Time to go cyber?

It may be time to enter the world of internet dating – eurch, I don’t even like writing the words. But no matter how much I try to resist, it is becoming patently clear that it’s time to meet someone new. And that does not appear to be happening in the real world.

The lack of new blood means I’m stuck in the middle of a strange circle, made up of all the men in my life – past, present, and potential. Despite the fact that some are just friends, some are old news, and some are very bad news, I keep picturing them and wondering ‘what if?’ “What if he’s the one and I let him slip through my fingers? What if there could be a spark there and I just need to take a step to find out? What if I play the game for a while and see if they’ll change?

In clear, sober moments, I’m well aware that none of these men are the right ones but that doesn’t seem to stop me flirting outrageously, sending misguided texts, and wasting hours reminiscing. It’s a sad state of affairs and it has to stop but what’s the alternative? Clearly the chaste life is not for me. For better or worse, everyone needs a little romance in life and I’m finding that random bars and pubs are not the places to find it. Could match.com/mysinglefriend/Guardian soulmates come up with the goods?

My friend Sue certainly seems to think so. Rewind a year and she wasn’t quite so optimistic – having discovered her long-term boyfriend was cheating on her, she returned from life in LA cursing all men and swearing she’d never risk her heart again. But now, she’s doing just that and willingly so.

She was tentative about the online dating thing at first but dipping a toe in, she found that all the winks and nudges she received from these unknown men – on the basis of only her picture and a few witty words – did wonders for restoring her bruised confidence. Before long, she found herself having a drink with one of them and the next thing she knew he was up a ladder replacing all her dud lightbulbs - and DIY really means something, don’t you know?

Well, as it turns out, it doesn’t mean a damn thing, he did the classic freakout that it was all getting too serious approx 36 hours later. And that was that for candidate number one. Afterwards, I’d worried that Sue would pack away her saddle for good but instead, she brushed herself off and got straight back on the horse – heading out on a date with a handsome younger man (and she’d SWORN not to go below 31). It was just the tonic – he’s now besotted and while she’s not really feeling it, she’s happy to go along for the ride (so to speak).

So when I told her I was thinking of joining her online, she was 100% behind the idea – “You don’t even have to do anything, Carrie. Just sign up and wait for them to come to you!” It certainly sounded like an easier way to meet people than braving a conversation with a stranger in a bar…so I logged on for a little window-shop.

My criteria: male (obvs), 29-33, within a 5 mile radius.... I held my breath, waiting for all the handsome eligible men to pop up on screen. But that’s not exactly what I got. At first glance, yes, there were certainly plenty of men on there. But handsome? Not so much. Mainly there were beardies, baldies, and beer bellies. Scolding myself for being so superficial, I took another look, flicking though the pictures of those whose profile shot didn’t look like it belonged on a wanted poster. There was the odd one who looked okay, I guess…

I was quite taken with Steve’s rugged good looks until I came to a shot of him standing alongside other normal-sized men (5ft 11, Steve? Really?). Then there was Jim – a solid 6ft 3, with lovely brown eyes and a wicked smile though he did seem to be abnormally attached to his jaunty flat cap. “BALD!” Helen interjected, leaning over my shoulder. Ah.

What about Tom then? He looked nice enough, and who doesn’t love long walks in the park and cuddling up on the sofa with a glass of wine. Er yeah, okay, not exactly original.

Ah wait, here we go…Max, 32, 6ft 1, dark curly hair, lives Islington. Likes: dancing to old 45s in the kitchen on a random Tuesday night, spending all weekend playing scrabble in bed, doing things I’ve never done before. Dislikes: bad grammar, bad Chinese food, inappropriate public displays of affection. This could be it….

Seeking: intelligent, fun-loving, creative woman aged between 20 and 27. Eh, hang on. 27? Oh screw you, Max! You’re 32! THIRTY.TWO. Grow up and date a woman your own age.

Thus ended my foray into online dating.

