www.BloomLikeApril.tumblr.com
www.youtube.com/user/BloomLikeApril
Gracie_Bawden@hotmail.co.uk
My friends thought that I was lonely but they were wrong. I had them for a start. A misfit bunch, but they were my misfit bunch and I loved them dearly. Besides, I hadn’t quite tired of third wheeling yet. Gigs with Martha and Jake, art galleries with Ana and Charlie, pub crawls with Louise and, well, whoever she’s seeing this week. It sounds simply awful, but I’m good at it. Third wheeling. I take every moment of friendship I can and prepare myself to be dropped instantly for a spontaneous passionate kiss, or a private joke, or just several minutes of staring into each other’s eyes. And when this happens I just take time to absorb. Absorb the artwork, the music, the atmosphere. I make friends (usually with people I spot, eyeing up the happy couple like they might vomit at any minute.) Or I just take time to be myself, completely unconnected from any other human being. This explanation is, of course unsatisfactory to many of those trying to squeeze me through the door of the couple factory. They resort to things such as ‘perhaps it will make you feel better about yourself’. Now that is one of my favourites. The assumption that I need to feel better about myself is simply laughable. Sure, I occasionally express that I wouldn’t mind losing an inch or two off of my belly, that I wish my hair would do what I ask it to but these are completely normal wishes and certainly not a sign of cripplingly low self-esteem. I know who I am and I am proud of who I am. I dress and walk and talk like I am proud of who I am. Besides, who’s to say a boy is the cure to not feeling pretty enough or not feeling clever enough or strong enough? I think that’s something you need to achieve all by yourself. I liked it how I was but I guess it couldn’t go on forever (as my friends had pointed out basically every day for the past four years.
So, having been given the task of doing something I have never done before, as part of my creative writing course, I took my friend up on her recommendation. Beth is my best friend and, excluding me, the only singleton in our friendship group. It was, perhaps a little silly of me to take relationship advice from her, but she was, at least, realistic. ‘Filled with creeps, endlessly hilarious, but you never know, you might just meet someone.’ She was of course talking about internet dating. The great taboo. Needless to say, I had my reservations. For a start, it felt awfully unromantic. I’m a poet. Poets don’t meet partners on the internet. They meet them in jazz bars, smoking pipes and talking about Plato. But I had listened to enough brilliantly funny stories from Beth to know that it would at least be a laugh. Stories of date invites to McDonalds and Turkish men with a hilariously poor grasp of the English language. So, I bit the bullet.
I signed up to the same site she was on, and noticed, to begin with that there was no drop down menu option for ‘bisexual’, and though I never like to put myself in these boxes, I guess that’s what I am. I asked Beth, who I’m sure had experienced the same dilemma, and she told me that she simply flicks between ‘seeking men’ and ‘seeking women’. Seeking. What a strange word. I mean, what else do we honestly ‘seek’ these days? Refuge? Asylum? The Quidditch Snitch? Such an archaic word for such a modern practice. I settled on one and started filling in my details.
Writing an ‘about me’ was difficult. I found myself, as I am sure many do, torn between giving an accurate description of myself and making myself sound good, between looking open minded and excited about the prospect of dating, and looking horribly desperate. I settled in the end for a brief description of where I am in life, where I’d like to be and a crap joke about a fulfilling life of blogging with the occasional long walk to the fridge. A couple of sneaky inches added to my height and a description of my perfect date (something involving food. I like food) and I was live.
I suddenly became very aware that I was alone. The only person in a completely silent room. I played The Ramones to fill what felt like a very empty space, but it didn’t work. It was still just me, and my laptop, and what suddenly felt like a very big secret. Of course, it wasn’t. I told my friends about it later that day and I’m telling you about it now, but for the first time, a taboo had successfully silenced me, however briefly. Besides, when I did tell my friends, I was drunk. My left hand clutching an empty bottle of wine with a straw poking out of the top, my right clutching a cigarette, dropping ash onto the conservatory floor, I said ‘I just don’t find it as easy as you do,’ and they said ‘I know Gracie, I know’ smirking at my slurring emotional plea, and put me to bed. I wondered if everybody signing up felt this. Guilty. Like they were cheating the system, doing dating wrong. Like they were doing something they shouldn’t be.
