love

Out of Reach

Posted on by Charlotte_Sometimes

Remember how I wrote in March that I needn’t worry about dating as I was off the apps for the entire month? Well, I took 3 weeks off in the end. And I ended up on two dates in one weekend! Oh, I know – look at me living my SATC realness…! And only one of those was from Hinge. One was from a meeting in the wild. Apparently that still happens. Well, ish…

We had met at a Wine and Cheese event, both there with our respective group of friends. He overhead me talking about my postponed trip to Berlin, turns out Berlin was his ‘spiritual home’ and he’d lived there for nearly a decade. I have never been as smooth in my life as I was during that exchange, asking for recommendations and swapping numbers.

I felt invincible.

We had a good initial messaging exchange. He sent over a Google Doc of Berlin recs (genuinely, that’s dirty talk to me) and I offered to take him for a drink to say thanks. No reply. Two weeks pass. Reply, yes to drink – he’s been busy with work. I ask when. A week passes. He’s extremely apologetic for slow replies, he just qualified in a highly intense profession and is a bit overwhelmed and hadn’t been able to suggest a date until now, but how is Saturday? Saturday, which is in 4 days time, works for me. No time or date gets offered, so I carry on my life and make plans for Saturday. The morning of he then replies, suggesting he meets me from my plans when I’m finished. I agree.

It needs to be put on the record, this communication was a massive ick for me. In any other circumstance, I would have given him the brush off. But, I was intrigued. Aside from a friend-of-a-friend situation, and some in-person dating events, the apps have been the instigator of my entire dating history. I’d met this man in the wild, I knew I fancied him so the intrigue propelled me through. Sometimes you’ve got to do it for the plot.

In a move that proves that life is stranger than fiction, I genuinely could not have made up how this date went. Spoiler – in a bad way.

He greeted me warmly whereas I had a bit of a guard up from his non-committal messaging, but this started to ease reasonably quickly. He was warm and chatty, taking the lead on finding somewhere to ger a drink. He insisted on getting our drinks. Chat flowed, body language was open and engaged. Eye contact set to mutually flirty.

Until, about twenty minutes in, when he got a bit unstuck when telling a story and he stumbled over pronouns – collective pronouns. ‘I’, ‘we’, ‘my’, ‘our’ were seemingly interchangeable. I waited for clarification. His wife still lives in Berlin.

‘My wife’ in the present, not past tense.

He talks more about her and how they are doing long distance. He doesn’t expand on what his dating situation is, if they’re ENM/Poly/Open. No matter what, it feels like something that should have come up before; either in our initial conversation or text. He doesn’t wear a wedding ring and this distinctly does not feel like friends meeting for a drink. He is acting like we are on a date. I don’t chase for answers or clarity, I stay for as long as it takes me to finish my delicious New Fashioned (New because Whisky is apparently Old). The waitress comes over to offer a second round, Cheese looks to me to answer. I decline, we amicably hug and go our separate ways.

The second date that happens that weekend was far more promising. In fact, it was rather wonderful actually. All the boxes are ticked – clear shared goals and dating intentions, emotional compatibility, rapport & communication and physical attraction. The three hours fly by. We talk about meeting up again when I get back from visiting my parents during the school holidays.

I break my toe, he constantly checks in and reminds me he lives near enough by to help when I come back to London. He remembers details and asks questions, he’s a clear, constant and curious communicator. For the first time in my life, I start getting Morning texts. We go on a second date. He’s kind and attentive and really rather wonderful. Four hours fly by, we both agree it could have been longer – what a shame it is that he has to rush off. He moves to kiss me. It’s a great kiss.

The third date is in the diary, we’re going for dinner and then a book binding craft class and drinks after. I let myself look forward to seeing him again. Messaging continues to be lovely. It’s easy and natural and organic. I don’t try to impress him and there’s no second guessing myself. I understand this is how it should always be, effortless without the need for some semblance of curation. He gives me excellent advice on a difficult situation I was experiencing. I’m relaxing into this and letting myself enjoy it.

Then BAM! A 6 minute voicenote from him explaining he can’t do this right now. He’s not over his ex. I’m wonderful. We have so much potential, but he can’t give me what I need right now. He needs to work on himself. He’s not ready for this. He is very, very sorry. Maybe in the future he can reach out and we can try again, if I’m open to it?

