refused to get involved in PE lessons. I would hide in the foul smelling toilets, brazenly reading teen magazines with my fellow sporting reprobates.

There were, of course, times that I couldn't avoid exercise, one of which happened when I was 16 years old. I embarked on a month long tour around Israel, part of a group of around 15 teenagers. My first proper trip away from home. August in Israel is sweltering. The heat envelopes you and is almost suffocating. This is a disastrous climate for me. My hair immediately reacts badly, frizzing into tight ringlets in a halo around my head, a jew-fro, if you will. This, coupled with staying in dingy youth hostels did not sit well with me. I'll admit now, I spent most of the month moaning. The heat was too much, the food was rubbish, the beds were uncomfortable. Worst of all (for the two people leading this tour) was my absolute, point blank refusal to embark on any hikes. There were, around 7 or 8 hikes throughout the trip. Aimed at showing this group the wonder of nature, timed around sunrise or sunset, for the best views. I was simply not having it. 
One day, my leader had enough. She told me that the hike was simply a 'short walk down hill', and I didn't have a choice. Begrudgingly, I donned my best, wedge Sketcher sandals, and went to meet the group of Israelis that we were spending the day with. Standing in front of me, in the forest where the hike was starting, was one of the most beautiful boys I've ever seen. He had tanned skin, blondey-brown hair and a smile which revealed perfect white teeth. It was love at first sight (on my part). 
To my absolute delight, I was paired with him for the first part of our journey, a ride on a donkey. Gallantly, he offered me the seat on the donkey, he would walk alongside. Gracefully, I jumped astride my trust steed, and promptly slipped off the other side. This wasn't a great start, but I laughed it off in what I could only hope was a blasé way. 
When we got to the start of the hike, I realised two things. Firstly, this was not going to be a 'short walk down hill' nor was my footwear in the slightest bit appropriate. I was faced with an obstacle course most appropriately found on the Crystal Maze. I half expected Richard O'Brien to pop out and tell me this was the 'Aztec zone'. My hiking partner went ahead, telling me to hold on to the rope, and not look down. Behind me, was a sheer drop. I stoically carried on, crying, cursing and threatening to sue whoever would listen. Surely, someone should have told me not to wear wedges whilst mountaineering? As we approached some rungs in the side of the mountain, that we were supposed to climb down, I absolutely froze. There was no way on G-D's earth I was going to climb down some psudeo ladder impaled in the cliff face. My partner coaxed me onto the first rung, lifting my inappropriately clad foot down to the second one, his hands covered in dust from the bottom of my shoes. He patiently did this until the bottom, with me, furiously screaming blue murder to anyone who would listen to me (at this point, no one). We were finally at our 'short walk down hill', two hours later, which appeared to be an almost vertical drop to the bottom. 

I sat down, indignantly, and refused to move. Not even, Mr Gorgeous could change my mind. I would stay there, I told them, until they had found a helicopter to come and collect me. I would eat leaves and berries, I would build a hut, I was not walking down the bloody mountain. An hour of screaming, threats, and every persuasion tactic under the sun, and a solution was found. Not only A solution, but THE solution. Mr Gorgeous, was to walk, backwards, down the entire mountain, holding my hands. If I fell, he promised I would be caught. 
Of course, the tour leaders were right, the walk down hill took all of 20 minutes, which is rightly classified as a short walk down hill. But, to me, they were 20 blissful minutes, holding Mr Gorgeous' hands tight (probably too tight) whilst my foam footwear buckled under the rocks. When we reached the bus, I half expected him to lift me, heroically up the stairs, to the sound of adoring applause. 
Of course, he didn't, he patently never wanted to see my sweaty face again. He politely said goodbye and legged it, to the safety of his mates, who were standing around the side of the bus, sniggering at him. He looked browbeaten, bruised and worn out, poor sod.

Despite those heady 20 minutes, my theory was proven correct. Exercise sucked (especially with inappropriate footwear) and, hiking was for mugs. We did indeed end up exactly where we started, filthy dirty and covered in bruises, I was too infuriated to even appreciate the sunset on the way down the mountain. Personally, I blame the teachers at my primary school for this whole debacle (and the loss of the love of my 16 year old life). If they hadn't have disqualified me, who knows, I may have been an Olympic athlete, or, at the very least, not chosen such precarious shoes for my first, and last ever hike.

