I’m dating again. Not with great gusto so far, and my most promising dating opportunities are ones that sit outside the swipe-focused stuff anyway. But I am having a go with a few different dating apps to see if there are any that don’t make me want to chuck my phone in the Thames. This time, I’m giving myself side quests to try and avoid the malaise that characterised my last go on this merry-go-round. The problem isn’t always down to other users, to be honest, although inevitably it’s annoying to be greeted with a bunch of likes and messages from guys who have clearly not looked at a single word of my profile, seeing only my pictures and thinking ‘eh, she’ll do‘ then firing off a lazy-ass ‘hey.’ The bigger problem these days is the rampant capitalist hellscape of apps that tempt you in with the promise of connection then demand you open your wallet if you want to actually talk. But still. We’re doing this. And part of ‘doing this’ in a way that makes it fun means allowing myself to write about the experience. That way, when aspects of the dating journey annoy me, rather than curl up and weep in a corner I can roll my eyes and remind myself that at least it’ll make good content. So. Here goes: four reasons I will instantly swipe left.

Note, as always, that like most of my other dating advice articles, this one is tediously straight. 

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As I turn my bike to head south out of the town, Jagged Little Pill plays in my headphones. I ride past the sign that tells me I’m gone from this particular place for good, and I start to smile. And then laugh. I almost punch the air in victory.

Note this story contains coercion and creepy behaviour. I’m fine, but I don’t want to randomly surprise you with this sort of thing. After my recent epic bike trip, one of the questions people ask me is ‘did you feel safe traveling as a woman on your own?’ and the answer to that question is ‘yes.’ I generally felt very safe, and I don’t want to put any woman off solo travel if she wants to do it – it’s a complete joy and one I hope everyone – no matter their gender – gets the chance to experience at some point in their lives. But it would be a lie to tell you I was always safe: I was mostly safe, I only got almost-sexually-assaulted once. This is the story of that one time. 

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Last week I wrote a piece about wanting to be loved. I think acknowledging the desire to be loved is useful to me, and it’s not something I’ve always been able to do. It feels shameful, somehow, to yearn for love. Like if I want it too much then I’m desperate, needy, incomplete without the validation of a romantic partner. But having thought about this a lot recently, I’ve realised that acknowledging this desire has been a net positive. Good for self-acceptance, and perhaps even for my self-worth too. Because being up front about how much I want to be loved means I also have to face the important caveat that comes hand-in-hand with that desire: I do not want to be loved at any cost.

This one’s long, waffly, and incredibly gendered. Sorry about that. 

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Legend tells of a woman who reaches her early forties and suddenly realises that she’s sick of your bullshit. For the purpose of this post, I’m going to refer to her as Bitch (complimentary).

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