Falling in love with falling in love
Two months ago on a holiday in France, a friend said I needed to get off the sad step and start internet dating.
I never previously realised that I had such a strong moral compass, but apparently I do. And until I had my decree absolute in my hands, I didn’t feel it was right to date. Then I got it, and I was free to explore.
However, I didn’t feel ready. I’d spent a year creating a little sanctuary to call my own. I’d proven that I could be a strong, independent woman. Sharing my life with someone wasn’t on the cards. Neither was the thought of investigating the baggage or body of a middle aged man. And yet, sitting alone every evening without anyone to share things with felt very small.
So I dipped my toe into the dating pond. It was eye opening and involved a lot of pictures of men holding fish or sitting astride motor bikes in manly ways. It made me realise that for 20 years I hadn’t noticed men. Like at all. When did they all become bald for example?
I began to swipe. Slowly at first. I’d read each profile carefully. I’d really look at the pictures. I tried really hard not to have a type, to open my mind to any and all. But it quickly became apparent that I do have a type. Men with fish and tattoos isn’t it. My swiping speed intensified.
My first attempt at dating was a failure. He stood me up. Luckily he stood me up before we met. He failed to confirm we were meeting and ghosted me. The next two were coffees that quickly became apparent were never going to go anywhere. One of those was polite enough to say so. The other did the ghosting thing. A polite, thanks but no thanks is ok, chaps.
Anyway, then I had an actual date. At night. With alcohol. And the man I met was theoretically 100% was not my type. In fact the only box he ticked was that he was taller than me. But he thoughtfully met me outside the pub and protectively steered me through groups of drunks blokes. And he made me laugh.
Throughout our date, despite his fascinating and hilarious stories, my mind kept saying: ‘He’s a no’ (based on nothing other than a pre-conceived list of what I expect from the man I intend to spend my future with.) When he left in a hurry because he was about to miss his train, he sent me text after text apologising and checking that I got home ok.
And it triggered something in me. Something that I hadn’t realised was missing. Someone to care for me.
I embarked on a ridiculously busy period at work where there was no way to see him for two weeks, but our texting continued. Every morning a lovely text would be waiting for me checking how I’d slept, and throughout the day how my day was going, and a good night before I went to sleep.
Our texting progressed. Rapidly. Flirtation increased. It got downright dirty. And never had the smile on my face been bigger. I felt alive. I felt wanted. I felt like an entirely new person.
We finally got to meet in person again.
I felt like a teenager. He held my hand. We had coffee. We drove somewhere. My hand on his leg. We walked to a restaurant. We laughed over tapas. We drank wine. And then he gave me my first first kiss in over twenty years. Outside York Minster. It was perfect and quite literally took my breath away and made me weak at the knees.
We spent the weekend together, mainly in my bedroom. I didn’t feel like a middle aged woman. I felt like a sodding super model. Things were awakened inside of me that have been dormant for what feels like forever. And when he told me that he had never had a milkshake in his life, never kissed a girl in the rain and that he’d last been to the cinema in the early 1990s, I went about fixing every one of those things.
It was perfect.
Except that on paper he still wasn’t. I told him so. I’m nothing if not honest and I told him that I felt that I loved how he was making me feel rather than me wanting him per se. I would have slapped me. But bless him. He said he was happy to take what I was willing to give. And yet he had awoken something dangerous in me. The feeling of being wanted. We continued to text. And talk. We met once more. Just as fabulous.
We text….Less frequently. The tone changed. I couldn’t tell if that was because he was over it or if he was trying to protect himself. Rightly so.
Every time my phone buzzed, I grabbed it hoping it was him. When it wasn’t I felt devastated.
And now I find myself on a Friday evening listening to love songs, drinking wine, and hoping that he’ll text me, even though I know that I shouldn’t want that because I genuinely don’t see a future for us. It’s unfair on him and unfair on me.
This is my heart simply testing things out again. My emotions feel like a dragnet of butterflies skittering this way and that. Part of it is brilliant. A feeling of being alive after years of flat. Part of it is awful. Because it has awakened a desire in me I didn’t realise I was missing.
To be loved is a natural human need. When you don’t have it you have a physical ache. I never realised I had that ache before. I do now.
The challenge is not falling in love with infatuation or being wanted, but finding the real thing. No-one writes this in the fine print of their online dating site. They should, because it’s dangerous.
My advice to any other single ladies (and men):
Sign up to the dating sites. Talk. Flirt. Rediscover who you are. Take the plunge. Ask them out (because apparently they’re all afraid to ask these days). Go on the date. Enjoy it. Bin it. Revel in the teenage feelings you thought you’d never feel again. But breathe. They’re just feelings. You’ve got through more than a crush before now. Let those feelings empower you. Remember that moment when they wanted to kiss you. Remember how it felt when they did. Remember when they saw you naked and thought you looked incredible rather than the image you have of yourself in your head. This is part of the journey. Enjoy it. Cry about it. And keep going. It’s such a privilege to even have the opportunity.
To the man who gave me this gift, thank you. I hope you find the true love you deserve. x
