Charlotte Sometimes

“Have you got any soul?” a woman asks the next afternoon. That depends, I feel like saying; some days yes, some days no. A few days ago I was right out; now I’ve got loads, too much, more than I can handle. I wish I could spread it a bit more evenly, I want to tell her, get a better balance, but I can’t seem to get it sorted. I can see she wouldn’t be interested in my internal stock control problems though, so I simply point to where I keep the soul I have, right by the exit, just next to the blues.” – High Fidelity, Nick Hornby

As a result of a bizarre trend in cinema during my formative years, I spent a lot of my childhood worrying about quicksand. How would I spot it? What would I do if I became stuck in it? What if others I’m with are stuck too? A quick Google informs me that death via quicksand is decidedly rare, and I’m – thankfully – yet to face-off this fear in a literal sense.

But I’m starting to think the warning over the perils of quicksand may have proven allegorical. Just as Rob in High Fidelity has his remaining soul kept by the exit, next to the blues, my soul is out of reach whilst the rest of me is wading through the quicksand. Futilely grabbing at life-vines which snap before assisting any rescue.

I think I’ve lost my hope, and I’m not sure when I last had it so I can’t really retrace my steps to find it.

There’s enough reason for this boggy feeling to have arisen – not that anyone should have to feel like they must reason or rationalise their feelings for them to be valid. It’s more that, in this instance, I could see things were getting denser, the dumptrucks of life dropping off piles of sand at increasing shortening intervals but I thought I was okay. Things were ‘manageable’. This is all temporary. This too shall pass.

But now I’m in panic mode as things have bypassed my capacity levels. I no longer feel that my head is above water and breathing feels a little patchy.

Ironically, for someone who never learnt to swim, I’m pretty good at that ‘just keep swimming thing’. Dory would be proud. My work, personal and general life has thrown enough at me to test my personal buoyancy. Yet, as I’ve hit a 100% likelihood rate of answering ‘existing’ to every single variant of the ‘How’s things? You okay? How are you?’ question format I wonder if it I’ve just become numb.

Because right now I feel like a lobster without it’s shell, red raw and so vulnerable to the point of defensive – more likely to attack out of self-perseveration rather than risk another hit landing. There’s no doubt this is the by-product of burnout, of having utilised my supply of bounce-back and now the energy packs need charging.

And thus, I’m wading in the quicksand, too tired to pull myself out.

Which, as far as I can work out, leaves me with two options.

One, I keep hoping for a Fairy Godmother to arrive and lift me out of it. Not the best solution as the existence of Fairy Godmother’s is, as far as I’m aware, unfounded and unconfirmed. I’d be waiting a long old while. And, knowing my luck, the Fairy Godmother from Shrek 2 will arrive and just wreck more havoc.

Then there’s the other option. The advice for what to do when stuck in quicksand might be the key here: lean back so that the weight of your body is distributed over a wider area. Moving won’t cause you to sink. In fact, slow back-and-forth movements can actually let water into the cavity around a trapped limb, loosening the quicksand’s hold. Getting out will take a while, though.

Maybe Dory was sort of onto something with her sagely wisdom. Maybe keeping swimming is the answer, but I need to abandon those big old’ movements. Maybe I need to keep moving, slowly, a little at a time – celebrating the progress, not lamenting the time it takes.

Because, apparently, ‘getting out will take a while, though.’

Last night, I went to a singles night. I’ll avoid naming the company here. That feels sort-of unfair, although I could make an argument for the fact that perhaps a degree of transparency from their end would have made things feel fairer…

My friend and I (I’ll add her name here if she’s happy for me to, otherwise I’ll refer to her as Lady Mystery – LM) headed over to THE LAND OF HIPSTERS having booked the tickets for the event two months prior. The Charlotte back in February, she was younger. Naïve. Oblivious. She had suggested going with a blasé nonchalance. As I made my way to meet LM, I suddenly hated younger me with a passion – how dare she set me up like this?!? Why was I going to this event? Why was I turning a friend into an accomplice in misadventure?

The answer, and I have no shame in saying this, was it felt a real opportunity to maybe meet someone. Someone to hang out with. Maybe fall in love with? Whilst in the midst of a year-long self-imposed ban from dating apps (#AppFree23) going to an in-person dating event felt like a good option. Maybe the only option.

We arrived at the pub/warehouse with the deliciously awful trepidation that sets in when you have the grandiose realisation of the endless possibilities of life – at how swiftly things can change so unexpectedly. That a look or conversation with a stranger could be the start of something. Be that at a shop, an event, work or a warehouse/pub. Heck, I wouldn’t even be here writing this if one brave soul hadn’t chatted up a fitty on the Tube (Hey, Mum and Dad!) We cross the threshold, as I feign confidence I definitely do not feel inside, smiling brightly – fixed Chesire Cat grin – at the woman at the desk and wave my ticket in her face.