Tinderella: A Study into the Men of Tinder, by B.Jones-Stein

There comes a time in any modern single girls life where they have to face the facts. To stand up and be counted. To shout loudly from the roof tops and tell everyone they know. I, am a Tinder addict. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I enjoy nothing more than lying in bed, and swiping left, or right, based purely on whether or not this one person has an attractive profile photo.

In order to justify this debasing behaviour in my mind,  I've convinced myself that this is an anthropological study. A microcosm of society, with varying objectives, showcasing themselves in the most flattering light possible. So, what have I concluded from this study? Well, a few things, mostly, that there are a lot of strange people in this world, or perhaps it's magnified on Tinder. Secondly, there are a lot of seedy people in this world, and I can only hope that my fellow strong, independent, confident (sometimes) females, don't partake in the suggested activities. My third theory remains just that, a theory. Somewhere, in a sea of odd bods, there will be a gem.

To further advance my scientific theory, I have grouped together people, based on how they present themselves, both verbally and visually.

Tinder male type 1: The tattoo'd hardnut.

What do they look like?

These men proudly display their inked biceps, either with or without photos of their face. From sleeves to 'tramp stamps' (is there a male equivalent?) these men take time to angle the camera to highlight the intricacies of the artistry, and, show very little else. Some, alarmingly, like to wield firearms at the camera, and conversely others, sensitively hug their pet dog/cat/hamster/horse, to counterbalance the hardnut demeanor. It's most confusing.

What do they think this says about them?

Depending on the design and placement, I would suggest that this differs, however, for the sake of this study, I'll make a broad brushstroke assumption: they want to show you how 'hard' they are. Ladies, these men can take the pain. They don't just have one, small, pishy tattoo, a token tattoo if you will, no, they want to show you that they can sit through hours of pain, if not hours, WEEKS. This, you will find attractive, because I am a man and I can withstand pain. But, it doesn't stop there. These inked adonises have more than one layer ladies. They are also, artistic. This, means, that they're both strong, and creative, and probably sensitive to boot. Why sensitive? Well, those works of art, that adorn their rippling biceps.. They have meaning. Meanings so deep, the only way they can be explained is by taking you out on a crap date and boring the hell out of you for two hours.

The Bridget verdict?

These idiots will regret permanently scarring themselves when they can't be arsed to go to the gym and their skin sags, and I certainly don't want to have to stare at a saggy old tattoo when I'm old and grey. A definite swipe left, for no way would I date them.

Tinder male type 2: the flasher.

What do they look like?

From bare bums, to willies, any self respecting tinderella will have seen it all. Some flashers, like to show off their 'assets' in various poses, others, just one, simple shot.
Flashers usually accompany these pseudo-pornographic photos with a compelling strap line, with a strong call to action. Examples include 'come get it, ladies' or 'yes, I am that pleased to see you'. These tinderites NEVER show their face, nor are they interested in conversation... In case you were wondering. If you do chose to converse with them, they usually will start the conversation with something as simple as 'DTF', charming, alluring and romantic.

What do they think this says about them?

'I want sex, and lots of it'
Fellow tinderella's, make no mistake. These men don't care about anything other than getting some. One doesn't need to be an anthropologist to work that one out.

The Bridget Verdict?

SWIPE LEFT! (But first take a screenshot and send to friends, so they can share your disbelief/disgust/surprise- pick applicable emotion)

Tinder male type number 3: the married man/the married man with kids.

What do they look like?

Picture the scene: you're minding your own business, swiping left (and very occasionally right) and you come across a photo of a happily married couple. The bride's veil, blowing gently in the breeze, the groom, staring lovingly at his chosen one. Hold on, you think, this isn't facebook, why am I being assaulted with another photo of a happily married couple on their special day? You reassure yourself. Clearly, this man was the best man, he's showing his sensitive side. So you start to browse through his photos. And slowly, it dawns on you. This man wasn't the best man, he was the groom, and what's more, he has three, beautiful children.
 
