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I’ll Keep Dancing On My Own

Posted on by Charlotte_Sometimes

Right, it’s been a few months since I last wrote one of these. I’ll save filling you in on these interim months for my end of year dating unwrapped because, the way this year has gone, I’ll have nothing left to write otherwise. Instead, I’m going to tell you about how I rewatched When Harry Met Sally last night and I’m currently stuck in my feels.

My holy trinity of festive adjacent romcoms for this time of year are When Harry Met Sally, Bridget Jones Diary and While You Were Sleeping – I watch all three every year. For various reasons, I was going to put off WHMS this year – one of them being that this time last year, I was all a-tingle in my first ever ‘real’ (what felt it at the time anyway) relationship that felt like it was going somewhere. I was stupidly happy and happily stupid, oblivious to the fact I would soon be dumped via text by that man whilst I was on a flight before he then totally disappeared.

Watching WHMS usually gives me a top-up of romantic hope, a reminder of not knowing what’s round the corner and what could await. It didn’t really happen this time because it turns out it’s impossible to top-up a depleted supply.

We joke about ‘cuffing season’ and how this time of year induces the compulsion to lock-in for winter to the nearest warm body. But I can only partially blame that for how I’m feeling at the moment. Because, ultimately, I’m weary and fed up by it all and, as it currently stands, I don’t have any resources left to revitalise my hope levels on my own.

Having spent the last week in Norway on a solo adventure, of which I am beyond proud of myself for, I had a lot of time to tune-in and check-in on myself. Considering I had a therapy appointment a couple of weeks ago where the question, ‘Charlotte, are you happy?’ triggered an existential crisis and a lot of weeping accompanied by the admission of ‘No’, it was a timely yet daunting prospect.

My trip made me realise two things. 1) I’m pretty bloody awesome but 2) That almost makes it harder that I’m still yet to have a reciprocal romantic relationship. Having spent the week on my own, marvelling at all that I achieved and the person I have become, has had the bizarre repercussion of making me sad about it all. I have never been more certain at what a catch I am, how great a partner I could be and the joy I could bring to someone’s life. But why isn’t there anyone around who wants that/me?

On a walk last week I thought about all the gestures I have done for people I have dated – making personalised notebooks, a get well soon hamper, a working-notes document of their favourite things. I then added to the other scale the romantic gestures I have received in return and could only come up with ‘He asked if I wanted to pop in Tesco on the way back to his’.

I cannot convey how infuriating it is to be a self-identifying hopeless romantic who is heavy on the hopeless with none of the romance.

This is the year I have ‘tried’ the most when it comes to dating. Maybe as a consequence of last year’s shit-u-ationship, and finally getting to experience the baby steps of dating that most of my peers experienced over a decade earlier, has fuelled my want to have that again in my life. Because, before it got bad with him, it was also really bloody lovely. Having someone to text about the exciting things, to talk about the bad and sad things with, the in-jokes and recurring gags, sharing life with and to be someone’s first priority for an all-too brief flicker of time. My want for having that again echoes in my bones. In fact, on a journey from home work a few weeks ago (the same week as that therapy appointment) I thought I was going to splinter at the seams from how intimacy deprived I felt. How alone and adrift and invisible I felt.

Feel.

This year I’ve been on more dates, tried new apps and in-person dating events. I’ve alternated between trying and trusting the process. I have been more vulnerable and open than ever, but to no avail in getting closer to finding my person. And it’s so hard not to take any of the knockbacks personally, for every unmatching & disappearing act & lack of questions & sleazy comment & bad date to not feel like a reflection of me. Rejection is redirection, but only if you’re able to maintain belief that the path will finally arrive at a destination.

Instead I’m stuck in a forest full of ghosts and zombies and breadcrumbs.

I don’t need a Prince Charming to come and rescue me, I can do that myself, but I could really do with some reassurance that I’m not cursed or monstrous and that my partner in adventure is out there, looking for me too.

‘Cause I’m a punk rocker, yes, I am’

Posted on by Charlotte_Sometimes

I write this, my first piece in nearly two months, on my Birthday Eve, having just peeled myself off the floor from having cried from the centre of a fort made of moving boxes. On the sob scale it wasn’t a big one, rooted in pity with a dollop of overwhelm served on a plate of my usual birthday-induced melancholy.

Back in January, I tried to spring into the new year with such verve and optimism. Proudly declaring I was 32, the same age as Lorelai Gilmore & Carrie Bradshaw & Bridget Jones the first time we met them all, I looked forward to what the year was going to send my way.

Since I’m turning 33 tomorrow, can we also get some new showrunners in please? Because, honestly, whilst I asked for new storylines, I’m outraged by what I got given.

Barely two weeks into the year, we were told that our school building would be no more – but there were plans to find a new location. Barely two weeks after that, we were told that wouldn’t be happening. Our school would be no more.