A very grand statement

So here we are. Another new year, and what has changed? Not much for me. Still in the same job, still no progress on that book I’ve been planning to start for…oh, 10 years or so, and of course I’m still a fully signed up member of the singles club. This Spring, it’ll be 6 long years since I could legitimately be called someone’s girlfriend . Does that mean I get some kind of reward for my loyalty to the cause soon? A commemorative spoon or shiny plaque maybe? That’d be nice. I could hang it above my bed to mark the spot where all the trouble starts.

Ironically, at the turn of the last new year, my friends and I rather optimistically christened 2010 – the year of men. And in all honesty, there have been quite a few in these past twelve months but their roles have been more walk-on cameos than leading men. Maybe we should have been more specific with our expectations – it could have been the year of nice men who are not emotionally retarded, preferably over 5’ 11”, who don’t live with their parents, have decent jobs, and still believe in old-fashioned chivalry. Or to get right down to basics, men who want to date me rather than simply bed me. I’m beginning to think they may not even exist. If they do, they’re certainly not hammering down my door. Of course there’s one lingering thought that I’ve been trying to ignore but can’t quite seem to shake, maybe it’s not the men that are getting it wrong, maybe it’s me…

I definitely got things wrong with Chris. Any sane person would know that a man who states from the outset that he does not want a relationship and only gets in touch late at night when he’s feeling ‘fidgety’ is only looking for one thing – simple, no strings-attached sex. Yet I somehow manage to convince myself that our physical connection means much, much more and that if he just spends enough time with me, he’ll realise this too. Well guess what...that didn’t happen. And last month, I finally accepted that it won’t ever happen, calling the whole thing off and asking him not to contact me again. New year’s resolution number one: no more sex with Chris.

But that got me to thinking. Sex is what seems to get me in trouble. We all know that most women are incapable of separating sex from emotions so why do I continue to pretend that I’m any different? Maybe rather than sleeping with someone then developing misplaced feelings for them, I should figure out my feelings for them first – and more importantly, their feelings for me – before heading to the bedroom. Maybe that way I’ll be able to figure out the men from the boys, the rogues from the good’ uns. And maybe that way, by the end of 2011, I might not find myself here again – single, frustrated, disillusioned.

Of course knowing how my emotions tend to run away from me, I appreciate that it’s going to be hard to identify any real feelings from my more impulsive (horny) ones. As far as I can see, there’s only one way to be sure, which brings me back to that resolution. What I propose is a revision of the ‘no more sex with Chris’ plan. Perhaps it’s time to try extreme measures - to take sex off the table altogether. New year’s resolution number one (revised): No More Sex.

Bit of a grand statement, you might think. She’s got no chance, I hear you mutter. But that is precisely why I’m writing it down here for you all to see. I genuinely want to stick to this plan – and I figure declaring it publicly gives me more motivation to see it through than keeping it to myself. So here goes: I will not have sex in 2011.

And while I’m making grand statements, here’s resolution number 2. This is the year I will write that book I’ve been threatening you all with since I started this column. I figure if I aim to average out at a page a day, I could be churning out a chapter every month. And if, for one reason or another, life gets in the way and I don’t write a word one week, I’ll just write twice as much the following week. If I can keep it up, by next new year, I could have something approaching a first draft.
After all, if I’m not going to be having sex all year, I’m going to have much more time on my hands.

Older...and wiser?

It’s official people – I’m thirty and single. How the hell did that happen? A couple of months ago, it looked like I might actually meet the milestone with a man at my side (and wouldn’t that have been a novelty?). Even when things with John started to go wrong, there was always Rob…wasn’t there? Well, no actually, as it turned out, I was wrong about that too.

It seems five months of being my beck and call guy was about as much as Rob could take. And who can blame him? He might have pretended he was fine with the whole ‘friendship’ thing but what we had was never really a friendship. He thought if he hung around for long enough and made himself indispensable to me, I’d eventually fall in love with him. And part of me hoped he was right about that but the other part of me – the selfish part – just loved having someone around I could depend on.