What do they think this says about them?

I have no idea. I have racked my brains for hours. What the hell would possess anyone to put photos of their wedding day and children on a dating app? Answers on a postcard please.

The Bridget verdict?

These men are brazen. They hold little regard for the sanctity of the marriage vows they have undertaken. They're also stupid. They have no concept of the power of social networking. Because, my dear readers, tinder is handily linked to Facebook. As such, it shows you if you have any mutual friends. These men, will be found out. A friend of a friend of their wife will see them. Swipe left, or find yourself an unwilling participant in a real life soap opera.

Tinder male type 4: The mirrored selfie taker


I have nothing intelligent to say about this, except WHY?? Men of tinder, you do realise that a selfie is taken with the front camera of your iPhone. You don't need to display yourself in a reflective surface to be seen... Apple inc has taken the hard work out of taking photos of yourself.

The Bridget verdict?

If you're going to do it, at least clean your mirror in advance. Did your mothers not teach you anything? Swipe left, until they learn about the core features of their phones, and apply basic hygiene in their bathroom.

Tinder male type 5: The sporty man

What do they look like?

Ripped. Healthy. Competitive. Action packed. Daring.

These men regularly partake in competitive sports and want you to know about it. From rugby to football, golf to boxing, martial arts to sky diving, I've seen it all.

What do they think these photos say about them?

Like all the best propaganda posters, these tinderites have designed their profiles carefully. With a main message and underlying meaning.
The main message here is: I am sporty. I have no fear. I am a man's man. I can ski, and play golf, and ride a horse, sometimes simultaneously. I am that good, the Old Spice man has nothing on me.
The underlying message is: let's date, exclusively in the week. Actually scratch that, exclusively on Wednesdays. Why? Because I am a busy man. At the weekends I will be skiing in France with the lads and I will play football and rugby after work. Wednesdays are my free day, so fit in, or shut up.

The Bridget verdict?


Hell no, I've tried skiing once, it was a disaster, I find it difficult walking down the street without falling over.. Swipe left.
 
Tinder Male Type 5: The odd ball.
 
What do they look like?

There is no one size fits all for the odd ball. Actually, the opposite. There are some who just stray from convention, punks, strange piercings, oddities that one can find just walking down the street in London. But some, chose tinder to display their sexual fantasies. Foot fetishes, or dressing up as a women, all these men are looking for acceptance, and delight in the opportunity to display themselves in all their strange glory to potential suitors. 

The Bridget verdict?

I'm a fan of convention.. and I'm not sure how my family would react if I brought home a man dressed as a french maid.. swipe left


And thus concludes the findings of my Tinder study. An interminable stream of sporty, unconventional sex pests awaits you, as soon as you click on that red and white icon on your screen. Interestingly, this form of dating app has become so socially acceptable, that my attached friends have developed a kind of Tinder FOMO. They say things like 'I wish I was single so I could go on Tinder.' This, annoys me. Why would anyone, who has found their match, want to wade through consistent stream of freaks just to MAYBE find someone just to go on a date with?  However, a girl can still hope, there is a chance, even if its a Lilliputian chance, that I will find my needle in the mobile haystack and my Prince Charming will swipe right for me. But just in case I need to stop being so picky, I may just try skiing again.

Beshert

I went to a wedding last night, and was, one of five single people there. Two were under the age of two, but, for the sake of saving face, I'm going to count them. At the end of the wedding, the rabbi, called up all the 'singles' (collective noun for those without a partner) to the front, to drink from a cup of wine, as it was a good omen to find your 'beshert'.

When I'd got over my, extremely unholy, feelings of wanting to batter the rabbi over the head with a whole case of wine, no, scratch that, an entire wine cellar, I started to think about this idea of someone having a 'Beshert', or a preordained, destined partner (for anyone who watches friends 'a lobster'). 

It is a bit of an odd thought, that some guy (or girl, whatever) is sitting up in heaven, deciding who one will ultimately end up with. If it's so preordained, why is it so bloody difficult to find this person?!

