The One With All The Gifs

I love a good GIF and for the smutty among you – no, that’s not a euphemism.

In fact, I love them so much that the minute I’m presented with an opportunity to use them in the girls chat, I take it.

I don’t know whose stupid idea it was though it was probably Cath and/or Ammi and truth be told I can’t be arsed to go back through the group chat to find out who to blame, but they one of us suggested we should branch out into Tinder.

I mean – it’s not serious is it?  It’s just a big game of human snap?  What is the worst that could happen?

Enter C.

He was the worst that could happen.

That’s unfair because obviously at some point I probably drunkenly swiped right.  Actually that’s likely to be untrue too.  I’d had some notification telling me I’d been Super Liked and wanted to see what that entailed.  And I wanted my ego massaged.

It was quite easy to ‘chat’ to him.  He was funny, seemed well grounded, apologised on behalf of men the world over for unsolicited dick pics.  Winner I thought.

Now, having learnt from past experience I didn’t particularly want to spend the next eleventy billion years messaging back and forth only to be disappointed in real life again so when the suggestion was made to meet up for a drink a week later I decided to go for it.

As normal photographs of C were exchanged with Ammi and Cath along with a detailed description of what I was planning to wear, where we’d agreed to meet and at what time.  A check-I’m-still-alive call was scheduled for 21:00.

The day arrived and, surprisingly, I wasn’t as nervous as I thought and that was because of the glass of wine I had beforehand.

I’d got to the bar first and grabbed a table and ten minutes later in walked C.

I’m not sure if it’s the fact he was red faced, out of breath and panting like a whore in church or the fact he ordered a non alcoholic beer but I just knew it wasn’t going to go anywhere.

Perhaps he was nervous or just super awkward in real life but within minutes of him sitting down it was very obvious that he had no idea how to talk to me in person…. in fact I reckon if he could have sat at another table and spent all night sending me GIFs he (and I) would have had a far better time.

I knew from our conversations before that he was into competing in triathlons so tried to steer conversation toward that; like how he got into in the first place, training, where he competes.  I tried to keep my questions as open as possible and STILL he found ways to give me one word answers.

I was convinced the date was nearing an end after about 40 minutes when C suggested we MOVE tables.  I didn’t want to.  I liked being sat at a round table where he sat semi-opposite me.  It was nice.  But he’d spied a table that had become free where the chairs had been replaced with a sofa style seat which meant we had to sit next to each other.


Oh god.

I didn’t want to.  I didn’t want to be so close that our arms could touch or our knees.  I was about to protest when he lifted his drink and mine and got up and moved.

As if the non alcoholic beer hadn’t already killed things my noticing he had smaller thighs than me as he ran across the bar certainly put the final nail in the coffin.


The new seating arrangements didn’t make things any easier.  Turns out he was hard work on any type of seat and he’d lost my focus and attention.

In fact, I was more interested to see who was taking part in the speed dating event going on in the upstairs part of the bar and spent most some of the time while he was rambling on about the different types of trainers he needs for running and how his triathlon bike has hard shoes attached to the pedal which makes the transition from water to bike easier dreaming of ways I could sneak upstairs and get involved.  Plus ‘Mark’ had caught my attention while the daters were on a break and was smiling broadly at me while getting a drink at the bar.

Overall the date was tough going. Really tough going.  And even more so because not only was there zero spark but we clearly had nothing in common.

If I’m a tequila, he’s natural spring water.

After an hour and a half of excruciatingly painful ‘conversation’ I made my excuses and left.  C insisted on walking me to the car park and as much I tried to to say no, he was adamant he should.

I was paying for my ticket when I realised he was stood unnaturally close to me and instinctively I recoiled in dread that he might try and put an arm round me. Or kiss me.

In an effort to end the silence C thanked me for a lovely (!) evening and as I was getting ready to turn around and leave he leaned in close, extended an arm toward me in a hug type motion and in my blind panic I grabbed his hand and shook it.

I shook his hand.

For real.

Like you do when you end an interview.

For. Fuck. Sake.

I don’t know who was more shocked to be honest me or him though the look on his face showed quite clearly it wasn’t what he was expecting and whilst I was wildly shaking his hand I just blurted out “it was nice to meet you”.

And then I left!

I called Cath on the way home and in between her gasps of horror and belly laughing she told me to just ‘chalk it up to experience’ and not to worry about it.