Every day he was there on email making my working day oh-so-much less dull. At night he was either at the end of a phone, or he was there at my side - in the pub, in the cinema, in a club, in a taxi, on my couch. The days of him making romantic proclamations, trying to hold my hand, going in for a kiss – they were mercifully gone but our relationship probably couldn’t strictly be described as platonic. Was it platonic when I cuddled in beside him on the couch and slept there? Or when I rang him at 4am crying because some other guy had tried to kiss me? Or when he’s spend hours compiling playlists he knew I’d love and we’d both pretend he hadn’t made them specifically for me? Or when he’d scare off every other man that came near me with a proprietorial stare? Er…maybe not.

People talk about friends with benefits, but we were more like boyfriend and girlfriend without benefits. “I’m not going anywhere,” he’d assured me on numerous occasions. And I believed him. Of course, when he met someone else who would hold his hand and didn’t relegate him to the couch, that promise kind of went out the window. It was the daily texts that dwindled first, then the emails became fewer and far between, then I realised a month had passed since I’d seen him. I knew I was in no position to complain. He didn’t owe me anything. He’d done nothing wrong. Yet I felt completely abandoned. And when he sent me an email to say he might not make it to my birthday party, I finally lost it. “You officially suck. Drop me a line when you can fit me into your itinerary” was my very mature and not at all irrational response. Of course from there it descended into an email-nightmare-athon, which reached a crescendo when he called me a brat and said he wouldn’t bother coming at all then. I mean WTF?

Yes, admittedly he couldn’t make it because he was busy shooting a video with his band all weekend and yes, apparently his missus wasn’t even around, she was holidaying in India till the Sunday. But the night of my birthday would make it two months since I’d seen him. TWO MONTHS! Couldn’t he see why I was upset? He’d ditched one of his best friends the moment a girl had come along. That was just rude.

In the end though, after having a rant to my poor mother about the whole thing, I had to admit that I might not have been entirely reasonable. “Well it sounds like you were being a bit of a brat,” were her wise words. “You can’t expect his life to revolve around you when you don’t really want him and someone else does. I’m not surprised he reacted the way he did.” So I swallowed my (already battered) pride and sent another email telling him the cause of my brattish behaviour: “I’m sorry. I just miss you.”

Of course, he didn’t make it to the party, and much as I hate to admit, after having a fabulous night surrounded by the people who love me, I still went home, crawled into bed and called him. We spoke for ages and it was nice – but it was also the last time. That night, I finally realised I had to let him go. Truth be told, I never should have let him get so close in the first place. It wasn’t the healthiest relationship for either of us. Besides, I managed perfectly well on my own before he came along, and I can manage perfectly well on my own now – particularly now I’s all grown up!

And just to prove how strong and independent I am, I’m taking control. In the last few weeks, I’ve asked for a promotion, been commissioned to write a piece for an actual glossy magazine, and begun the process of getting a mortgage on my flat. Who needs a man to get ahead? I have a feeling 30’s going to be a good age for me.

Oh yes, and I have a date on Friday with a very handsome man.

So there.

Behaving like a teenager

It’s been something of an odd month for me. Miraculously, there has been two boys on the scene (yes, two!) and even more miraculously, I haven’t fallen for either of them.

First there was Haris. As soon as I laid my eyes on this one, I knew he was trouble. He was tall, obscenely cute, and had that cheeky glint in his eye that I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist. Plus, according to my friend’s boyfriend who worked with him, he was also only 18. So, in a rare moment of clarity (or more accurately sobriety), I decided to keep my distance.

Trouble is, when he noticed me making moves to leave, he decided the complete opposite: ‘Aw you leaving already? I was just about to ask if you wanted to go out for a smoke…’ Looking up into his pleading eyes, my resolve faltered: “Well we are heading outside, so feel free to come with.”

