When my ex-partner moved out, among his parting words were: “You’re amazing. You’ll meet someone else in no time.”
But as anyone who’s braved the world of dating apps will know, meeting someone you really like, who likes you back enough to show up reliably and not ghost you after a couple of months, is soul-crushingly hard. At least, it has been for me.
Getting matches wasn’t a problem, but surviving the tedious small talk without dying of boredom or the conversation fizzling out before we’d arranged to meet seemed next to impossible.
But if by some miracle we did make it to an in-person date, what did we do? Of course, we went for a drink.
Relying on a drink or two
Going for a drink was the default first date. It’s cheaper than a meal, quick, and low-pressure, and avoids the potential torture of enduring a three-course dinner with someone who turns out to be duller than a six-hour delay at an airport.
I would grab a casual wine after work, and if there was no spark or the guy turned out to be 10 years older than his profile pictures (yes, this happened), I would make my excuses after a glass or two.
Not only was drinking helpful, but it was often expected. While there is talk that the younger generation is less interested in alcohol, many of my peers still see teetotallers as boring and no fun, hardly the impression you want to give when you’re just getting to know someone.
First dates are hard. I relied on booze to make them easier. If there was no spark, wine made me chattier and able to fill the awkward silences. If the guy was a bit creepy, it made me brave enough to face the awkward goodbye and leave early.
On the rare occasions when I did meet someone I fancied, having alcohol in my system gave me the courage I needed to flirt, instead of blushing and running away like a nervous teenager.
Ditching dating apps and booze
But as years passed by, the whole routine became a Sisyphean cycle of hope and disappointment. I would wake up with a mild hangover and another story to amuse my coupled-up friends.
I tried coffee dates, but the concept didn’t really work in London, where I live. Many people live out of town, so it makes sense to grab a drink at the end of the working day. And I had no desire to do full hair and makeup and drag myself downtown on a Saturday.
So, a year and a half ago, I quit. Not just the booze, but the dating apps too.
Life is better
Searching for “The One” had become a full-time job. Hours of swiping and tedious chitchat, for it to either fizzle out or end in an excruciating evening wishing I was back home watching Netflix in my PJs. It was an emotional roller coaster, especially when I met someone I liked, allowed myself to get my hopes up, and then ended up dumped or ghosted.
I realized it wasn’t being single that made me miserable. It was the constant effort of trying not to be single. The apps were taking up so much of my time — I must have spent days of my life chatting to people I never even met.
The number of words I’d typed into Bumble, I could have written a novel — and then at least I’d have had something to show for it all, apart from RSI in my thumbs.
Without the apps and the booze, I’m sleeping better, I’m healthier, and most importantly, my mental health has improved. I haven’t cried in over a year (it used to be a fairly regular occurrence — always caused by a man). When I think about downloading the apps again, I feel that sick dread in my stomach, usually only reserved for my triennial smear test.
Now I focus on enjoying life and making the best of what I do have, instead of worrying about what I don’t. I’m a travel writer and photographer, so I’m abroad a lot, exploring the world and having incredible experiences. When I’m home, I go out with friends, attend networking events, or pitch for my next trip.
If I do meet someone, it’ll be because we’ve met through shared interests and have already decided we like each other before we go on an actual date. Maybe I’ll even agree to dinner.
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