“I don’t feel old enough to resort to internet dating” said Rachel, who turned 22 last month.
“No, me neither” said me, who turns 27 in precisely two weeks.
Rachel smiled. She has one of those smiles of such fluid intensity, that it flushes the whole face in an eye-twinkling, rosy-cheeked wave. She could smile her way out of anything, however guilt-ridden, and if she were to flash her teeth at any one of London’s furrowed masses, my money is on the recipient becoming an instant fan. But even the biggest, toothiest Rachel smile couldn’t mask the “er, hell yeah you’re old enough” that was holding on for dear life to the tip of her tongue.
And I am. I am old enough, single enough and busy enough to warrant internet dating being firmly in my life. Yet whether it is because I find it tacky, am scared of putting myself out there, whether it makes me feel desperate, or I just can’t be bothered, (my pathetic levels of self-awareness are a continual disappointment), there is something about mixing sexual matters with technology that repels me in the most massive of ways. (This also means I have very little desire to make pornographic films, Mum will be pleased to know.)
I have wafted a vague bit of effort towards opening my cynical self up to the idea of cyber-searching for love. Last month saw me, after several litres of wine and much hilarity-based encouragement from my housemate Flynn, sign up to Guardian Soul Mates, and be promptly inundated with offers of affection from 50-year-old Yorkshiremen. “Is Yorkshire too far from Shoreditch?” one hopeful queried.
Last month also witnessed a pathetic attempt to join mysinglefriend.com – as in, my lovely friend Ben wrote me a profile, and I didn’t sign up.
And I feel bad. I feel I should be joining the single London set in filling all free evenings with alcohol-fuelled interviews of prospective partners – drinkerviews, if you will. But maybe there is a part of me that still holds hope of meeting someone the face-to-face way – catching the eye of a handsome stranger between the armpits of a sweaty tube carriage, or something.
Or, maybe I’m just socially lazy and can’t be bothered to waste precious Flight of the Conchordes watching time on stilted conversation with people I don’t know.
All I can hope, as well as for the ability to produce more than one dish of socially acceptable food, is that 27 brings with it some little flash of lucid introspection every now and then. It would be an awful help.
