Am I that single girl who is searching for the spark?

When internet dating and half heartedly replying to the flurry of emails whilst remaining a step back and not turning into crazy emotional girl, there are actually not enough hours in the day. I have begun reducing my nightly hours of sleep from 8 to 6, and replying in the evenings before hitting the sack. This ‘tactic’ is resulting in replies, sometimes even multiple, from anyone I’ve messaged back. It’s as if they are so desperate to hear from me they are happy to wait. I should be over joyed. Flattered. My social calendar should be full to the brim, and yet something is missing.

I met my first date in a busy bar in South London . A lovely bar which had vases for hanging lights, chunky comfy sofas, big wooden tables, the menus were in classic novels, there were cushions, throws and even a vintage fireplace, though it was a hot July evening so no need for it to be ablaze. And he… he was fine. The conversation was easy, he was taller than me, always a plus and he was a complete gentleman. But there was more of an emotional spark between the new trendy bar and myself that I came across, than this nice man.

After two glasses of wine, the first I practically drank in two gulps. We parted ways and I walked speedily in the directions of the tube. Thankfully I think he felt the same. There were no awkward texts or phone calls. We literally met for a drink and left.

Maybe the spark (I feel like spark should have a 'e' at the need but spellchecker tells me otherwise, I just feel it would add more of a sparkE to the word, thoughts?), is too much to ask for on a first date? Maybe it builds? But there surely needs to be some element of attraction. Surely something that makes me want to rip his clothes off and pounce his bones (bones not boner!!) on the comfy sofa, by the fireplace, under the vase lighting?  Maybe I’m asking for too much?

Back to square one. I’ve now started to receive the idiot messages more and more frequently. A few penis images have headed my way also. Lucky girl. What on earth do they think will happen when they write; ‘spunk bucket’ or ‘really or fake’. Oh yes take me now you sexy beast; I desperately want you body right here, right now.

Yeah right!

After a few deletes I have narrowed it down and begun talking to new charming man. So far so good. He has a proper job, unlike my self-employed airy-fairy job. Bonus. 6’2”. Double bonus. Has not used ‘babe’ or ‘hot stuff’ once. Winner. I have planned to meet him after a long and boring numb bum day at work. And have chosen a fairly busy/noisy bar incase conversation dries up, there wont be any awkward silent. Minor issue it is a bar my nearest and dearest friends tend to spend there after school hours at. I cry out to the heavens; please the Dating God make for no embarrassing bumping into work colleagues whilst on an already stressful and mildly embarrassing first encounter.

A cheeky vodka prior the date?

Or will he think I’m a lush then?

Am I that single girl who is searching for the spark?

Am I that single girl who is a serial online dater?

After finally receiving my decaf soy cappuccino +Starbucks Coffee  from what might possible be the moodiest barista in all of Great Britain, possible the world, I sit down back in England. Blackpool in fact. Rainy, windy, grey depressing rundown seaside town. Verona is now a distant memory way. It’s been a long week. Thanks to hearing from the ex, it’s been an emotionally long week. What I thought at first was going to be a worthwhile concluding conversation, that would bring clarity and closure just added frustration. Frustration, not because we are over or I miss him. But frustrated that once again I was pure and simply used by a man. A doormat who baked protein gluten free low fat bakery goods, drove up and down the country and flew across the world just to spend 48 hours with him. And paid.

After the honorary hair colour change. Natural dark champagne blonde. Yes, I purely bought it because it had the word champagne in. I begin scrolling through the local talent of Blackpool. After a ten minute search where I yet to even mildly find attractive let alone witty and interesting I give up. Week one of dating is not a success. Maybe I need to up the online dating to more than just an app and actually a website with a profile and not just a picture?

Signed up. Now the tricky part, write something breezy, with no care in the world, holding in on the desperation, with a smidgen of sophistication and wit. Crap. Screw that I have five minutes before work, just write anything. Brief sum up, done. My profile is now like a guys profile. Simple and thoughtless and took me under 2 minutes to write. Maybe I really should consider dating like a man, it saves a lot of time.

Twenty-four hours later, I remember I actually signed up (PT course is in full swing and taking up spare time) and download the app. I do love that everything is an app nowadays. Though then have thoughts of the future with humans with computer chips in their bodies, the next step up from apps? Maybe late night sci-fi/action movies are a bad idea. Ping. Ping. Ping. 32 emails, 99+ likes, 99+ would love to meet you. What the hell! How many of these messages are going to have pictures of penis’s or sexual comments in? Well the answer would be, three. Three out of thirty two messages. Twenty-nine possible men who are actually interested in me. After two weeks of feeling like the grossest, most unattractive woman on gods green earth, I think I may be mildly wrong. Just mildly.

‘Love your profile’.

‘Great to meet a girl who’s so laid back’.

‘So funny. I would love to take you for a drink.’

‘Finally a girl who isn’t a nutter.’

Nutter. Bonus I think, and then my feminist hat comes on, Oi knob! Oh you’re only 5’8” anyway, delete. +PlentyOfFish 

I begin sifting through the messages and reading possible hopefuls profiles, deleting anyone who is too short, too serious, doesn’t workout and who isn’t in my age category. Also if they aren’t hot. Now, I am happy to admit I have weird taste in men. All of my ex’s are completely different in looks, careers, hobbies and personality. I go by the first meet and that famous spark all of us ladies dream of. If it happens in movies why, oh why cant it happen in real life? Oh yes that’s right, because romantic moments in movies are written by either women or gay men. Not heterosexual men. Damn it.

I find the first one I want to reply to and I start dramatically thinking of what to write. Should I go into detail about my day, comment on his photos, his profile, ask questions about his job, ask where in South-West London he lives, how his evening is going? Stop. Just stop. Man simple. It’s the answer and worked with my profile so the second test awaits. Sent. Now to deal with the rest.

Am I that single girl who is a serial online dater?

Am I that single girl who overthinks dating?

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