‘Oh! Are you here for the dating event?’ She smiles back warmly, kindly, seemingly aware of the internal trepidation I am currently enduring. ‘Just walk through the pub,’ she continues. Sounds so simple doesn’t it, walking through a pub – she may have well have asked me to run a half marathon, ‘then turn left at the bar. Enjoy!’

LM and I make our way through the pub. It is full of men. Maybe near-enough only men? And, oh my, this night is looking good. Men on their own. Men in pairs. Men in groups. LOOK AT ALL THESE MEN!?! And they’re single? I’ve found them! I feel like I’ve found the Loch Ness monster, who was hanging out with Big Foot and making weird hybrid babies. I have discovered Atlantis, the mythical place were single men reside.

Did you know there were two big football matches on last night?

I didn’t.

They weren’t here for the event. They were there to watch the footie with their mates. They weren’t here to meet me. Want to know how I realised that? As I had to queue by a door that was under a bright neon sign that declared the name of the company/event which left it in no under certain terms this was an event for singles.

Now, I have no problem with being single. I’m very open about it. You may have read things I’ve written about it before – be that how lonely it can be, how I found myself grieving being on path different than I expected, how awful speed dating on a Friday night in Bank was and how I even did a Guardian Blind Date. But, it was incredibly humbling to be stood under that sign, leaving behind the appealing-looking plaid-wearing bushy-bearded hipsters to go into a mysterious side room. Shepherded away from what we had come here before, but who knew what would be through the door…

It was a – currently pretty empty – warehouse with tables, which would later on double in size. There was a bar. A free shot card could be cashed in as/when we wished. That had been mentioned in advance. As had the 90s theme and live music. Perhaps that was an ambiguous descriptor and we had gotten the wrong end of the stick because I thought that, even if the event was a dud – at least I’d be getting a boogie to some 90s tuuuunes.

No offence to the very talented singer and her accompanying guitarist but, coming to a non-digital event to meet new people – be that new friends or potential loves of life aside – I had never imagined variants of songs by Katie Melua, Norah Jones and Eva Cassidy soundtracking my foray into a mass singles event. I want to celebrate being young(ish), foolish(most definitely) and happy (I mean, I try). I would go on to have this despite, and undoubtedly because, of these and other factors. How many bicycles are in Beijing isn’t the most applicable musical conundrum to compliment the situation we had found ourselves in. Later, a breathy cover of Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Everywhere’ felt like a personal attack.

Now, all of these things are surmountable, vibes can be created and curated after all. Ascetics aren’t why we are here. Ass-etics are. (#SorryNotSorry). As women looking to date men (I know, I know. Thank you for your sympathies) we are here to hopefully meet some men. Let’s get some chatting in, maybe some cheeky flirting? Who knows?!? The night is young and full of possibilities isn’t it?

Full. Funny word that. Because the warehouse was full of people. Near-exclusively women. As the event had promised 400 people would be in attendance, I shall use that to guide my maths here. This warehouse was full of 390 women. And 10 men.

Huh.

At this point, I should say the event had not promised even numbers or anything of the short. And, of course, it hadn’t promised the impossible by ensuring LoLs would be met that night. In the branding materials, there’s an emphasis on how it’s a chance to make female friends as well as date. Talk about hedging your bets. And I did in fact make two new friends, who LM and I already have a group chat with (I called it sequins as we met both of them talking about sequins. I never claimed to be inventive!) Hanging out with them was glorious, as we mainly delivered scathing missives to each other about the event.

But, during the 3am panic I would later endure in bed that night, as I worried about how this evening was clearly a sign that I will inevitability die alone after having had a brutal hit to my self-esteem and romantic optimism, I tried to unpick why I was feeling this way. Here’s what I’ve come up with so far: 1) We’d paid £15 for a dating event, where some semblance of dating was somehow meant to occur with a ratio of 39:1. 2) Some, if not all of the men, hadn’t paid or had been offered some sort of discount as an incentive. Discovering that was a kicker. They had not come on their own volition but had needed encouragement to attend. 3) Getting into a position of talking to one of the 10 men was a Herculean task, involving trying to catch their attention or joining a pre-existing circle of conversation. 4) It turns out that, when stood in a group of multiple women to one man, it can feel pretty crappy to have their eyes over your shoulder scouring for better opportunities. Now, I understand why this happened. I make no claim that I’d be doing anything different in the reverse version of this scenario. It’s like you were headed to play Supermarket Sweep at Tesco Metro but you’ve actually ended up at Big Tesco – there’s way more to look at than you expected, you’re short on time and you want to grab the best shop possible. 5) It could have all been solved with a bit of transparency in advance. An update to attendees so expectations could be suitably adjusted.

I could be really corny, and end this on – the truthful and accurate statement – that friendship really was the highlight yesterday. We sat and chatted, laughed at all sorts and desperately tried to avoid the eye contact of the Miniature Cowboy doing laps of the venue surveying us like cattle. And you know what, I’m going to be that earnest and sentimental. Because, whilst I’m sad that the opportunity didn’t play out as I hoped and I genuinely have no idea how I’ll ever met someone, last night I got to sit with a new mate scoffing free overly-fennel-y sausage rolls whilst watching one of our group perform a group Macarena on stage.