I reply and say I understand (which I do, although it TOTALLY SUCKS). I tell him I’m open to him contacting me in the future, but I will not chase him nor will I put my life on hold. I thank him for the kindness he showed me during the last four weeks because, genuinely, I’ve never been treated this well by someone I’ve dated.

Because, whilst I am sad and hurt and disappointed, I am genuinely thankful – It might not have lasted long but it was nice to have tried a slice of something I’ve always wanted.

And that’s how, on Saturday night, instead of being on my dream date, I found myself at my local Everyman watching Bridget Jones Diary. A film I have seen at least 15 times, but never on the big screen – a treat courtesy of the film’s 25th Anniversary. It bought the familiar comfort it always brings me, I chuckled and gasped at every familiar beat. The significantly unexpected response came during Darcy saying ‘I like you very much, just as you are‘ when I realised I was bawling, my cheeks sodden by tears. Even now I feel a but misty-eyed recalling it.

It doesn’t take much analysis to work out why. Having spent so long dating and having some truly miserable experiences, it was was really lovely to have something nice for a while – even if it was brief. And even if he was kind, his reasoning understandable and he sounded genuinely sorry – it’s still frustrating to have been a trial run for his re-entry into dating. I can still logically accept that, whilst also be hurt that if I’m so wonderful – why am I not worth keeping around? Why doesn’t someone want to like me just the way I am and want to stay?

Questions that were targeted at more than just him. The tears weren’t for him or over him, they were mourning an entire dating history comprised of almost of things that never truly had a chance to start.

So. A few more days of moping and then, I guess try again? This, however short it was, was the closest fit I’ve ever had to what I want – it took me long enough to find that, how on Earth am I meant to believe the extended edition of this will ever happen with someone else?

Ironic, isn’t it really, that dating is like a good joke, it’s all about the

timing.

‘I’ve been around long enough to know you can’t trust a man’

Posted on by Charlotte_Sometimes

Well, it’s been a while since the last edition of The Dating Diaries hasn’t it? I could catch you up on *everything* that has happened but that would just result in a smorgasbord of disasters and you feeling (even more|) sorry for me. So let’s streamline the process and forget last year. Because, long story short, I got my heart curb-stomped and I really don’t want to retread those waters.

We’ll stick to what’s happened so far in 2026.

I appear to be the Goldilocks of dating, which is somewhat fortunate as I’ve always been rather partial to a bear.

In January, I went on three dates with a lovely man with whom there was great communication and shared values but no romantic attraction for either of us.

In February, I went on four dates with a man with whom I shared values and romantic attraction, but no communication (‘I’m too avoidant for you’ was his text message ending things).

I fear that means March will provide five dates with a communicative and hunky Reformer. (Ha, that’s impossible. An oxymoron, with an emphasises on moron.)

Thankfully, I’ll be able to minimise the risk of that afeared scenario happening as I’m off the apps for all of March.

I’m not taking a break, it’s a leave from the trenches.

Because it is BAD out there. Seriously, check in on your single friends who are actively trying to date. We are not okay.

Initially I planned for just a week break, the equivalent of a trip to the seaside to quell building hysteria. But a month seems more impactful and needed. On a practical level, I’m really busy this month – I’m barely managing to keep spinning all my current China plates without adding a bull in the shop to flip them over. There’s also the fact that a week would allow for some healing, but then I’d only need another breather far sooner. If this was a physical injury, the doctor would advise rest for longer than feels needed. You shouldn’t get off the bench only when it sort of feels fine, because you get up too soon you just risk further damage and a delayed recovery.

Shouldn’t the same apply to a bruised and battle-weary heart?

It’s not all doom and doom though. I had two moments of dating-adjacent growth recently that, in their respective afterglow, I could genuinely feel the XP accrue and Level-Up occurring.

Firstly, I made a connection in the wild.

Folks, I had an in-person Meet Cute.

I know. In this economy!?

We bonded at a Wine and Cheese night, swapped details, he sent me a Google Doc of recommendations for Berlin and then he… ghosted my offer to take him for a drink to say thank you.

A true 21st Century Love Story.

In all seriousness though, as disappointing as the final act act was (aka, the substantive lack of a final act) how cool is that? To make an in-person connection, initiate swapping numbers and for me to be bold and resolute with a low-key asking out. Don’t get me wrong, I get a pang of sad that it didn’t go anywhere but it gave me a chance to show myself what I can do.

And that rejection is survivable, it’s like a bee – it stings then it dies. If I managed it once, I can do it again.

And I will do it again. If the Gods allow and I’m given adequate material to work with.