Nothing prepares you for hearing that the school you had left your previous job for, having been so filled with excitement at the prospect of being part of a team creating and setting up a BRAND NEW SCHOOL, is being shut down by various entities who are too busy pointing the finger at each other like that Spiderman meme to actively support you through the process. It’s a form of bereavement, mourning what you have poured into it and the years you thought you had remaining. The slate featuring all the wonderous possibilities of what was to come is wiped clean, the achievements that had gone on before seem futile and wasted.

Three months of limbo followed before I interviewed and then got awarded what I’ve always thought of as my dream job. Except, now it’s only a week away from starting, and I am plagued by imposter syndrome. Terrified that I’m not going to be good enough for it and they’ll catch me out immediately.

The nature of my previous job required me to be constantly on alert and anticipating every & any scenario. Curriculum content took a backseat to pastoral support. My brain became leaner and sharper having to respond & predict the unpredictable. And now I’m off to a high performing and high achieving school – a fact that has resulted in a residency of 3am anxiety dreams about how little I know or remember about how to teach.

I’ve been on 8 first dates, no second dates, and 6 singles events where I made really cool friendships and connections, but not the kind I really went there to form. Clearly the current scriptwriters in control of my narrative are favours of comedy and horror tropes, rather than those of romance. At this point, I’m pretty sure I’m going to magpie the plot of Sister Act and make the non-existent status of my love life official by joining a nunnery.

There is a set change happening though, as I move locations are 4.5 years. I’m moving to a new part of town, with a short term contract as I chase the small possibility that buying is within my grasp. We’ll see how the gods of plot let that story arc play out…

On a more positive note [I heard that a sigh of relief!] I continue to have some of the best family and friends a girl could ask for. My recent holiday and birthday drinks were a much-needed reminder of how lucky I am. My support network, a rolodex of loved ones from all walks of life and backgrounds, is testament to the fact I am not unloveable. I am seen and known, even if I sometimes feel adrift, colliding with what I feel my life ‘should’ look like and what it actually is.

I’ve undertaken 39 of my Project 52 adventures, but recent events mean I’ve totally lost will or momentum with it. Please, if you read this, please do hold me accountable for completing the final 13 within the remaining 129 years of this year! Set me challenges or suggest things we can do (post move and new job start..)

Whilst I feel battered by this year so far, there is still part of me that (naively?) remains open and optimistic to what awaits. Whilst my 32nd year may not have been what I wanted or hoped, and I will grieve that for a little longer, there’s been so much joy and brilliance within it too – I must resist letting it get drowned out by the uncertainty triggered by so much change.

Let year 33 be about truly appreciating and embracing what is there, rather than what isn’t. Let’s trust the process and find the beauty within it.

That’s what Superman tells me is ‘real punk rock’.

I try, and I try, and I try

Posted on by Charlotte_Sometimes

As we’re almost at the end of June, it feels apt for the latest edition of The Dating Diaries to be a half-yearly performance review.

Oh boy, 2025 has been bad on the dating front. Baaaad. So bad.

Let’s start most recently and then go back. I took three weeks off the apps for my mental health. My rule was, I could only go back on them when I felt curious as opposed to searching. Curious as to what was out there, like leaving a fishing line with some bait out and seeing if anything stuck, rather than actively pursuing and hunting.

I matched with M on Breeze. I let myself actually be a little excited about this one. We had so many interests in common. He works in film. He was very cute. He suggested a date and time.

I believed it actually might happen.

23 hours later, he cancelled the date. Not rescheduled. Breeze doesn’t let you message matches, aside from a one-line when you cancel or reschedule. His one line said ‘family funeral’. Because he’d ticked cancellation over rescheduling, his profile has disappeared. I will never have a date with M.

Because of the lack of nuance with Breeze, it’s more matter of fact, so it hit harder.

‘Family funeral’ is one of those things that you feel bad for questioning. He’d suggested that time and date – Tuesday at 8pm. What could have changed or happened in those 23 hours?

My brain naturally assumed it was an excuse. A lie to cover the fact he must have gotten the ick over my profile or photos. Maybe he did? Maybe he really does have a funeral happening and is in a bad headspace right now? I’m never going to know.

But, honest admission time, it has made me feel really sad.

Not because of M. Give it another day and I’ll have forgotten what he looked like. Give it a month and if you were to ask me who M was, I’ll probably have forgotten.

It’s more the fact it was another disappointment after a continuous cycle of disappointments.

I was excited to go on a date with someone who seemed really compatible, that I had a lot in common with and fancied. I was looking forward to getting to sparkle. To banter and build a rapport. To flirt and be seen.

Because, sometimes, I really feel invisible.

It’s really hard to convey to anyone who isn’t long-term single at how hard it can hit sometimes. How lonely it can feel, deep rooted within your bones. How much it makes you doubt yourself, no matter how strong or sure within yourself you feel. It’s grieving for how you thought things could be and how you wish they were. It’s questioning what they’ve gotten right and you’ve gotten wrong. Why does someone want them and no-one wants me?

The cancellation notification came through when I was out at an event. As I made my way home, it felt a bit like living in Noah’s Ark. Surrounded by couples who had each other, who supported and loved each other.