Days passed and my dating inbox went empty, whilst my university and work emails seemed to be overflowing. To be quite honest, I had almost completely forgotten about the whole ordeal when I got my first message. It was, of course, an invitation to join a couple in a threesome (as were the next three messages I received). I then received a ‘ur wel cute’ from someone with withered lips and crow’s feet that ran as deep as tree bark, posing (unsuccessfully) as a 21 year old art student. I, of course, ignored all of these and added a note to my profile to suggest that although I am not exactly searching for my future spouse, picking out children’s names or preparing to open a joint bank account, I was searching for more than an uncomfortably awkward sexual encounter with somebody I did not know, and would, let’s face it, never know. I was beginning to worry. Perhaps the internet was, as my mother had suggested many times in the past, not filled with people like me, but filled with people like this. Perverts and creeps. Liars and fakes. Vultures and snakes. I wondered, briefly, if the taboo was born of this. If big creepy taboo trees had grown from little rotten seeds. I wondered if the shade cast by its huge branches had completely dried out the ground and not allowed a single daisy to grow.
I ploughed on regardless. But I took a new angle. I realised that in some way, internet dating could be somewhat empowering. People knowing what they want, finding what they want and getting what they want. The problem was that I was not doing any of this. I was waiting to be found.
And so I began my search. Flicking through pictures and profiles, I couldn’t help but repeat one question in my head. What is wrong with them? I just couldn’t bring myself to believe that a young person would have to search the internet for a potential partner if they were a completely normal, eligible person. Balding, stupid, unemployed, creepy, old, slutty. It was usually pretty easy to spot. Despite people’s best efforts to cover it up. I am aware, before you point it out, that I sound like a bitch. Of course, at the time, I could see nothing wrong with this attitude. As far as I could see I simply had high standards. I would not (despite the bisexual stereotype) settle for anyone. I knew what I wanted, was finding what I wanted, and getting what I wanted. It was only when one thought crossed my mind that I realised where I was going wrong. What is wrong with me? Could be taller, could be slimmer, could be more interesting. Can’t drive, can’t sing, can’t cook, don’t work. The self-analysis and self-criticism was deeper and harsher than anything I had inflicted upon myself before. I began scrutinizing every photo I displayed, every word I had typed. Then it spilled into my real life. Every outfit I wore, every joke I cracked, every hair out of place, every hair in place. I had concluded that internet dating was not for the light hearted. And that is what I was. Light hearted. Not quite the strong and independent person I believed myself to be, after all.
I let the search grind to a halt and got on with my life. I didn’t take my profile down. In fact I even got an offer for dinner with a beautiful girl from Oxford but it was snowed off. We said we’d rearranged but we both just sort of disappeared, I guess. That’s the beauty of the internet (or the curse). If you don’t want to speak to somebody again you can cut them off completely. You can unknow them. There’s no bumping into them at Starbucks. That’s it. I didn’t mind though. Just not meant to be I guess. After that I almost completely forgot about the site. I got back to being a student, to microwave pizzas and last minute essays and dodgy fancy dress drinking sessions. And it was after one of these sessions that I decided to take down my profile. I had met someone. And we dated. Without ‘omg’s and ‘brb’s. We dated with movies and drinks and cigarette stops, watching sun sets over Hampshire hills as we yellowed our lungs. And now there’s a boy who I get to call my boyfriend who likes that I’m short and likes that I can’t sing and likes things about me I didn’t think it was possible to like. I’m hardly practising writing my first name next to his surname, but I’m optimistic. Besides, I think I have decided that dating sites are not for me. Though they have taught me one thing. That maybe it doesn’t matter how you meet. That sometimes it’s hearts and flowers and grand gestures. Sometimes it’s two silent empty rooms, two computer screens, two different cities. And sometimes, just sometimes, it’s a drunken snog against a wheelie bin, dishevelled French maid costume caught on camera for all of facebook to see. What matters is that the relationships you share (be they friendships or more) make you happy. And that is what I am.
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