It was a 21st Century Love Story. Boy matches with girl on an app and within a couple of messages he asks if she’s free the next day to meet for a drink. It’s a bank holiday, she’d sketched up some solo plans, but sure, why not, let’s be spontaneous! A time and place are quickly decided and agreed. Two hours before the date, he cancels as he has a ‘headache’ and ‘it’s about to rain soon’. She’s already wearing her new denim jumpsuit that she was looking forward to showing off in. But it’s fine, he’s apologised for being flaky and proposed a new date. They exchange messages throughout the day. The next morning, when she’s back at work, he rescinds the date offer as he’s certain they had messaged before and weren’t a match. She wishes him well.

End scene.

All over within 36 hours.

There was a time, not too long ago, where that would have wounded me. Knocked my confidence and made me sad. A sign that the apps are horrible and I am eternally damned. I’ll die alone crushed by my to-be-read pile of books (a quick survey of my room suggests this number is at least 80 books, so it’s plausible).

For some reason, I don’t actually care. I am baffled and a bit perplexed by his behaviour. Some mild whiplash.

But, fundamentally, I don’t care.

Not in a pessimistic or nihilistic way. When I say ‘it doesn’t matter’ I don’t mean life or romantic love doesn’t matter. I quite like the former and I’d really like to experience the later, finally, please. What I mean is, that guy doesn’t matter. It is genuinely his loss. He had an open goal, a free ticket to this ride, an invitation to accompany this powerhouse to ‘get through this thing called “life”‘, but he declined.

Can you imagine?!?

The fact this man did a total U-Turn, in what feels a personal record amount of time, even for me, doesn’t matter. His opinion of me does not matter. This micro rejection does not reflect who I am as a person. It doesn’t reflect my capacity to love, my incredible life, my amazing friends, my wonderful family, my wit, my charm nor the joyful way I have the world’s most descriptive face which reveals *exactly* how I feel at any moment. It doesn’t reflect how incredible I am at my day job.

And, it clearly doesn’t reflect or impact my exceptional literacy prowess.

[Redacted] does not matter, nor does his opinion.

It has taken me [checks notes] my entire 32 years of existence on this planet to have this level of self-confidence and self-belief. Previously on ‘Charlotte tries to date’ this would have had me doubting myself again and why I wasn’t good enough to be chosen. Blurgh! You what?

Some things clicked into place over the weekend, different conversations with different people all coalesced and it felt like a switch was hit my brain. The fog of doubt, and worry, was lifted. This was prior to the previously discussed debacle, yet this new-found determination hasn’t been swayed.

In fact, I’d say it’s been cemented.

There is no point lamenting what might have been. Not for the amount of time or emotional energy I have previously been doing so anyway. I’ve been so busy yearning for what I’m yet to have, that I’m underappreciating all the joy that is already right in front of me. I would not be where I am today if any of those previous talking stages, dates, situationships had worked out. And I would not be the person I am today if any of them had worked out. For so so long I’ve been blaming myself for those apparent failures and for not being enough. For the first time, maybe in forever, I’m starting to celebrate myself more and the love I already have.

All of those past romantic experiences were the equivalent of trying on shoes. Some of them looked more like what I was hoping for or thought needed, some were better suited for purpose than others and some I shoehorned myself into even though it was clear that it was a bad fit. Along the way, maybe there was a pair or two that fitted pretty well, but, when I’m really being honest with myself, they would have ached after a while and given me blisters. Whilst I’d have finally found some shoes to wear, they would have really limited me and dulled my sparkle – forcing me to hobble and eventually sit down when I am, unquestionably, made for a marathon on the dancefloor.

Finally, I am giving myself permission to slow down the shoe-hunt, take my time and trust the process – because that pair of shoes is definitely out there.

And for now? I quite like dancing barefoot anyway.