God, did I crave that.

God, I still do.

Since January I’ve had five first dates, all courtesy of Breeze. Two were awful, two were fine and one breadcrumbed me for a month, cancelled our second date the night before because he ‘pulled his neck and needed to be still’ and said ‘Peace out, you seemed fun!’ when I said I didn’t see the point in endlessly talking if we weren’t actually going to meet up. M takes me up to six date cancellations on Breeze. Family funeral’ now joins the illustrious lineup of: ‘Travelling for work’ (twice), ‘Out of the country’, ‘Not in the headspace to date’, and ‘I’m now not free then’.

In the last six months, I’m in single digits for matches on Hinge. And not a single conversation has resulted in a date, or come close to the possibility of one.

I was zombied by a guy on Feeld and had a guy masturbate over my pictures on Bumble.

I’ve attended six singles events. Two – which were both book related – were really, really lovely events. Would do both again, even if I didn’t find a match. The rest were varying levels of awful, with either a somewhat imbalanced or hugely imbalanced gender ratio.

When laid out like that, it’s a wonder why I keep trying and hard to believe it’ll get better.

I have such a rich and full life, so many wonderful friends and family I get to do such amazing things with – that proves I’m not unloveable. I am living the kind of life that teen-me would not have dared to dream about. So why does my love life continue to be such a barren wasteland of disappointments?

The sadness I feel today isn’t about M. It’s about the juxtaposition between knowing how much love I am capable of giving and feeling, being the most secure in myself I’ve ever been and certain of what I bring to the table – and yet having no outlet for it. No opportunities to show and feel and live it. It’s frustrating and it’s so hard not to stop that energy manifesting as bitterness and becoming jaded.

For now, I’m going to mope and wallow in the despair for a while.

Things will settle down. Logic and reason will take over. I’ll process these feelings, be able to accept nothing’s permanent and everything can change quickly. Reciprocal romantic love may only be around the corner. It only needs to happen once. It’s not about me. Dating is hard everyone, especially dating in 2025. Even if my life has no evidence of romantic love right now, there’s also no evidence for the fact finding it will never happen. I’ve not met everyone I’ll ever meet.

But, at the very least, could I get some shipping info please? A cheeky ETA on when I’ll next get to feel that spark of connection and that glimmer of possibility. Just a whisper from the universe that it’s en-route.

A sign from above that it’s on its way.

That would be nice.

‘And You Say That You Love Me’

Posted on by Charlotte_Sometimes

Oh boy, did I feel crap last week. Awful, dejected and so so low. Today? Not so much. I feel lighter and freer, open the possibilities and wonder of life. That’s because I had a date yesterday (one of my postponed Breeze dates, the other had cancelled) and my date with R was just so…

Fine.

Totally, inoffensively fine. We did three rounds of drinks (a first date record for me this year, so far) in the generically inoffensive Shoreditch bar we had been assigned by Breeze. Conversation flowed reasonably easy, the two hours didn’t drag and we left things amicably enough. But I couldn’t work out why it hadn’t clicked. Where we somehow simultaneously too similar (creative types who like adventure with a bit of an introverted streak) and yet too different (his job is computer-focused, and I think that tells you more than enough detail). He had been attractive-ish, not offensive – maybe a grower not a show-er? He had talked about money a fair bit and came across as stingy rather than generous. He’d proposed the second round by saying ‘Do you want to buy these or shall I?’ (I know right, swoon city!) and didn’t push to split the bill more evenly for his more-expensive-than-mine drinks. He’d also arrived first and nabbed the sofa, didn’t make any moves to offer it to me and so I spent two hours sat on the world’s smallest stool. As my arse is as impressive as my writing ability, I was far from comfortable. But he had asked questions and seemed interested enough in our conversations. Maybe he was nervous rather than as socially awkward as his turns of phrase implied? Maybe it wasn’t that weird he talked about ‘girls’ profiles? Maybe it wasn’t a bit of an eyebrow raise that when I talked about some of the creeps at comic-con he responded with ‘well, it would have been different if they were conventionally attractive?’

A couple of hours after we went our separate ways (no kissing had occurred)Breeze pinged with the post-date feedback survey. Despite myself I clicked the ‘share my phone number’ option. As soon as I submitted it, I regretted it and was mentally drafting a ‘you seem so nice, but maybe this is just platonic’ message.

I needn’t have worried, as I woke up this morning to the notification that R had declined the offer to swap numbers. The worry was needless, R did not want to see me again.

It would be a lie to say it didn’t sting a little and my ego isn’t a little bruised too. He didn’t want to see me again? All of this wit, charm and warmth? Did he not know how lucky he was I’d even considered a second date, despite myself? IN HIS DREAMS BABY.

That train of thought terminated pretty quickly when I realised two things. 1) We had clearly felt the same way about things and he had been more sensible than me in cutting it off immediately, where my decision would have needlessly dragged things out. 2) I finally realised why I had been so unaffected by the date.

He hadn’t made me laugh the entire date. Not at all. Not once.

