2018, love and other catastrophes

Hey everyone, I've been on a bit of a blogging break cause I've been kinda busy. It's safe to say the past few years haven't been great for me, leading to such delightful low points as running down a Central Coast street past a bunch of pensioners in broad daylight with my underpants around my ankles*.

2018 was the year everything changed.
I moved house, twice, but finally into a lovely apartment with a leafy outlook where I hope to stay several years. I've even been able to paint the rooms. I had surgery to correct an annoying hand problem that's plagued me for years and prevented me from driving. I lost 20kg. After what seems like 87 years, I graduated from uni, and landed a full time job (you want to talk miracles, people? I walked out of an arts degree into a great job in my field of specialisation. When does that even happen?). I have money, peace and stability. I'm daring to hope.

So... I decided it might well be time to dare to date again. Dating has changed rather a lot since the last time I had anything to do with it. Last time I was dating, we were all excited about America's great new President and the hope and change he represented, back here in Australia our most popular Prime Minister ever was surely going to stay in office for several successful terms, Taylor Swift was just an innocent ingenue who may or may not have had the best video of all time, and Steve Jobs should have just gone to the fucking oncologist.

Meanwhile, online dating has moved from the realm of losers and weirdos and genre specific forums (those were actually kind of helpful...Coffin Mates, anyone?) to the realm of the normal, the realm of a dizzying array of apps. It's socially acceptable now to say you use online dating apps. That's not to say what you find there is acceptable. I am not a prude by any means. I'm just...private about some things (the woman who described her induction in great detail is pausing for laughter). But I've seen things, things on dating apps. Things I expected from men. Men are trash. But I wasn't expecting to see them from women too. Let's just say I've learned not to open my messages on the bus. (Maybe a tiny peek). 

Through all the noise, I managed to cut through and get talking to a very nice young woman, who gained my interest with her vintage dress sense and kept it with her love of art and reading. We chatted over a week, seemed to get on, and we agreed to meet for an actual date.

My first formal date since the end of my marriage.

My first formal, prearranged date with a woman since I finally made public peace with my sexuality.

Because I don't like loud ambient noises of bars and restaurants, we agreed to a day time date, seeing an exhibition at the art gallery, then getting lunch in the city.

And despite my changed luck in 2018, I'm still me, the original disaster strumpet. So it all went wrong in spectacular, clich├ęd, I-don't-fucking-believe-this form.

I managed to get ready without an anxiety attack. We met on time, I wasn't stood up, and she looked like her picture not a greasy 48 year old guy named Warren, so we were off to a good start. Conversation was a little stilted, but like all milennials she soon warmed up to talking about herself - which was fine really, I'm just okay to listen. The art exhibition was great, I'll have to go back when I can look properly. Okay, so then we discussed lunch. How's sushi? Yep sushi sounds great, let's do it.

So we walk through the Domain and Hyde Park (Sydney you can be so damn pretty some times it makes it harder to hate you) and on to the Pitt Street Mall, and we're just discussing where exactly to eat when among the pre Christmas shopping crowds whoops, we cross paths with my ex husband.

And my ex mother in law.

And my seven year old son.

Who never, ever come into the city but did that day for a birthday lunch.

Who, on that day, in a city of five million people (plus summer tourists) I somehow manged to run into.

And when your own child spots you, it's kind of hard to pretend you didn't see someone. What followed was the 60 most awkward seconds of my life. It was so awkward that I've blocked most of it from my memory; my brain has just saved a buzzing noise filled with fuzzy images and dread. I don't think I introduced anyone. I don't remember if I even said anything much except Hi to my boy. I don't think anyone except my ex knew what was going on. (I sure as hell didn't). All I knew was that running into your ex, ex mother in law and your child - a scenario the worst 90s sitcom would dismiss as too far fetched - had just happened. To me. Because of course it fucking did.

Perhaps, in a land of fairy tales and destiny, a date could recover from something like that. Ours didn't. The conversation returned to awkward, to stilted, to parting ways without so much as a peck on the cheek. I didn't expect to hear from her again, and haven't. I'm not particularly upset about it - I know it might take time to find someone right for me, and the age gap would probably have been insurmountable.

But we'll never know, because on my first date after my marriage ended I ran into my ex husband. On my first date in three years I ran into his mother who probably hadn't been into the city in that long. On my first date with a woman I ran into my son, neither of whom knew of the possibility of the existence of the other.

I've learned my lesson though. To date people closer my own age. And if I do get anther date, to meet them in a bar in the country. And to make that country Denmark. Hopefully we don't run into anyone I know there.