I spent most of the weekend watching acceptance speeches from the Golden Globes and Academy Awards, which really makes a change from stalking pictures of Emma Watson on Tumblr. It’s information like this which encourages friends of mine to suggest I start online dating. I should have seen the warning signs – my last sexual encounter was an extended high five and I can’t even begin to count the amount of people who’ve mentioned I should “get myself out there.” The thing is, I never realised I was that single – I thought I was far more ‘enjoys nights alone watching Netflix’ than ‘seriously considering purchasing a cat for companionship.’
As the last time I listened to the advice of someone else was in 1999, I decided to try something different and sign up to Tinder – the dating equivalent of a WKD. After 114 ‘matches’ with dark-haired, outdoorsy types that play the cello, I can conclude that I hate dating. I’m probably too picky and should swoon at the thought of a stranger telling me that I look “fit” on my twice-edited Instagram picture but none of these men are at all similar to the Humphrey Bogart-Hugh Jackman hybrid I had in mind.
I’m happy being single – I can go 4 days without shaving my legs and eat an entire bag of Doritos without having to worry about squeezing into my suspender belt. My smug, taken friends might suggest I need to start settling down now but I’m still holding out hope that I’ll meet a handsome stranger in Waterstones. Until then I’m going to continue with my favourite evening activity – binge watching The Mindy Project in my PJs with a glass of red wine.