Bumbling along nicely…….

The reality is that when you reach a certain age and live in the countryside, there is not much opportunity for meeting potential lovers. Throw in a pandemic and it’s all but impossible. Unlike the pastoral rom coms, delicious men do not fall off their bicycles at the front door or rush to my assistance when I have lost the dog. The mumbling depressed postman is the only regular gentleman caller and he prefers the dog’s company to mine. I have chosen this life but like everyone I wobble and fret that I may have made some wrong choices along the way. I can go from gut bursting pride of the independent woman, to fantasising about a hand-fasting ceremony in the woods with the local builder - all within an afternoon. I love my space and independence but I also love the intimacy of being with a lover and curling up for a cuddle safe in the knowledge that someone else has put the bins out.

 In my last relationship I was bored. Bored, bored, bored. He was kind and reliable, qualities I assured myself were enough to form a relationship, that I could mould a version of myself in which this was sufficient. In reality it was exhausting and dull. At restaurants I would befriend other tables just to pass the time. He had never read a book or visited a gallery. You’re being an intellectual snob I would tell myself as he blobbed on the sofa to dedicate his weekend to Formula One. I kept trying because I got used to the company but being a full time entertainment officer is exhausting. My intellect and humour were craving attention. I’d asked the universe for a magician and settled for an estate agent.

 Covid changed the shape of my busy, social weekends into times of solitude and contemplation and at times knuckle biting boredom. This is how the Bumble app made its appearance onto my phone. I had tried online dating a few years previously, an experience which I had found torturous but now was assured was a very different kettle of fish. My previous brief foray on Guardian Soulmates had resulted in an evening of nervously necking three cocktails on an empty stomach and doing a runner. An encounter with an “urban pirate” who was so pissed he spilt his drink all over me whilst spinning yarns of infecting previous girlfriends with gonorrhoea and an uncomfortable half hour with a man who was outraged that I ordered chips with my beer. Unladylike etiquette apparently. I couldn’t get off the website quick enough. But now things were different apparently, everyone was doing it, “how else you going to meet someone?” my daughter sniggered.

 With heterosexual matches on Bumble, females make the initial contact, this alongside a feature that automatically blurs dick pics is what warrants “feminist” dating apparently.  My daughter downloaded a selection of photos and a brief and entertaining profile whilst I sat alongside wavering between mortification and hysteria – thus began my inaugural trip down the dating app rabbit hole. The first flurry of activity was something of a steep learning curve – I’m not great with left and right and live in a house with a problematic relationship to wifi. The result was a random queue of matches that I felt strangely responsible for and the stark realisation that I had 24 hours to think of clever, witty opening lines to an array of suiters before they disappeared into a virtual black hole. I was stressed. This process was anxiety inducing, I was not having fun.

 I decided that I would give it a month’s trial but the rigmarole of switching the wifi on and off, finding my glasses and responding to the time limit and push notifications was exhausting and stressful. It was like having a demanding toddler, only this one wanted endless “fun nights out” and “cosy nights in”.  A couple of the men seemed promising and I had some fun and interesting chats which dwindled into nothing as soon as I suggested actually meeting up for a socially distanced walk. I did meet up with one man, his opening line as we meet on the seafront was,

“bloody hell, you’re so much prettier and younger than your

 photos. Most are older and fatter….”  ,

Flummoxed for a response I smiled nervously as we both watched the dog defecate on the floor and he asked me what technique I was going to use to pick it up.  We walked the dog along the beach and I listened to his relationship history and tales of being off his tits at the hacienda -an era he seemed unwilling to leave - before going home for a large glass of wine. He was desperate to meet up again, I politely declined.

 Over the month, I came across men who gave themselves mythical names and promised nights of “hedonistic, sensual, ethical non-monogamous sex”. Men who used the site to attack their exes –“loser then an Lidl screwdriver” or to make misogynistic, aggressive statements – “nope, I won’t be your sugar Daddy…I don’t want an STI ta”, all swimming in a swamp of old holiday photos. The marketplace of flesh and promises of red wine, open fires and weekends away was beginning to make me feel nauseous. My shoulders would hunch and my chest tighten every time I embarked on a journey into the virtual love market.  My head would remonstrate – it’s just a way of meeting people, stick with it, get over yourself - meanwhile my guts would be recoiling in horror. I’m pretty sure looking for love should not evoke the same feelings as booking into the dentist for a root canal.

I know lots of people for whom on line dating has been a huge success, long term couples who credit this app and others for enabling them to find each other and get talking. Dating apps are without doubt useful and at times life changing tools for many people. I am not one of them. I do not like the process of advertising myself as a potential romantic, sexual commodity nor do I enjoy trips to the shopping mall of hook ups and partners. I thought it would be a bit of fun but I could feel my soul eroding with each swipe of the hand. The app made me anxious. It induced a sense of desperation – like running around the supermarket at closing time on Christmas Eve, looking for something, anything to serve for dinner.

My brief foray on Bumble was educational. It takes the basic human need of love and companionship and commodifies it. You are presented with the opportunity to win the partner of your dreams but only if you play the game and play the game well (pay for monthly subscription) and play the game fast (24 hours to write that witty opener or you’re 24 hours closer to sad single old lady status). It is rapacious and demanding and by its very nature programmed to sit on your shoulder flicking your ear for attention which predominately leads to disappointment. Maybe my experience was down to attitude. It demands time and effort and I found myself wanting to do anything rather than engage with the monster. I started to feel really doubtful about myself too. Was I too ugly, weird, old? Should I have lied about my age? Edited my photos? Spun a cliched, flirtatious line alongside my cleavage. None of these things would have been honest or authentic, I would be manipulating myself to fulfil a version of myself that would “sell well” and be generically bland, predictable and palatable. All the things I’d worked so hard to step away from.

I am looking for someone who makes my brain, belly and knickers spin. It doesn’t have to last forever but it does have to be authentic and it does have to make me feel good about myself, otherwise what’s the point? The greedy nature of dating apps is just another way of bombarding us with style but no substance. Great if you are young and looking for fun in the city, maybe less suited to a rural hippy who doesn’t need a “partner in crime” to complete them.  I very happily deleted the app, knowing my choices are genuine and not driven by an algorithm or a fear of being alone. Relieved to have escaped the slow, beige death of a dull relationship, I contentedly bumble along my own path, ever hopeful of bumping into the magician as my knickers go up in flames.