The other moment of personal development came just before I paused the apps. Back in June 2025 I was due to go on a Breeze date with M. It was one I was really hyped for, we had so many shared interests and he was cuuuute. A week before the date, he cancelled. Due to the nature of Breeze, with its ‘no messaging before unless postponing/cancelling’ it only gave a small box of no-context explanation.

‘Sorry, family funeral’.

The amount of time I spent analysing those three words is worthy of either immortalisation or medical study. Suddenly I was now a private detective, determined to crack the cases, using my powers of hypervigilance to work out what this excuse really meant. I was Charlie Conspiracy, haunted and hunched over a whiteboard trying to decode the real meaning behind his simple-seeming message. He sent the message a week before the date? The date was due to be on a Friday evening? How would a funeral impact that? Had he just found out? Why not postpone instead of cancelling and our profiles being lost to each other forever? What kind of person makes up that excuse? What was I missing?

I was all the questions. And every thought train lead me to one destination – I had clearly scared him off and he didn’t want to go on a date with me at all. Why did no-one want to stay and give me a chance?

The worst bit about all of that? Remember how I said you can’t message on Breeze? How could I have scared him off if we’d never actually spoken? [Sorry, what’s that noise? Ah! That’s the trauma alert, it goes off whenever it’s clear that our many negative dating experiences have caused deep rooted damage. We are trying everything to process this issue, please bear with us]. My profile was exactly the same as that of the person who he had ‘liked’, paid a drink token and booked a date in with.

Like all great spirals, I fell out of that one and (undoubtedly/probably/certainly) fell into another. M was lost to the sands of time.

Until a week ago, when his profile came up on Hinge. It was near enough the same as it had been on Breeze and, most importantly, I was still really keen and suspected we’d have a great date if we had a chance for one. Before sending a like, not a message – I was playing it coooool, because we’d matched before, albeit elsewhere and maybe he’d be keen too maybe? – I listened to his voicenote (Breeze doesn’t have that function). His voicenote was him daring the enquiring listener to guess from his accent whether he was from Australia or America.

Oh.

If he was international, a family funeral would be significant upheaval on a geographic-physical level as well as emotional and everything else. He’d have to travel and be away for an extended period of time. Maybe it wasn’t a made-up excuse. Maybe, despite what my brain had told me at the time, he was being truthful.

It’s taught me a lesson in taking people at their word, and not trying to use their words for emotional self-flagellation. February Man told me he was too avoidant for me and you know what, he was right. I don’t just deserve crumbs, I deserve the whole damn cake. With icing, cherries AND sprinkles. And I definitively deserve someone who isn’t pathologically allergic to confirmation texts and making a plan.

Maybe M genuinely couldn’t make that date and wasn’t sure when he’d be back/would be ready to date.

Sometimes the funeral is in Australia.

Sometimes we need to accept what is said for what is being said.

Sometimes we need to accept the limitations of others as not being a reflection of what we’re worth and deserve.

Now, that’s some substantive growth.

Apparently we’re 17.53% into 2026. Let’s see what’s going to happen next. At least I’m sure it won’t be boring…

‘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 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.

‘You gotta trust, give it time’

Posted on by Charlotte_Sometimes

This week I’ve had a new mantra, running on repeat in my head.

‘Love is like a fart, if you have to force it – it’s shit.’

And that’s sort of where I am right now, still in the state of acceptance I described last week, except there’s now an added layer of apathy which I quite like as it shows how secure I have become within myself. 6 months of therapy + 28 (and counting) adventures + much self-reflection = a whole lotta personal growth. That’s really significant considering the week I’ve had dating wise. At any other point of my life, this week would have pushed me over the edge and sent me spiralling. Instead, I can see it all logically for what it is. And that none of it is a reflection of me.

This week I’ve:

  • Been zombied
  • Had two Breeze dates postpone
  • Experienced sexual harassment from a match on Bumble

It’s not that I’m numb about it, or desensitised to it all. It’s sucky, and it’s disappointing and, in the later instance, plain gross. But none of it is my fault or a reflection of me. All 4 of these men are strangers I have never met, who barely know me. What they did, on this wide spectrum of the bleak side of dating, is all about them. Let’s get into it.

