Am I that single girl living and 1920’s lifestyle?

After being with someone for over a year you feel complete and utterly comfortable and at ease with. Long weekends away, holidays and living together once was a traumatic ordeal and is now the complete norm. Even a fart from his direction isn’t earth shattering appalling and instead a simple ‘oh babe’ followed by a slap on his arse is the standard response. But is this relaxed relationship adopted by the modern dating community really a good idea? My Grandmother seems to think not. Note: My divorced Grandmother, who had an affair, thinks a modern relationships and dating is awful. Interesting.

Fast forward to a month later and I’m alone, single and living in a fart free flat, and back in the dating world. Concerned that my relationships haven’t last that long (i.e. I’m not with them now) that well maybe the modern dating world is the issue, so I consider old school dating. As my Grandmother’s marriage wasn’t a ‘success’ I look in the era that my Great-Grandmother would have been dating in. The 1920’s. She was well and truly a flapper girl.

Delving into Google search I come across so many Rules of Dating in the 1920’s, all tried and tested by women of that then modern and new dating world.

It was in the 1920’s that young men and women began ‘dating’ without having the painful family conversations to see if he or she is worthy of the opposite sex. Instead they worked out if they could actually have a decent conversation without getting the family involved. Not involving my mother in my relationship status is a dream. The one time I introduced my parents to a boyfriend resulted in a Facebook status dawning the words ‘future son in law’ going live in under 5 minutes of the initial ‘hello’. Oh and of course she friended him and tagged him in the post. Naturally. Later on that evening I received an email with 8 different weddings hats she liked and wanted to know if the wedding would take place this year or next, as there was a sale on in Monsoon for a lovely mother of the bride dress that would be perfect for this summer. I swear I was close to a heart attack. Or at least palpitations.

“The 1920’s the era to dress to kill”. This I may be able to do, some more research. “Hemlines rose. Neckline plunged. And shoes were for dancing in.” Sounds like the cast of The Only Way Is Essex. I wonder if fake tan and false eyelashes were used in the 1920’s? Man Tan made from sugar cane was invented in 1923, so we have finally worked out where the biscuit smell comes from.

When I am not in gym gear sweat buckets working out to get the dream bubble butt and flat abs, I do attempt to make an effort but maybe tits and arse is the way forward to secure myself a fine well groom classy gentleman?

I pause from my groundbreaking research when the words ‘care-free fling’ pops up, as an image of any meat market crowded Central London bar enters my mind. I thought that the women in the 1920’s were respectable class ladies who looked after their man and cooked a bloody good Sunday roast. After the extensive research (one Google search) it sounds like the flappers of the 1920’s are more Sex And The City than my girlfriends and me. This is a sad day. I always imagined that the crazy world of internet dating, blind dates, dating parties, one night stands and Tinder all came into there own in the last few decades. Astonished that this was well under way nearly hundred years ago, just minus the ability to swipe left and photo shopping your profile photo before submitting it.

Maybe this is the key. There is no key. Dating is dating. There is no right or wrong way of dating. You have to just put yourself out there. You will meet the good and the bad of the dating world, but in the flappers had hope and enjoyed the illegal gin bars at the same time then surely this new age of the flapper girls can too.  She says pouring a large drink and Googling Speed Dating in London. Let the games begin.

Am I that single girl living and 1920’s lifestyle?

Am I that single girl who has conquered emotional eating?

I kick my trainers off. Frantically strip my tank top, leggings and underwear off and threw them across the room. Standing butt naked. I am alone. Actually alone. In a central London gym changing room. At peak time. This is utterly unheard of. Victory lap?

Then the scales begin to threaten me from across the room. I look in the mirror and me breathing in. Fluoresce lighting and cellulite. Arse! I walk confidently to the scales. Then pause. Do I actually want to do this? Do I want to know the answer to this never-ending question?

Fuck it. I get on.

Five kilograms. Lost. Happy days. ‘Happy happy skinny days’ I think, ignoring the new patch of cellulite I had just discovered.

After my recent break up I discovered that I am an emotional eater. But I am also an emotional starver too. How can I do/be both baffles me. But it seems that as my brain begins to digest and process what is happening in my emotional world, my stomach just stops. Allowing all of my bodies effort to go into thinking. Lots of thinking.

After that initial ‘I think we should stop seeing each other conversation’ my stomach no longer wanted anything. It stopped working. Required a hard reset. Was closed and off on vacation. And it did not once cross my mind. I never once felt hungry. I never thought of food. My mind was completely distracted going over and over every conversation we had ever had. Scanning through my brains memory files reflecting on his body language and reactions. Searching for that moment it all went wrong. That moment he decided he did not love me anymore. A non-stop overthinking week and a half went past incredible slowly. A week and a half of just eating cereal bars, orange juice and protein shakes. In this time I lost just under a stone in 10 days. Maybe this could be the new fad diet? Break Up, Thin Up.

After my newfound fad diet I decided that crying myself to sleep wasn’t the answer. So I went to beautiful Italy to continue crying myself to sleep, but this time just in the glorious sunshine. My stomach had shrunk and was still not craving food, but I couldn’t resist nibbling on the fine Italian foods. By the end of my break I was still overthinking every coma used in all What’s App messages and was happily tucking into three courses of fine full-fat-carb-high sugar-alcohol fueled meals. Delicious.

The general not so healthy eating continued and continued and continued. Week after week.