And so begins another Bridget-esque tirade about the sorry state of my love life, and the past three months have been nothing short of disastrous. You see, I started doing this #100daysofhappiness project (much to the delight of my brother, who just loves to see my pseudo-smug updates every day. (In his words 'when the hell is it going to be over'). One of my biggest motivations for this project was to try and exude a more positive demeanor, and it started to work. As I started to skip to the sound of the birds, appreciate the sunsets, and revel in the small things, I remembered one thing it said on the website. 'People claimed to have fallen in love when completing this challenge'. Well, I thought, I'll embrace that idea, and go on a few dates. Silly me.

Date number one, with a guy who, told me I was who he should probably marry one day, borrowed a not insignificant amount of cash and cried on my shoulder about how depressed he was. Why was he depressed? Well, it turned out HE WAS ALREADY MARRIED. Now, this guy continues to haunt me, popping up on instant messenger every so often with some handy love advice, most recently (and might I say, most insultingly) he suggested I look for a boyfriend on 'a site that caters for men who like larger ladies'. Asshole. 

NEXT

The American TV producer, who wooed me with a creative date, comedy club and a fun pop up bar, and kissed me shyly goodbye at the tube station. He was a perfect gentleman, bright, funny, ambitious and spontaneous. He showered me with attention until date number two, my turn to organise. I picked a cosy cinema, with an oscar nominated movie, and dinner before hand. Perfect, no? Well, apparently not. In the first scene, the lead character's husband killed himself, and the film went downhill from there. It was, admittedly, bloody depressing. But, you know, that shouldn't matter, it's not my fault that the movie was bad, right? Wrong. I never heard from him again.. apparently the film 'ruined his illusions of me'. Great.

NEXT

This one, actually never technically made it to a date. This is because, he was absolutely and utterly terrifying. After two days of texting, he declared he loved me (weird). I went away on business, and he told me to tell my (male) colleague that my boyfriend was 'jealous and dangerous' (we'd not met). And proceeded to tell me his sad life story, in detail, about the murder of his parents, and how he had spent his life seeking revenge. Shit.Got.Weird. The only reason I carried on texting him was because I was terrified of him finding out where I lived and ending me.

NEXT

Burpy guy. He seemed like a great prospect. Jewish, educated, funny, not too intense, not intimidatingly good looking. So, we met for a date. He trekked (from Essex) to my 'hood', and we went for dinner. Now, burpy guy was a vegetarian (nothing wrong with that, although I maintain, you cannot make friends with salad) and he ordered a large onion and cheese tart. He then, proceeded to burp stinking gas in my face for the remainder of the date. It was awful. But, I tried to overlook it. In fact, I convinced myself that it was just a quirk, that his gaseous stomach could be overlooked. I ignored the fact that he was unapologetically belching without covering his mouth, and then breathing the onion stench in my face (I will NEVER eat an onion tart in my entire life). At the end of the night, he leant in to kiss me and i was greeted by the unappealing onion smell, mixed with stale beer. I artfully (certainly for me) moved my mouth out of his way and offered him my cheek. even doing a double kiss (proclaiming it continental) to cover up my disdain. 

Now, most girls would call it a night at that said goodbye and gratefully watch him walk into the night. Not me, no no. I waited, anxiously for this guy to text. I'm not sure what I was expecting, or even wanting. Feedback on my dating performance (married guy had helpfully informed me that I was a decent date, I dressed well, made relatively intelligent conversation and, appeared educated. Double asshole), or perhaps, I wanted to go back for round two? Maybe this time, the gas wouldn't be limited to being emitted from his mouth. I should have walked away. Instead, I got upset when he apologetically texted me saying that he would like to stay friends, but he wasn't attracted to me. HE wasn't attracted to ME? We all know I'm not a super model but at least I don't emulate a skunk on a date. Oh, and did I mention, he 'left his wallet at home', so essentially I HAD TO PAY FOR HIM TO BELCH IN MY FACE ALL NIGHT.

And so ends my unsuccessful date rant. A myriad of weirdos, each with their own quirks, and clearly none, my Beshert. And now that I think about it, I'm bloody glad about that. I'm not sure I could cope with an entire lifetime being burped at. 

Maybe I should have bitten the bullet and downed the 'singles' wine after all.