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?

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?