DYING ALONE WITH MY FUTURE CATS MIGHT NOT BE SO BAD AFTER ALL
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Anyone who knows me is well aware that I’ve accumulated a collection of dating disasters so extensive, I could host an exhibit at GOMA. Think of any breakup scenario, heartbreak, or cheating scandal, chances are, I’ve bloody lived it. Friends often suggest I write a book, and while I’ve started, I’m pretty sure it’ll take years to finish. But, nevertheless, watch this space!
To clarify: I’ve never been “maternal.” The sight of children within a five-meter radius triggers in me the sort of irritation normally reserved for smashing your finger in your car boot or burning your thumb with your hair curler. So, as you can imagine, finding a like-minded partner who shares my childfree mindset has been an almighty task. In my youth, while other girls played “families,” I looked on in horror, quietly plotting my future as the fabulously wealthy auntie. (Still working on the wealthy part IRL.)
Now, despite my disinterest in parenthood, I’ve always desired a loving partner. The dream? A DINK (dual income, no kids) lifestyle, full of luxurious dinners and spontaneous trips. Simple, right? WRONG. Men, as a collective, are just so fucking disappointing. I would apologise to any male readers, but let’s be real, you’ve brought this upon yourselves. You, sirs, are the fucking pits.
For years, I’ve been a “Good Luck Chuck” of sorts, shaping men into better versions of themselves only to be promptly dumped as they scurry off to find their actual soulmates minutes later. I’ve been cheated on, by both the girl I was told not to worry about and the boy I was told not to worry about. Ghosted, haunted, stalked, left on read, and ignored with such regularity that I’ve developed a dark sense of humour about it. At this point, I’m beginning to wonder if the universe is gently nudging me towards the peaceful solitude of living the single life. Perhaps my amazing friends and family are all the companionship I need. Maybe I should take a cue from Sue Sylvester and just marry myself.
The most recent breakup, however, was like a uni masters lecture in emotional whiplash. The man, in all aspects, was flawless. If there were a dictionary entry for “perfect partner,” his smug face would be glued right next to it. And yet, one January afternoon, out of nowhere, he announced he didn’t see me in his future. There were no red flags, no ominous signs, just a brutal, blindsiding punch in the guts. Suddenly, the age-old wisdom of “if they wanted to, they would” seemed completely irrelevant. He did want to, right up until he didn’t. Love, it turns out, is as predictable as the weather in Melbourne.
A few months later, I mistakenly thought I was ready to date again. Spoiler alert: I was wrong. The final straw? A man who, instead of pursuing a relationship with me (a very real and hot person who lived 20 minutes away), chose to fantasise about a woman he’d met overseas, 10 years his junior and thousands of kilometres away. Ah, yes, why settle for a flesh-and-blood adult who is here and willing to have actual real life sex with you when you can pine for an international child bride? Men. Honestly.
At this point, I’ve thrown in the towel on dating apps. Hinge, Tinder, Bumble, all of them feel like slow torture. If I spend one more second swiping left or right, I might actually bash my head against a fork. And the forks in my share-house?.. DULL. I’ve tried the old-fashioned method of meeting men in person, but the only social scene I frequent involves gigs where I perform with various musical acts. And as someone who doesn’t drink and isn’t fond of drunk people, the odds of finding my future husband at a dive bar feel slim to none.
In summary, the no-swiping life has been a revelation. Deleting social media has been even more liberating. I no longer subject myself to endless streams of engagement photos and carefully curated couple selfies. Thank god for that. I do desperately miss the cat and racoon memes though.
Now, I know this sounds a bit cynical, and I fully recognise that there’s a decent chance I’ll find my person someday. But for the moment? Dating is a depressant. If I told my friends about any other activity that made me feel this miserable and insecure, they’d stage an intervention. So, I’m treating dating the same way I treat doom scrolling: Bad. For. Me.
Wishing you all an exceptional week, or perhaps just an average one. Average is perfectly fine.
Song recommendation of the week: ‘Stand’ by Yebba
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