Now, I am a real gym bunny. If I could I would go twice a day, seven days a week. So even with my continuous eating I wasn’t getting ‘fat’ but I was getting soft and a bit flabby. And it was really noticed on a night out in Blackpool, when I put on a dress that fitted me perfectly 6 weeks before, and now I had to squeeze myself into it with the help of two friends holding various fatty body parts as they carefully forced the zip up whilst trying not the split the seam. I realized this emotional eating had to stop. Now. It is one thing being broken hearted and single. But another being broken hearted, single and flabby.

Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow I will begin to conquer my dreams. Tomorrow I will get my dream body back. Right after, the pint, chips and mayo.

Tomorrow came.

The fridge was full with fruit and vegetable and lean meats. I had researched and written out a (practical for my schedule) healthy food plan. I began getting up early to fit in a morning runs before going to work and then attending the gym 4-5 times a week. The most important part to this new life plan was making time to see good friends for good time. Sometimes work takes over my life and this aspect can get pushed to the side. I need to take control of this and begin to say ‘Yes’ more. This was not just a physical get fit, get happy thing. This was a physically and mentally get super fit, get super happy. Forever thing.

I was concerned my energy levels would be down and I wouldn’t sleep well, and would suffer from fatigued with doing so much. But the complete opposite occurred. My energy levels were at an all time high. I was sleeping like a baby or a drunk on The Strand. I was enjoying delicious healthy food, and training my arse off and loving every second. My entire days were filled to the brim with hardcore gym time, challenging work, having a social life and laughter.

And now I am stood here in the gym, naked with the scales dominating the room. I place one foot on the scale slowly and bigger the other one up to meet it, extra slowly so not to increase the weight too much.

Bingo. Five kilograms. Weeks of hard work. Weeks of fun. Weeks of returning to being me. And finally the weight is off. Not the 5kg, but the excess weight of the ex boyfriend, the baggage, the misery of the lies, the heartache. It has taken time and I am sure there will be emotional eating temptation when a memory is jogged or I come across an old photo. But as I highjack Kate Moss’s famous quote, ‘nothing tastes as good, as emotional freedom’.

Am I that single girl who has conquered emotional eating?

Am I that single woman who needs to repopulate the world after a zombie apocalypse?

So last night I met Shrek.

A tanned Shrek mind you. He had just returned from a holiday in Spain with the ‘lads’.

I mean I understand people want to get the ears pinned back but having just the pixy tip of the ear pinned but leaving the middle and droopy bottom lobe is surely not correct. Maybe he should go on Botched or a Katie Piper documentary? Definitely should consider suing, that is for sure.

After my initial shock, in which I literary had to stop myself from saying ‘oh fuck’ out loud to his face, we sat and began the “date” part. Maybe his charm and wit will blow me away and I will soon have an ear fetish? It has happened to me in the past when I dated a ginger. I am talking a true deep orange ginger with matching carpet. That was another hold the ‘oh fuck’ moment, or the romance of the first sexy time would be well and truly ruined, forever.

So the conversation began, friendly start with a few jokes fluttering here and there. The banter continued building steadily. Maybe abnormal ears are the new thing? Maybe, just maybe. Then the hyena laugh took off, and continued, still going and getting loud. And we stopped, following up with a mildly racist remark. Interesting. I must have misheard. Surely.

Oh and then another. Oh no. No! Really? Oh come on.

‘I have these reports to do for work that need to get done and handed in first things, I must head home and crack on with the reports, that are needed first thing. Reports. First thing. Leaving.’ I say repeatedly as I scramble my things together away for tanned racist Shrek lookalike.

Home to my flat-mate with a +Pizza Hut, a 4-pack of beer and a bag of giant chocolate buttons.

‘How did it go?’ Super hot yet single flat-mate.

‘Tanned racist Shrek lookalike.’ Me.

‘Delightful.’ Intrigued super hot yet single flat-mate.

‘Beer?’ A defeated me.

I drank my beer. I ate my pizza. And began to feel the wave of deeply-single-woman-forever fever.

If this was to happen though, alone in my 40’s would this be a bad thing? I mean yes there would be lonely times I am sure, but surely that’s one reason social media was invented! But why is it that it is unacceptable for a woman to be alone but completely fine for a single older bachelor?

As a career driven woman, many of my relationship have end or barely started due to my job and my past times. It seems that men may love the sound of an independent career women but when they start actually dating one and she is not hanging on to every word and able to drop everything at a moments notice, this poses a big no no. Roles reversed and this would be a completely normal situation with no issues.

On the opposite scale I have friends who have been married to their child sweethearts and work in a mindless 9-5 job and have no job satisfaction, but don’t seem to mind this because they just want to be married. Well maybe I just want job satisfaction. Maybe I just want to achieve my dreams. Maybe I want to work, travel, socialize and not worry that I may not be home in time to have the dinner on the table and his shirts ironed by 7pm. Maybe this is acceptable, and maybe society and the older generation (my mother) are wrong. Maybe, there are too many maybes in this blog?

Would my life be over, ruined, wasted and unsatisfied if I choose myself over marriage and babies? I mean if there was a zombie apocalypse and I was the only female survivor I would of course happily knock out a few babies to repopulate the world. But lets face it that’s not going to happen, and if it does James Cordon would be on hand to deal with zombie attacks.

Though, I am sat in a crowded Harris & Hooles surrounded by yummy mummies and babies coming out of my ears, so not the best time to make life changing breeding discussions. I think this maybe a little food for thought. I say that whilst sipping a soy cappuccino as the baby on the opposite table vomits down its mother’s top, and the smell of well soiled nappy coming from behind me hits an all time high. More than enough thought for me, today at least.

Am I that single woman who needs to repopulate the world after a zombie apocalypse?