At this point, we all know what ghosting is. Zombieing is what happens when the person who ghosted makes a return. A sudden return from the virtual dead. My zombie was this guy, voice note guy resurrected himself back into my life via Whatsapp – with an apology, a quasi-explanation of why he went ‘AWOL’ and statement of intent about how much he’d like to ‘reconnect’ with me. After thinking about it for most of the day, I decided to reply that I was open to it. I had liked talking to him, it was the most connection I’d felt with someone romantically this year. Everyone goes through things, maybe he hadn’t done the right thing – but his message suggested an emotional intelligence that warranted another chance. I suggested a tentative date to meet and, well…

Can guess what happened next?

Two days of radio silence, then some non-committal messages and we’re now onto our second round of days of radio silence. If he resurfaces again, I’m going to have to perform an exorcism (polite message stating my boundary and desire for consistent communication) and end his haunting. If he actually wanted to ‘reconnect’ and meet me – he would do that and actually follow through. I deserve more than this half-hearted, half-arsed, half-attempted approach.

On a similar, but different note, this links to my two postponed Breeze dates. As outlined before, Breeze is a newish dating app without a messaging function. You match based on profiles (which have the option to be filled out more than profiles on other apps, although not that many people seem to make the most of this) and then go for a drink.

In theory, this is dating with intention whilst also a slight return to pre-app dating – no messaging beforehand minimises creating a false impression of the other person and hopefully reduces expectations. You’re just going for a drink with someone you liked the look of. To have both dates postpone within a 24-hour window was unfortunate timing. One is apparently ‘travelling’ and the other ‘now can’t make sunday.’ This would have made me so upset at any other point in my life, perceiving these as rejections and my not being good enough or attractive enough. But, again, it’s not a reflection of me at all.

There are lots of possible reasons for why they asked to postpone, and both have put a new date in the diary. It does feel a tad sucky, like they’ve found a better option and decided they’d rather do that than follow through on our date. But, I also just don’t give a fuck. Their loss. Evidently, neither man realises how lucky they are that I’ve even given them a chance…

Whether something has genuinely come up which has resulted in the need to postpone, or they got offered something else they’d rather do, that is not a rejection of me. They do not know me. They might get to meet me some day. Maybe they’ll even regret that they’d ever had to delay meeting my wonderous self. But that’s not my business. What is my business is how I choose to react, and my reaction is [insert shrug here].

That’s also how I responded to what happened on Bumble, with an added layer of anger and determination for consequences – call me the Judge Dredd of dating. I was thrilled when I realised I’d matched with D. A primary school teacher. Several mentions of being a feminist and supporting women’s issues. A photo and reference to his younger sister. Funny responses to the prompts. A photo at Hobbiton. His dating goals are ‘long term relationship’. And he’s super fit? I envisioned a proposal being imminent. We’d obviously have a LOTR themed wedding.

Finally, this was the kind of profile that made it all worth it. It was just like rummaging around for ages in the aisles of T.K.AXX then suddenly finding a Keith Haring leather jacket in the sale for only £20 (a true story). Now, as it’s Bumble, he just needed to reply to my opening message within 24 hours otherwise the match will expire. True love was finally within reach!

He replied within a minute! Oh my god, it’s finally happening. I’ve found him and he likes me, thank you Gods of dating for everything that has lead me to this man. We’re messaging, there’s a zappy back-and-forth. Oh my word, he writes too?!? He’s talking about how he wrote a short story today. Be still my beating… Wait. ‘Need a little post writing relief session’. Did he just make a joke about him masturbating right now? Maybe I’ve misunderstood? Oh, he’s based in New Zealand but has his profile on passport mode so he ‘can see if there’s any good reasons to come back home’. I don’t feel so good about that. But…

‘Charlie let me cum first I can’t type at the same time. I’m very horny’ is something that you might expect to receive on an app like Feeld. Not so much on an app supposedly for dating, sent by a man supposedly looking for a long-term relationship. There’s then a reference to my photos and how I’m ‘fit as fuck’ and – oh, now he’s describing he’s masturbating over my photos. In shock, I call him out and am swiftly blocked. After reporting it to Bumble, I hear back within 24 hours that they’ve removed him from the site.

It’s been a couple of days, and I still feel icky over the whole thing. Within the space of just a few minutes of messaging he had been beyond inappropriate; I have no idea what he thought would happen next after he said those things. Whether he was actually doing what he implied is irrelevant, he did not have my consent to say those things to me. The fact it was by someone whose profile had been such a delight did make it hit harder. It’s made me wary of who I were to match with next and what could be said, reluctant to risk being exposed to a similar situation happening again.

So, what does that all mean?