And, if there’s anything that can be learnt from the past 3 years, you’ve got to embrace and hold on tight to unexpected joy.

As a species, we’re pretty crap both at grieving and talking about grieving. It’s often a thing pushed aside, an elephant in the corner, ignored and moved around. Which is mad, as we face so many types of grief in our lives that can be truly impactful. There’s a particular spectrum of grief that comes with age milestones. I’m only recently realising that I’m mourning my twenties. Hold fire before judging here please and let me explain…

Yes, I’m heading into my fifth month of being 30 so this has taken a little while. But sometimes you can only realise the true depth of an experience or feeling when you step away from it. Furthermore, considering the emotional rollercoaster I experience pre-August 25th, this prolonged deceleration shouldn’t be such a surprise. And I’m not grieving the end of what my twenties were. I’m grieving the end of what my twenties could have been. How I thought they were going to go and how far away they ended up being from that.

This is not to moan about my lot. For I have an incredible life. My family are wonderful, as are my circle of friends. My health could be better, could be worse. I have hobbies I love and am pretty good at. There is not a single regret at where I am now and the paths I took to get there. But the bit I’m balancing internally is how the path I’m on isn’t the one I expected and arguably, due to all manner of societal pressures, isn’t the one that I envisioned at the start of my 20s.

I thought, by the age of 30, I would have experienced love. The romantic variant.

How this love looked was depicted varied over the years. At the start of my 20s, I was certain that the decade would end with home-owning child-reading with a husband. I’d gone to university expecting to meet my soulmate, so that narrative all felt totally inevitable. And yet, as the years past, I didn’t meet that person. That all-encompassing much-prophesised soulmate who would complete me didn’t come riding in on his noble stead.

Instead, in all honesty, I meet nobody. Nobody that counts. Not really. Aside from the odd arsehole who crawled out the woodwork and provided situationships that resulted in little more than demoralising disappointment and ruthless rejection.

I guess I should be thankful really. I’ve got to my big-age and my heart is intact. It has never been broken, instead it’s been a bit bruised and it’s taken a couple of dents. Which, perhaps in a rather Romantic take on it, makes me feel quite sad. Because a broken heart is a heart that has been used and taken out of the packet. It’s heart that experienced joy before the fall; that once felt alive and soaring.

Don’t get me wrong, big girls do cry – even those who haven’t been in love. Those disappointments still resulted in tears to the point of dehydration and some of the most awful moments in my life, I refuse to undersell or underacknowledge those pains I have overcome. In theory the brightest lights cast the darkest shadows, so I deeply begrudge that the darkest shadows that came from the hands of others were caused by the human equivalent of dim light bulbs.

I am incredibly appreciative of the love and joy I have from my friends and family. I have little doubt that, not matter what or who crosses the rest of however long I have left on this planet, I have a handful of friends who were some of the true great loves of my life. It almost feels disloyal to them to be asking for more.

But I hope that even though romantic love didn’t arrive in my past, it will be awaiting me in my (please, oh holy deities – near!) future. What I would give for something to counter those pangs of loneliness that arrive from not having and never have felt it. Especially as the form of that loneliness has unexpectadly shifted over the decade.

If I had a pound for every time I’ve ever said ‘I’m going to die alone’ I wouldn’t be a millionaire, but I’m pretty sure I’d have a damn nice pair of Louboutins. Sometimes it was a phrase uttered as a joke, other times (and I’m being frank and open here) whilst crying into a pillow. Or on a train or bus. Once or twice, on a park bench. Several times over several alcholoic beverages with friends.

But nowadays that feeling I link with that fear now actually arrives when I’m not alone. It arrives when I’m with friends who are in a couple. It’s not an omnipresent feeling, it’s one that arrives and disappears as suddenly as lightening. But, like thunder, it’s one that strikes at the very core and deeply echoes within. It’s for a craving of the intimacy they share, the knowledge they have their person and the certainty that comes with that. As taboo as it may be to say, I really crave that.

That’s the thing I find myself trying to find acceptance with. That’s what my five stages of grief for my twenties have been tied to: the denial that I felt so profoundly about it, the anger that ‘everyone else’ got to have that whilst I didn’t, the self-bargaining I made in how to ‘deal’ with it and the sadness at having ‘not, and never have been, feeling wanted’.

By writing this I’m trying to finally reach a degree of self-acceptance of it all. That experience isn’t one-size fits all, life cannot be predicted and that I didn’t do my twenties ‘the wrong way’.

And, I can also feel that way whilst also wanting to experience romantic love.

I don’t *need* romantic love, but I’d like to be able to give it a try. To love someone and be loved back. To have my person’s back and they have mine. I’m not looking for the centre of my solar system, I’ve formed a most-excellent one all on my own. I’m looking for another solar system to rest next to. We can sit in the rocketship, exploring our respective solar systems and the rest of the galaxy. Together.