Fast forward ten minutes, and I seem to have morphed into a giggling schoolgirl, Haris flirts in that super-obvious way that’d make any girl blush: standing directly in front of me so I’m forced to touch him just to get him out of the way, holding my gaze a little too long when he’s talking to me, asking if I’m a cuddler and if he can try out said cuddles, and basically just being ridiculously over the top and childish. It’s preposterous…but it’s fun and (I’m not going to lie) extremely flattering.

But the cigarettes smoked and my friends getting restless, it’s time to go. I turn back to Haris to say goodbye, and he leans in to give me a farewell kiss on the cheek, only that’s not where his lips end up - he playfully bites my neck then, probably in reaction to the shock on my face, quickly counters with a “Sorry, was that too much?”

‘Well hell yes, of course it was too much! I’m ten years older than you!’ I think, only I don’t actually say anything.

“And would it be too much if I kissed you now?” ‘Yuhuh!’ Say it out loud, Carrie.

“Ok I’m going to kiss you now.” ‘Damn, damn, damn!’ So yes, I kiss the beautiful boy, and it’s literally like being transported back to the days of public snogging at the school disco, only better, because this one can actually kiss.

When I eventually pull away, I turn round to Vicky staring at me open-mouthed in shock (or maybe admiration). “I think I better leave now,” I manage and push Haris away before he can cause any more trouble. “I cannot believe you just did that” exclaims Vicky. “I know, it was bad, wasn’t it?” “No, it was f***ing amazing!”she beams. “You should have got his phone number.” I practically float home.

The next day Vicky walks into work looking like the proverbial cat with the cream. “What?” I ask suspiciously. “What would you say if I told you I’d given Ian your number to give to Haris?” “I guess I’d say you shouldn’t have, but I’m not sure I’d mean it,” I smile. And this is how, a few nights later, I find myself rushing home from work to shave my legs and change my Bridget Jones-style granny pants, before going to meet Haris at the tube station.

What follows is the most ridiculously fun night ever - and one I’m afraid I’ll have to censor due to the fact that my dad occasionally reads this. Short version…we go for one drink, he tells me he turned 19 that week, I decide that’s much more acceptable than 18 and we go back to mine. “So we‘ll do this again, yeah? The sex I mean...” says Haris as he’s leaving to catch the last train home (yes, to his parent’s house). “Hell yes,” I say - out loud this time. There really was no other possible answer.

Then Ben came along with a different kind of offer altogether. In every way that Haris is inappropriate, Ben is appropriate. He’s 31, he owns his own flat, he’s looking for a girlfriend and he wanted to take me out on actual dates. And who was I to argue with a handsome man whose opening gambit was “I think you should give me your number, we should date, fall in love, get married, have six kids and live happily ever after. What do you say?” “I say lets start with the number and see what happens.”

What happens is we go for date number one, I think ‘Hmmmm, he’s thinner than I remember’ then quickly get rip-roaring drunk and end up spending the latter half of the evening in a cosy clinch in the corner of the bar. The next day I have no recollection of whether I really like him or not, so when he calls to ask me out again, I accept. And it’s this time that I realise he could never be for me.

It’s partially the bad shoes, and partially the wonky teeth, but most of all, it’s how keen he is - how much he’s putting himself out there and hoping I’ll do the same; how earnest he is when he asks if I’m having a good night, how pleased he looks when I kiss him (yes, okay, I kissed him again), and how he asks me on date number three before we‘re even half way through our first drinks.

Being the polite (and hopeless) girl that I am, I agree to date 3 then do the unforgivable…I cancel via text less than an hour before we’re scheduled to meet. Then I call Haris...

Mixed signals

I seriously think there is something wrong with me. Either my love life is actually cursed or I am officially the worst person in the world at playing this so-called dating game.