Those are all really pants dating experiences, in a week where there genuinely haven’t been any good ones to address the balance. It genuinely feels impossible to even find someone to go on a drink with and have a flirt – it’s all I want at this point, I no longer have the lofty ambition of suddenly stumbling across the love of my life on an app. That’s sort of because I’ve become so emotionally fatigued and wary from a conveyor belt of experiences like these. But, here’s the positive, I am not taking any of these experiences personally. These things are not unravelling me or my sense of self. They’re not dulling my light or belief in my sparkle. These things may have happened to me, but they do not reflect me or who I am or what I have to offer in a partnership.

I still believe that romantic love is out there for me, even though the hope well is running a little drier than I’d like right now. I’m calmer about it all than I ever have been, I don’t need to fix or control it all right now – there’s a peace to be found in accepting what is, even if it’s not what I want most deeply. Nothing is permanent and things can change in an instance.

Time to trust the process and not keeping forcing it, otherwise it’s shit.

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.

Singledom bites at 6.48pm on a Saturday

Posted on by Charlotte_Sometimes

On average, I feel most single at 6.48pm on a Saturday. Oddly specific, but as today’s 6.48pm on a Saturday reminded me, totally accurate.

I’m writing this part of this post whilst on the leaning section of the tube. You know the bit, by the doors. But on the side where the doors won’t open, at least on this leg of the journey. Jubilee Line at Green Park if you want me to continue the theme of oddly specific details. I had my spot all sorted, head deep in a book when, on either side of me a couple (both male/female) took up residence. In both instances with little interest or awareness that they had ended up being incredibly close to me and were in fact intruding on my personal space. The person they were with was their world, all that matters is that their person was safe and comfortable. 

Both assumed the position heterosexual couples subconsciously seem to find themselves in these situations. Her tucked up against the plastic divider, he the warrior defending her. He helping her stand in case she falls, two world-weary people leaning on each other, safe in the knowledge that no matter what happens – they’ve got each other. No matter the scenario that arises in this journey, they have a partner to accompany them as they face it.

I know full well this is an idealised view. Any number of things could have happened in their day and could await them after this journey. The arguments, fights and betrayals that could await them. But, from the outside anyway, they look sedate. Safe. At peace. Found.

That’s when I feel the pang, that want for what they have – or what it looks like they have. 

I’m journeying home from a fantastic day with my best friend. We saw a superb comedy show, having a taste of normality in amongst the chaos of the last 18 months. I’m going back to my awesome housemate. I might even watch the football. You never know, we may even win it.

But right now, all I can feel is this pang that defies all logic. I’m 6 weeks away from my 29th birthday and I have never experienced what these couples have right now. I’ve never had someone to lean on like that, with this degree of intimate certainty. And this pang is reverberating in my bones – rattling and ricocheting along until, as hyperbolic as it sounds, it makes my eyes water.

I don’t need what they have. I’ve never had it, and I’ve made do without it for this long. I also literally don’t need it. At 6ft tall and built like a Viking – I don’t need someone to bodyguard me on the tube. Statistically speaking, when it comes to average heights and builds of a man in the UK, there’s very few who’d literally be able to achieve this physically so I rarely entertain the notion of it ever happening in the way these couples are curled into each other right now..!

But I want it. And I feel like I’m meant to feel embarrassed about admitting this to you, whoever you wonderful people are who read my ramblings. But I’m not.

The only way to keep navigating the hellhole that is dating is to maintain hope. Like with anything in life, we hope that things happen for a reason – that our lives are structured in a certain way, with certain things happening (or not happening) at certain times, for a certain purpose. One which we may never understand, but the fortuitous fruits of which we will always appreciate.

One of my maaaany self-deprecating jokes when someone – usually a very comfortably coupled someone – asks after my non-existent love life is to respond ‘Well, you know what – I’m starting to think maybe the factory shut for the day after making me and they forgot to make my partner!’ It’s self-defence 101, cloaking a genuine and innate fear with a half-hearted laugh and an accompanying good-humoured slap on the table. Desperately concealing the depleting quantity of hope retained in my body, which seems to face surge charge deductions at 6.48pm on a Saturday.

But, as I wearily look ahead to the speed dating event I’m going to on Tuesday, if I want to find my tube buddy – I need to keep trying and keep that hope going. I need to innately rely on the universe revealing my person and their having a reason for having kept me waiting for so long.

And, on one Saturday in the future, it’ll be 6.48pm and I’ll know it was all worth it.