I am a generous laugher, with a sense of humour that alternates between teenage boy and a pun-obsessed grandad. I also laugh with my entire body, when something tickles me – I am gooooneee. A witty back-and-forth is my love language, something I blame Gilmore Girls for entirely. My dad calls it my ‘dolphin talk’ where I communicate in rapid fire interjections. If we’re spending time together and that’s how we’re interacting, best believe that I feel my most safe and loved in that moment. I probably adore you.

For R not to have made me laugh for the 120 minutes of our date? Truly an unforgivable offence. And once that clicked in, other thoughts did too. I thought about how often I make myself laugh, and how much joy I get from making others laugh. My favourite thing is a call-back and, if we have a recurring in-joke, I’m a goner. I have a wonderful network of friends and family who make me guffaw, snort and howl with laughter. And, right now, I have no want or desire to risk giving up a night of laughter for a date that might be awful or where the better outcome is ‘we chatted but I didn’t laugh’.

At some point, I acknowledge, I will have to try again to meet people and risk it. But not right now. Not for June at least. Because, whilst I will never see or speak to R again, I did get something valuable from that date. It’s not just me. 2025 on the apps has been an awful time for me, I’ve been disappointed and hurt more times than I care to recall. It really felt like it was all me and that I was awful. There must be something wrong with me. But yesterday, despite feeling low, I still showed up and put the energy out there I wanted. There won’t be a second date, but I didn’t want there to be – we simply were not compatible.

I have been freed by this revelation. And I know that because today I:

  • Stopped by a beautians for a skincare consultation, as I want to feel more confident in my skin.
  • Spent an hour ordering essentials from Boots that I’ve been putting off for ages.
  • Picked up my shirt and number for a 10k funrun happening this Sunday.
  • Came home and mopped my floors and organised some long-overdue admin.

These are acts of love. For myself. Mind, body and spirit. For reasons that are totally understandable, I’ve been in freeze mode – and I think I hoped for someone to come and defrost me. But the only person who can do that I myself – so that’s who I’m going to date for now. I’m going to focus on finding the love within myself that I’ve been trying to find and earn from others for the first 153 days of this year.

I’m off the apps for now. Maybe for a month, there’s no hard and fast rule – more when I know within myself that I’m not looking for a dopamine hit or a void fill. But right now, I don’t have want or capacity for endless swipping and awful messaging.

I’ve got a couple of singles events booked in and I won’t cancel them, but I’m treating them as outings rather than the ‘oh my god, I might meet someone wonderful tonight!!!!’ energy that I just can’t work up right now. I will go, stay as little as long as I like, do or don’t speak to whomever I want and bugger off when I want. After the creeps from both comic-con and the apps, I have a genuine suspicion I might just bark at the next unwanted approach I receive.

This year I stopped looking after the true love of my life, myself.

I got real lost, and now I’m working my way back to finding my centre.

It’s about time I say that I love me.

‘I want to talk like lovers do’

Posted on by Charlotte_Sometimes

[Narrator voice] Previously, on my dating diaries, two and a bit weeks ago I wrote about how I was feeling a bit more chill about things. A bit neutral. A bit numb. I’m starting to appreciate that this, whilst evidence of some emotional progress is also probably a side effect of burnout. Considering how many times I’ve cried since I last wrote, how exhausted I feel no matter how much rest I get, how noisy my brain is and how I’m currently finding it so hard to find joy in my favourite things. I’d say your girl is burnt out.

It’s no surprise really. My job is mad, every day is so different and often extremely difficult that it’s near impossible to prepare for what comes our way. The last five months have been significantly harder, for reasons I might talk about at some point. I’ve been pouring myself into the young people I work with, some of the most vulnerable young people in London, maybe even the country, but that cup hasn’t been replenished for a number of factors.

I’ve also overstretched myself with adventures and outings and shenanigans. My plan for 2025 was to say ‘yes’ to more and challenge myself, doing things outside of my comfort zone to make my world bigger. I’d never stopped to consider the emotional energy that would require, resulting in my levels being depleted more than I’ve ever known it.

Then there’s the big D-Word. Dating. This is the year I’ve been the most ‘out there’, where I have consistently tried more than I can ever remember – both in person and through the apps. It also means I’ve faced the most rejections I’ve ever had, be that micro or macro rejections. They’re like bees though, they sting then die. The problem I’m facing is that, should a mystical pair of scales arrive to way up my near-first-half of the year, with good dating experiences on one-side and bad on the other, it’s less a see-saw and more of a catapult with how unevenly weighted it is.

Let’s take the last two weeks for instance.

Following the literal wanker I encountered on Bumble, exactly a week later – near enough to the hour – I matched on Hinge with what seemed like a catch. Both cute and with excellent bio responses, he proclaimed he was on the apps only looking for a life partner and ‘those looking for a short time so not apply’. I was sold. His opening message? A pretty seedy one about my red hair and red lipstick. Disappointing but not irredeemable, maybe he’s just not great at flirting? Throughout what little exchange we then had, I gave him 3 increasingly less subtle chances to shift from objectifying me into actual conversation. But, no. Instead this man wanted to ‘clone me to make more of me’. Sir, why do you need more of me when I’m right here and open? When I put in a boundary, said he was making me a little uncomfortable with the appearance chat and could we move onto something else – he *unmatched* me.

