In this weekly feature, Her.ie goes behind enemy lines to see what it’s really like to be single in Ireland.
From speed dating to making speedy escapes, our no-holds-barred blog will follow our attempts to venture into the dating jungle, play the field and share any wisdom that we finds along the way.
Week Forty-One: High And Dry
It’s my own fault. I completely deserved it.
Last week, I filled you in on a string of dates that I had lined up but made the monumental mistake of joking about one of my potential fellas being as boring as Fr Stone.
He wasn’t. He was worse.
After a long day at work, I gathered my wits, slicked on a bit of lipstick (a lifesaver if you’re feeling a bit blah!) and made my way into town to meet ‘Mike’ for a drink. I decided to break Dry January for the occasion and was just enjoying my first few glorious sips of Merlot when my date arrived. Unfortunately, that was as good as it got.
Within five minutes of sitting down to chat, our conversation turned from the demands of the busy festive season to his and his family’s recreational drug use. Yep, you read that correctly.
Now, I would consider myself pretty liberal when it comes to most things but if this was something he offered up during introductions, God only knows what his deepest, darkest secrets are!
In retrospect, he may have been giving me the heads-up because if he wasn’t high during our date, he was most definitely inept at conversation.
As someone who meets new people every day in my work, I can waffle along with the best of them but several times during the hour that I spent with this gent, I finished a sentence only to be met by a smile and complete and utter silence.
Wracking my brain to think of something (anything!) to say, our topics ranged from the cleanliness of our housemates to the proper level of passive aggression that one should use in an argument. Eventually, having completely worn out my arsenal of ‘go to’ topics, we ended up looking out the window and commenting on passersby to fill the silence.
With the date clearly not going well, I threw back the end of my wine and when he offered another, I politely declined and said I had an early morning. Not that it made any difference as ‘Mike’ took his sweet time nursing his pint, leaving me sitting equally bored and now without the crutch of alcohol.
After an excruciating 70 minutes (yep, I timed it), I finally made my escape and headed back for a post mortem… only to receive a text from himself an hour later saying how much he enjoyed our date. Words fail.
To add insult to injury, I then headed out at the weekend with the girls and made my second bad choice of the week…. going home with some fella that I had a deep and spiritual connection with. Well, if a deep and spiritual connection means a bit of a flirt and two Jagerbombs, that is.
I awoke on Saturday morning to three things: the most horrifying hangover I’ve had in years, a dead phone battery and no idea of my location.
The prospect of having a conversation with the charmer from the night was definitely a worse prospect than wandering the streets so I snuck downstairs and almost fainted with relief at the sight of my friend passed out on the couch looking like an extra from Ru Paul’s Drag Race. The walk of shame is so much less mortifying when you’ve got company.
A few funny looks from the neighbours later, we found a bus stop and made our way home to hide under a duvet and cower from The Fear for the next 24 hours.
Unfortunately, I was in no fit state to go on my scheduled Sunday date with the musician so we’ve postponed until this weekend.
So, barring any other questionable life decisions, I’ll be back next Wednesday with an update.
It can’t get any worse… right?
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