This Week’s Say

Goodbye Private School Boy, Charlie Pool Triplet, Gus the Writer, Marc not Mark, First Love, Jack Brissy Lions Scarf Man, Sam The Music Man, Dr Luke, Greek God, Army Brat, John Seven Bedrooms if You Include the Study, Bella, Guy Who Never Texted, Hugh Man In Finance, Smiley, and hello inner peace.

Years of collecting esoteric contact names and replaceable memories have come to an end. I’ll continue dating because being the Creative Director of Contact Names is a title I’ll never take for granted, but it’s time to clear the slate. Time to make it as smooth as the ice rinks in Heated Rivalry.

All of the awkward text chains, explaining my job and preferred method of exercise for the third time that week, either on Hinge or Instagram DMs (barely an improvement), will be worth it in the end.

There’s nothing I love talking more about than my own life. There’s nothing like having the attention to tell a story, holding the suspense at the height of the story and hearing a laugh escape from whoever may be my audience that day. That’s not to say I haven’t told bad stories before, or overshared on a date, or frankly done something I simply couldn’t have seen coming (I genuinely surprise myself sometimes).

Regardless of the fun, dates aren’t always just a side-show alley game to me.

I have completely desensitised myself to the first date nerves. In the beginning, I felt sick, the drive there felt suffocating, and the time spent scanning the room to identify my date across a bar felt like a millennium.

It’s not to say they are still not the most awkward part of my week, or that I find joy in still being on the search for someone who will break my two-date curse (only two have ever cracked the code to surpass the second meeting). Just two years in, it’s much easier but more of a chore sometimes. 

I love meeting new people; some dates have ended in potential job opportunities, travel recommendations, and most of all, the belief that I deserve to be treated very well.

But this weekend, I had to cut the line to those previous memory-makers. There’s no point in having their numbers in my phone; it only results in heightened anxiety during the Sunday Scaries when I realise I’ve texted Hamish, the guy I went on two interesting dates with and not Hamish, my cousin.

Yes, I love talking about myself. I love sharing details of my life that others couldn’t imagine telling some of their friends, yet I just blurt out to my co-workers. But the entertainment value loses its shine when sometimes my feelings do get a little, nay, a lot, hurt.

So, I’ll continue with the stories, they just may not be as plentiful this year as I realise some of these dates are genuinely a waste of my time and expensive NARS foundation.

To my next suitor, who I hope will court me, treat me well and listen to me babble about Harry Styles’ new album; please just come find me in person. That would be a lot easier. Thank you in advance.

*All names are changed for anonymity, but the sentiment remains the same for their ridiculous contact names.