In a similar vein, but in person this time, when at comic con helping my friend Sarah sell her excellent books (all currently 99p on Kindle!) I had several uncomfortable exchanges with men who approached me & utilised flirting styles they must have learned from the manosphere. My least favourite of these exchanges occurred on the Saturday (on Friday I was dressed as Meg from Hercules, the Saturday I was Jessica Rabbit) and it went like this.

[Man approaches the stall]

Me: (Delivers an impeccable pitch for Sarah’s books]

Man: Oh, I don’t care about that. Like, don’t care at all. I’m only here to talk to you. Jessica. Jessica Raaaaabiiit.

Me: Thanks for the compliment, I guess?

Man: (he stares at me)

Man: (he stares some more)

Man: (he walks away)

These exchanges, both in-person and virtual, left me with the same icky feeling. Not only was I objectified by men with zero rizz or chat, it was how both men were unapologetic with it all. I don’t want to be lusted over, I wanted to be loved. The two are not mutually exclusive, from what I gather, but it’s not something I’ve ever really experienced. And I’m finding myself being drained looking for the latter whilst only finding the former.

Of all the cries I’ve had the last fortnight, the most impassioned sob was the night I got home after speaking at a conference. I’d been invited to attend and nailed my briefing interview. I only told a select few friends and family that I was doing it, imposter syndrome rendering me comparatively mute. The conference itself came and went, none of the people I told really asked after it. (This is not an indirect towards those people, I totally get it – I made very little show of it and hid how anxious I was about it!)

However, the night after, I felt myself haunted by a phantom boyfriend. A partner who would have seen how anxious I was that morning, and held me and kissed my forehead. Who would have texted ‘good luck’ beforehand and ‘how did it go?’ after. Who would have surprised me with flowers and takeaway that night, whilst we dissected how it went over glasses of malbec.

Yes, that might be pure idealised fantasy. That a relationship is more than those moments – it’s work and compromise and reality gets in the way. But, I also sort of don’t believe that it’s pure fiction and I don’t think there’s anything wrong in wanting that. If the roles were reversed, I would do that for my person. I do do it for my friends, my love language is acts of service and gifting. Somewhat ironically, consider you’re reading these ramblings, I’m not so great at telling people how I feel about them to their faces. I rely on attentive actions to do the talking for me. My TikTok FYP is littered with thoughtful and romantic acts men across the world have done for their partners, lately it’s been making me sadder than ever that I’ve not got someone doing that for me.

So, what’s the plan moving forward? Pass.

A huge part of who I am is the hope I hold despite all reason. My ability to find joy in the dark moments. My want to keep open to the universe despite it’s disappointments. But is it the definition of madness to keep trying when it’s making me so exhausted? If my inner candle of hope is close to being extinguished, how do I keep trying to fuel it with such limited supply? How do I maintain the flame’s momentum when there feels little reason for it to continue?

Answers on a postcard please.

‘I’m dancing barefoot’

Posted on by Charlotte_Sometimes

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.

Another Crappy Date

Posted on by Charlotte_Sometimes

Sometimes, as soon as a date starts, maybe even before it begins, you know exactly how it’s going to pan out. There’s been a few times I’ve thought, ‘Well, this is a nice surprise’ and one ‘huh, this might be the start of something..?’. According to some sources, some people know within their gut ‘this is my person, this is the one I’m going to marry’. Unfortunately, the majority of my dates have resulted in the opposite, of doom and pessimism at the immediate realisation upon meeting that something has gone array.

R was waiting outside the bar for me. He looked like his pictures, something which happens less than you may want to believe. He hadn’t lied about his height either. He was, in fact 6ft 4in. He had, however, had a relatively sparse profile which meant I wasn’t going into proceedings with much intel. I beamed at him, trying to force my own nerves away (which had been fluttering at the speed and velocity of a hurricane for the last few hours). I got an awkward grimace in response. Once in speaking distance to each other, in warrant of a greeting he said an awkward tale about how he had been on the other side of the road. I’m not quite sure of the rest because I was too distracted by how his voice really didn’t match, well, him.

He was Romanian, and quite thickly accented, which wasn’t a problem. The thing that totally caught me off guard was how high pitched his voice was. Coming out of this broad giant of a man, it was certainly – something…

Whilst not an immediate nail in the coffin, it was something of a perplexing distraction. Which didn’t help that his grasp of English wasn’t particularly strong. Adapting my responses, slowing them down and editing my word choices was vital.

Again, not a problem in itself.

The problem was the stuff he managed to say within the 40 minute window of the singular drink we had before I made my excuses and went to choir.

R was a flirt. Or a man who thought of himself as a flirt. Read: he was bad at it.