C messaged me the next day saying he had a lovely time but sensed there was no spark on my part.  I told him he was right.

Moving forward if someone communicates with me entirely in GIF then there will be no meeting in person at all!

Me on the other hand, I will continue to use them as if they were cash.

You’re welcome, A x


The One Who Was 42 Going On 14

Dear Match Hero,


It’s been over a week since our fated date, and the time has come to let you in on a few home truths.  I’ve not written sooner because I was so peed off with myself.


But better late than never.


Firstly, let’s talk about that text you sent me just before we met (when I was literally on my way to meet you): the text that stated, apropos of nothing, that you’d ‘washed your man-bits’.  That was massively inappropriate and not all that far removed from unsolicited photos.  I don’t know why I didn’t call the date off.  I suspect it’s because I’d already left the house, you were attractive in your photos, and correctly differentiated between ‘their’ and ‘there’ in your previous, non-inappropriate, messages.  What can I say: I’m shallow.


I’m shallow, but you are forty two years old…


In my defence (I’m not totally pathetic), I did pull you up on your message as soon as I sat down.  You laughed.  But I wasn’t joking.  Who feels the need to reflect on the cleanliness of their man-bits when meeting someone for a first date?!  I was going to point out that it was in the middle of the afternoon, and in a café, but it’s not relevant.


You might remember we made small talk, although I’m guessing you probably won’t – you were remarkably keen to steer the topic of conversation.  You wanted to know how many Match men I’d been on dates with and whether or not we’d had sex.  You were like a dog with a bone.  When I told you as much, you said loudly, ‘a dog with a bon-er.’ I ignored you: your response was to say it again, but louder.


Forty. Two. Years. Old.


I tried.  I really, really did. I mentioned I’d been to a gig with a male friend; you asked if I’d screwed him.  I told you about my work; you asked if I ever had to ‘do special favours’ for customers. You asked how long I’d been single and stated I must be ‘gagging on it’.  You said it all with a smile and a laugh like it was all a big joke and I was the one with the rubbish sense of humour.  I alternated between ignoring you and suggesting that this sort of chat on a first date might explain why you’d not had a second date in the past 4 years (not, as you suggested, because the women ‘weren’t your type’).  You looked at me like I was being deeply offensive.  Quite frankly, I was beyond caring.


I want you to know I was ashamed (mostly of myself). We were one of those hideous first dates that I love to witness in a schadenfreude-y ‘oh my GOD, I’m so glad that’s not me’ sort of way.  The more I tried to change the subject, the more you pried. Loudly.  I was also far too hot.  I think this was a combination of mortification and the fact that there was no way I was removing my scarf to reveal even a hint of cleavage.  That is how uncomfortable you made me feel.


It was quite possibly the longest half hour of my life.


No topic of conversation was safe. You may recall that the straw that broke the camel’s back was when I mentioned the fact I run and you felt the need to state that I ‘must have good stamina’.  I ignored your innuendo-laden leer and agreed that yes, one needs stamina to run for hours at a time.  ‘No, no, stamina’, you repeated.  Yes, I agreed, stamina to run for a long time.  You were nothing if not tenacious.  You repeated the word not once more, but twice.  With an accompanying action.


Pelvic thrusts are not appropriate in public places.


Sorry, but they’re just not.


(With the possible exception of a pilates class).


And you are forty two years old.


It was at this point I came to my senses, looked at my watch, and made my excuses (yes, still annoyed with myself that I felt the need to make excuses).  You stood up and followed me (for the record, you’re definitely not five foot ten), and tried to say you’d see me again.


I think we both knew you were lying.


What I really want to say is thank you – you made me so angry with myself that I know for sure I will never let a date speak to me like that again.  Not ever.  I joked about it with my friends afterwards, but it shook me.  I certainly won’t meet someone who sends messages relating to the cleanliness of their genitalia.  What was going through your head when you sent it?! Did you think I wouldn’t be able to resist a quick inspection in the disabled loo of Starbucks? Have you since told your mates that that’s exactly what happened?


Forty fucking two.


The other thing I want to remind you of is the fact you have a teenage daughter.  You clearly think you speak to women in an acceptable manner.  I personally think you might want to work on that, for her sake if nothing else.


Yours Faithfully,