One minute I’m besotted with some guy who can barely commit to a text message never mind an actual date, then I somehow end up dating a guy who I don’t remotely fancy but who I can‘t seem to say no to every time he asks me out. Ah, she’s just desperate, I hear you say. But you know what, I wish it was that simple. If I was desperate, surely I’d be happily dating this latest guy, not kicking myself each time I find my fingers involuntarily responding to his text message, not backing off every time he leans in for a goodbye kiss, and not having this conversation in my head in the first place.

When he first asked me out, I will admit it was possibly the volume of mind-altering substances in my body that led me to accept (and the fact that I felt obliged after already snogging the face off him in my inebriated wisdom), but now, what’s my excuse?

He texted last night asking if I fancied supper this week (apparently posh boys say supper, not dinner- yes, he‘s posh but we‘ll get to that later), I spent all of an hour trying to pretend he hadn’t texted at all, then came up with this genius reply: “Sure, supper would be lovely but I seem to have lost my diary so I’m not quite sure when I’m free. Can I let you know tomorrow?” Will you check out the mixed messages here… “supper would be lovely”- that sounds keen, no? But then what’s this nonsense about losing my diary? I’ve not lost my diary, I never lose anything, I’m just putting off the moment that I actually have to commit to a date.

Then today I’ve gone from being 100% sure this morning that I’m going to call it off, to deciding this afternoon that as I have quite a quiet week ahead, dinner (or supper - whatever!) might actually be nice. A few hours of to-ing and fro-ing later and then somehow there’s a text on the way to him saying “I’m free any night but Wednesday”.‘Ach, what harm can dinner do?’ I say to myself. ‘We’ll have a nice meal, a few drinks, then I’ll get a cab home at a reasonable hour and all will be fine.’ Only that’s not what he has in mind - apparently he wants me to go to his place so he can cook me supper…yeah right! Sorry but it doesn’t take a genius to work out what that means. There’s no way I’m making the mistake of going to his place (again).

Yes, okay, I am skipping a few significant parts of the story here. I have indeed been in his house before…on Friday night, after attending several parties and consuming way too many drinks and far too little food, I somehow found myself stranded in Battersea with him at 7am after a mutual friend‘s birthday. It would have cost me 40 quid that I did not have to get a cab back to mine in the North, and frankly, I was way too wasted to be allowed anywhere on my own. At the time, I’m sure the alcohol helped me rationalise it. The next afternoon, when I woke up at his place, it all seemed rather different.

This is the moment I should have got the hell out of there and deleted his number. Of course, I’m way too polite (or messed up in the head - which is it again?) to do that so I wind up here, agreeing to see him again (cue the moment where I spend the next couple of paragraphs convincing myself this is a good idea).

Maybe this time, I’ll change my mind and decide I actually like him. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with him. In fact, on paper, he’s quite the catch. For a start, he’s my age, which means he’s much more mature than all the young indie boys I usually waste my time on. Plus, he’s a gentleman - he wouldn’t dream of letting me pay for a thing, always remembers to holds the door open, kisses me on the cheek when I arrive, and takes care of getting me a cab home (on his business account, but still it‘s an improvement on the night bus!). He’s got a good job as a restaurant PR which means lots of lovely meals in very nice restaurants and occasionally free champagne. He’s funny, confident, and he has his own flat - which is very rare in London (even more rare is that it’s not a hovel). And most importantly of all, he makes it plainly obvious that he really likes me - he always calls when he says he will, he acts totally engrossed in everything I say, and he tells me I’m beautiful all the time.

Now for the cons, he’s not just posh, he’s super posh - he’s from an intimidating wealthy family who own a massive global beauty firm. They have houses all over the world, and go skiing every Christmas for god‘s sake. (Eurch, I bet he even calls his parents mummy and daddy!) Con number 2: from what I can gather, he’s quite the fan of recreational drugs. Con number 3: he wears a long coat and carries a man-bag (is it wrong that I find the last con most offensive of all?). Oh no, wait, con number 4 - I don’t find him attractive. What I do find attractive is how nice he is to me. And oh, it’s been such a long time since someone’s been that nice to me.
One more date couldn’t hurt. Could it?

Could it?