He kept talking about how he had a thing for ‘alternative women’, ‘bold women’ and ‘loud women’ – all whilst doing this strange face pull. It took me multiple instances of these references to realise they were directed at me as this was his appraisal of me. Monikers I’m unsure totally fit me or are all that complimentary really. He commented on my rings (I usually wear 3 on each hand) and said, ‘I left mine at home.’ Hearing my noise of surprise, and let’s be honest, intrigue as it was the most interesting thing he’d said yet he continued, ‘Only joking. Men can’t wear more jewellery than a watch.’ I tried to read his face for clues that this was some his unique manner of banter. It was not. It was a serious view he had.

Conversation really didn’t gel from there. It was clear that, whilst we had some similar interests we just weren’t compatible and sang from very different hymn sheets (Choir pun there. Sorry, this date had me feeling the need to explain things and state the obvious…) For a man so awkward, he seemed determined to keep what may generously be called ‘flirting’. At 20 minutes in he gasped and asked if I had freckles, and then peered at me, cms away from my face. When I commented that ‘there may be some, but they really appear in summer’ he responded with ‘well, I’ll have to stick around and see in a couple of months’

My stomach felt like lead at the very notion of spending any more time together outside of this ill-fated evening. Hour.

He started playing with the small tealight candle on our table and said, ‘I don’t really understand why people think candles are romantic. They make me think of death. Remembering someone who has died.’ The singular vibe that had been remaining died then. I won’t bother lighting a candle in its honour.

The final nail in the coffin occurred, conveniently, as I finished up my glass of Rose. We’d been talking about the adventures I’m undertaking this year. He asked for some examples and I mentioned some dance classes. He replied, with total sincerity, ‘Pole dancing?’ and the final vestiges of goodwill within my body dried up. I was now at one with the Sahara.

Making my excuses, that I needed to head to choir, I sat on the bus to Angel starring out the window replaying the last barely-an-hour of my life and wondering how many more dates I can handle at this point.

Answer: None.

Tall Girl Lament

Posted on by Charlotte_Sometimes

I know dating is hard for everyone. I strongly suspect that anyone who finds it easy or genuinely a completely enjoyable experience is probably a sociopath. Add in how things have been warped by over a decade of dating apps and, well, these trenches are bleak my friends. As Pat Benatar declared, Love is a Battlefield, and all of us soldiers have the things that make us feel vulnerable. The things we may perceive as making the warfare all the more difficult. For me, that is my height.

At 6ft tall (thank you to the Long Covid Clinic nurse who confirmed this in 2021, after spending my adult life declaring, as a form of self-flagellation, that I was ‘only’ 5ft 11 and 3/4 in…). As the average height of a women in the UK is 5ft 3in, I am 9in above average. I’ve always been something of an overachiever in many aspects of my life, but that it some achievement – albeit one totally at the hands of genetics.

I wasn’t always tall, or at the very least the tallest. The way I remember it, I finished year 8 of school at a totally average height. Maybe on the taller end, but not noticeably so. Then, I returned in year 9, Godzilla-style. The tallest person in my year. And I went to a mixed gender school, so this was significant and extremely noticeable.

Add in the fact I’ve never been model skinny (that aforementioned Long Covid Clinic Nurse I praised earlier praised me, in the same sentence for ‘not looking’ [insert number] stone and for ‘carrying it off well’ – so we can hold back the applause for her) and I have bright red hair (we’ll talk about ‘ginger’ another day). Then add in the fact that in year 9 I got glasses and braces. I was a quadruple threat.

Phwoar. My allure and appeal with regards the opposite sex was undoubtedly profound*.

*non-existent.

Let’s breeze over the, pretty much, unrequited crushes and what we could now label situationships that occur over the following few years. How often I tried to make myself smaller and more appealing, trying to fit in so I could feel wanted. And let me tell you about the defining moment that so much of my dating angst hinges on.

We’re talking the university era. David (not his real name) and I had been friends for nearly a year. I really liked him. It’s probably the first time I’d been friends with someone had started to fancy them, in that distinct order. We always sat next to each other in seminars, text occasionally and our friendship groups occasionally overlapped. On the last night out of uni, before we all departed, I decided to ask David out. Before it was too late and uni was over. Finally, I would tell him how I felt and that I would like for something more between us. And that’s what I do. How did he respond?

He tells me that I’m too tall for him and it couldn’t work out at all between us. He even illustrates his points by gesturing and emphasising our few inches height difference, before returning to his friends.

Nearly 12 years on, as I write this, I still feel the prickly echoes of the total humiliation that immediately flooded my body. I felt monstrous. Overlarge. Too big for this world and unwanted because of it.

Prior to that, it’s not something I had really noticed before or taken too much into consideration. It certainty hadn’t been a filter for how I viewed prospective partners. Instead, as a result, David’s comment became a chink in my armour. My kryptonite. A vulnerability that must be protected at all costs.

