Against every fibre of my being, I took the advice of my Mam who said I should date “outside of my type”. Until I mentioned that an ex’s dog was a chiweenie. Aside: This wasn’t totally out of the blue – we were talking about soup at the time.
Inevitably, it failed when he ghosted me after implying that I stole his drugs money (he eventually concluded that it was “probably the cleaner”). Flame-haired and freckle-faced, I liked the cut of his jib. And then Facebook intervened, suggesting fresh-faced filmmaker Feidhlim as a friend. Our relationship blossomed via carefully curated texts and edited selfies and sometimes even phone calls where I thought my heart would explode with joy.
After my second long-term relationship ended in 2016, I was loathe to revisit the online dating scene and spend my nights combing through the endless menagerie of wild to mildly domesticated beasts my single friends had warned me about.
There were now a whole slew of apps, each one more specific than the last.
I took the hint and added him, waiting a couple of weeks to casually slide into his DMs. Ryan Gosling was dead to me now that Feidhlim was in the world. After 8 months of an intense virtual relationship, (textlationship?
The Stigma In its early days, online dating was looked down upon.
People saw it as being a waste of time or something only truly desperate people did.
However, as time has gone by, that stigma no longer stands up.
“It will pay off in the end,” she said to herself whilst travelling from London to Leamington Spa, wildly inebriated and in pursuit of an after-party – “the anecdotal mileage will be inexhaustible”. Because even if I don’t get my match, at least I’ll have the stories.
And maybe one day that story won’t be the dystopian tale of a 30-something feminist conducting her love life almost entirely in séance mode; trying desperately, in vain, to communicate with the dead.