Not only did my height mean I would never be able to buy a pair of jeans in High Street retailer, and that I would be asked to reach for things on high shelves on a – minimal – bi-monthly basis. It would also impact my prospects of finding love? How had I been so naive?!?

In the years that have passed, I have unpicked much of this. It is still a raw point. I don’t respond well at all to the fetishization my height receives on dating apps or in person. I’m not going to give those comments any volume by repeating them here, but I’ll just say they are icky. And, as much as I hate to admit it, it’s still something I feel so so conscious off when it comes to dating. Whilst I do not regard myself as a rollercoaster (there’s no height restriction to go on this ride…) it still feels like it’s a big deal. A disclaimer I must provide, a something to declare to any prospective partners. A thing to check they’re ‘okay’ with.

Writing this is triggered by the fact I’m going to a big dating event tomorrow, a social of hundreds of people, and I couldn’t work out why the strand of nervousness I felt was so distinctive. It was recalling 21-year old me facing that rejection, even if my height had been just an excuse, it’s being said in this context, by someone I had cared about and thought cared about me (even on a platonic level) manifested into a toxic train of thought that remains in rotation to this day – hitting key stations of self-doubt and vulnerability.

Going to this event tomorrow is the epitome of submersion therapy, exposing myself up to endless, unpredictable possibilities that I could never even possibility prepare for. It makes me want to fold away and hide, make myself smaller and more palatable, apologise for the extra cells and space I occupy.

Which, really, is exactly why I have to do it.

That’s what these #Project52 Adventures are about, facing my fears and conquering them. It just happens to be that number 25 is the one that has been the most triggering so far.

‘Where have all the good men gone…’

Posted on by Charlotte_Sometimes

It’s been a couple of months since I last wrote here. In that time I’ve written half a dozen pieces, in my head. Undoubtedly they were Pulitzer-winning pithy takes on life, some positive and some negative – I just didn’t have the time or energy to write them. I mildly resent the the fact that the first time I have something to say and the time and energy to say it, it’s about boys, but maybe I can vent this up and then move on.

Here’s my latest situation. I matched with a guy on an app a couple of months ago, but we kept missing each other due to respective breathers from apps until our timelines finally overlapped. He moved us onto voice notes (I love me a personal podcast). We consistently send voice notes for several days – they’re very good voice notes, heartfelt with a side of flirt. We’re both clear on what we’re looking for and that we’re interested in each other. We both go away on – separate – week-long holidays, but keep messaging and sending each other pics of our respective adventures. We both return to London and I suggest an evening to meet up. And I never hear from him again.

It’s not a tale-as-old-as-time, but it’s an increasingly familiar one – an experience that anyone who has been single will know, particularly if that singledom has occurred in the last few years where it really feels that ghosting has become alarmingly normalised. People seem unable to use their words and say they’re either no longer interested or have met someone else, instead leaving a tumbleweed to do all the talking on their behalf.

The last few months on the apps have genuinely been the worst I’ve ever known it. Undoubtedly I was returning to them somewhat unwantingly, after having my heart bruised and being ghosted by someone that that I had really come to care for, but I remained open to love and possibilities. It’s a shame that both of those things feel in short supply on the apps these days. Breeze felt like a game-changer, until I had:

  • The third worst date of my life
  • A second date in the diary, who then decided he ‘wasn’t in the right head space to date’ but popped up again on the app the next day.
  • A really good first date which lead to a very weird talking stage with a month between first and second dates. The second date he then cancelled the night before as ‘he’d sprained his neck’ and ‘needed to be wooden the next day. When he got back in touch a week later, and I said I wasn’t going to keep talking to him unless we actually had a second date, wished me luck and told me I’d ‘seemed super fun’.
  • The guy who cancelled our date two days after matching because he was ‘going out of the country’. Our date wasn’t for 3 weeks. He popped up on the app a few days later.
  • The guy who postponed our date 4 times, then decided he had ‘family issues’ and couldn’t date.

When listed like that, it’s hard not to want to bang my head against the wall. Because it’s not just that one app.

On Hinge I didn’t get any matches for three months, until I paid £75 for 3 weeks usage of it’s membership. Whilst there was an improvement in the quality and compatibility of prospective partners I was shown, and some matches did happen, no dates have occurred. Very rarely did any of the men message or reply to messages. And when they did, none of them actually asked questions or made any conversation easy.

On Tinder (which, btw, returning to after 6 years away felt like a season regular returning to a show they were no longer wanted on) I got 35 matches within about two weeks. I only received one message, but he seemed a good one. We got a date in the diary. The day before the date, I logged on and found out I’d been unmatched. For research purposes, I didn’t messages any of the others first for two weeks until, totally exasperated, I sent them all the opener ‘What’s the most embarrassing song you know all the lyrics too?’ Yes, I know, a generic opener is far from ideal, but I was weary and at capacity of witty openers. I didn’t get a single reply. Not only that, none of them unmatched either. The 34 one-sided exchanges sat in my inbox for a further two weeks until I deleted them all out of mortification.

Well, ‘why not to try and meet people in real life?’ I hear you cry. I’ve written about some of those events before here, here and here. And still I continue to try, and I promise you I do go in open-minded and open-hearted. I went to a singles pottery class on Friday. There were 5 men there – 3 sweet men way younger than me, 1 who arrived with his GF (long story) and 1 who was just there to do some pottery. 5 other men had booked and didn’t show up. Whilst I am very aware that it was exceptionally unlikely one of those 5 men would have been the great love of my life, or a Mr Right Now, the ratios of these events are just so damn infuriating.

I know this experiences are not unique to me, I hear so many similar tales from friends, friends of friends and strangers I trauma dump with at singles events. I am not saying this is exclusive to heterosexual dating. I am not saying that these experiences are exclusive to women, I’m sure men who date women are also finding things just as frustrating and exhausting.

What I am saying is that your single friends who are trying to date are not okay right now. We are tired and disillusioned. We are in the trenches, the talking wounded, trying to find love and stumbling into all sorts of minefields. If you have a single friend who needs to vent, please let them vent. Please don’t advise them with adages like ‘it’ll happen when you least suspect it’ or ‘maybe you’re being picky’. Just listen to them for a while, let them be sad about it. Because these experiences, whilst I sometimes can reframe them as funny and ‘for the plot’, they do sometimes make me sad. I have so much love to give, and keep on trying and being open to the universe and just keep being disappointed. I do all the right things but am yet to experience reciprocal romantic love; it requires so much willpower to avoid being disillusioned and cynical.

I want to believe it will happen. Finally. Pretty please.

Bigmouth Strikes Again

Posted on by Charlotte_Sometimes

Oh chums. I didn’t forsee myself writing here again so soon. After my proclamations on Sunday evening, I was so sure my next piece would be about how I’d ridden the wave, had an amazing time at all the events I had booked in and was back on form. A-new and shiny once more.

HA. Sweet naive me of 72ish hours ago.

Remember how I said I was looking forward to two first dates this week? Well, one cancelled within two hours of my blogpost (unrelated to said blogpost, and it was via Breeze so we’d never messaged). Apparently he had ‘family issues’ and ‘can’t date right now’. Then, 48 hours later, a match I’d made on Saturday, and was actually a little excited about (a whiskey drinking carpenter, be still my beating heart/vagina) cancelled our date (that was 3 weeks in the future) because he’s ‘going out the country for a while’. (My mum’s response, ‘Is he a convict then?’ provided some joy).

I felt genuine, mortifying and profound rejection at these cancellations (made by men I’d never actually met or spoken to). The term ‘triggered’ can at times be overutilized and weaponised, but that’s the only way to describe how both those cancellations made me feel. My most profoundest fear, rooted at my very core like a throbbing thorn, is the fear that I am unlovable. That no-one wants me, I am doomed to die alone and will never experience reciprocated romantic love because there is evidently something repellent and undesirable about me. These two men clearly didn’t want me. No-one wants me. No-one will ever want me.

On Sunday I wrote about ‘riding the wave’, instead, merely days later, I was pulled down a whirlpool of dark and stormy waters. And, remember, I can’t actually swim.

The extremity with which I reacted to both of these cancellations made me realise that maybe I wasn’t yet as alright as I thought I was. That maybe, actually, I am very much not okay right now.

Have you seen that ‘there are actually 11 seasons’ meme doing the rounds? This one? Well, I acknowledge that maybe Sunday and the subsequent blogpost was the equivalent of Fool’s Spring. I thought that by making it to February, and having daylight past 5pm, that it was all over. Sound the alarms, war is over and depression has left the building. Whereas, actually, in reality, I am still stuck in the low of high-functioning anxiety and depression. That actually, in reality, I am struggling to feel much hope or joy right now. There are glimmers, but no sustained sparkle. I keep grasping but cannot keep hold of the shards.

So, back to the bed fort. I cancelled Speed Hating. We shall never speak again of the preliminary school visit I made today for a job I thought I wanted (let’s just say the parallels between dating and finding a new job continue, with both utilising carefully curated profiles…) I’m still planning on going to the Lock & Key event, treating it as a David Attenborough-esque social-anthropologist would – ‘It’s Saturday evening, and here, at this central London watering hole, we have 250 unpartnered people looking for love using phallic-shaped props. No, I don’t see it working either.’).

I’ve deleted the apps, for the ten thousandth time in my life. I’m on a self-imposed ban till the end of the month, or until I find the will to live again – whichever comes first. And, no applying for jobs for a couple of weeks. I need to accept I am very vulnerable right now, and that throwing myself into situations is really not the answer.

Right now, I have very little within my life that is actually within my control. And so my fixer mode was activated, like Norbot in the new Wallace & Gromit movie, I tried to put solutions in place – applying for new jobs and dates in a bid to find something to anchor me back down to Earth. Sadly, I’m pretty sure that is neither healthy or actually possible. By being so solution-focused, I think I inadvertently inflicted more harm on myself.

So, it’s time to get back into my tin can and wait it out before my Bigmouth Strikes Again.