See, 2017 had been one f***ing hellish year of online dating for me and I was broken,tired and just plain done.
I wanted you more than my own soul but the sheer effort it was taking to meet a mostly decent, straight, emotionally and financially stable, quirky, interesting, well traveled and good man was killing me.
Just reviewing my top horrible online dating experiences of 2017 was nearly, but not quite enough, to put me off men forever:
The Oversharer 2 who not only initially tried and succeeded at putting me off with his neediness but then had the f***ing audacity to bodyshame me six months later. Asshole!
The Bad and the Ugly online daters who were either propositioning me for a three way or repeatedly asking for nudes when I had already said hell to the no!
Kids, today’s abject lesson in why people should mind their own gods-be-damned business comes in the form of a public service announcement I wrote in September 2017.
Have a gander at this:
Dear Smug Marrieds and Otherwise Attached People (including my f***tard of an Uber driver the other night),
This evening I had to listen to one of your ring-wearing,boring AF breathen tell me that, and I quote, “You’re 31 and still not married? Being married is then so nice! What’s wrong with you?”
The answer, in short, is NOTHING!
Why the f*** do you assume that because I do not have a ring on my finger and I am not attached to a man/woman, that there is something wrong with me?
Newflash, you idiots, singledom is not a f***ing disease!
Just because you cannot live without someone to check in with and share your every goddamn move all day everyday, someone to cook,clean and care for and vice versa, someone to share a bank account with, someone to moan to your friends and mother about when they inevitably do not live up to your expectations, does not mean that I have to do the same.
Please, for the love of the gods, leave me be. I am a successful, independent, beautiful and happy young woman with a searing passion for love, life, travel, magic, family, friends, Alexander Skarsgard and Game of Thrones.
The next time you feel the impulse to bless me with your unsolicited comments about my singleton status in person or online ( I swear to the gods if I get one more “I’m so glad that I no longer have to deal with online dating woes” from a newly coupled blogger, I will burn their sites down, Wight Viserion-style!), don’t!
And don’t, I am begging you with tears in my big, beautiful, brown eyes, say shit to me like “When you are in a relationship, you’ll understand” when I wonder out loud why the f*** you gave up all of your individuality for a partner who doesn’t appreciate you.
If that is what passes for love and committment these days, you sir/madam, can keep that shit to yourself.
I am only going to say this once, so listen carefully:
I am not:
Too full of myself ( I am f***ing beautiful, intelligent and amazing. I deserve the best!)
Inferior to you ( treat me with the same respect I do you)
Too old to wait (some people only find their equals later in life)
Too difficult (I know what I want and who I am. If a man can’t deal with that, that is his f***ing problem!)
A man hater ( trust me, if you had to see my browser history or my past loves, you’d know I love men)
Child-adverse ( children are drawn to me like magnets and my ova are screaming out to be fertilised)
Too independent ( utter this shit to me and I will bitch slap you!)
Yes, I am a Destiny’s Child poster girl and I am f***ing proud of it!
I’m not sorry my singledom makes you squirm because you’re secretly jealous of my freedom.
“First date and you’ve sprained your ankle, huh? Tough break, my dear.At least he’s sticking around for now… maybe this will lead to better things”
This, Kids, is what Sharon the mystic healer was saying to me as she tried to infuse healing energy into my bruised ankle, whilst simultaneously trying to reassure me that my first date with Hellrider83 was not as disastrous as I thought it was.
She lied… it was!
In a spectacular imitation of my literary and cinematic heroine, Bridget Jones, I had managed to sustain a horrible ankle injury by slipping on the wet ground outside of Cavendish Square, on a busy Saturday morning with hundreds of witnesses.
Under any circumstances, this would have been embarrassing but , because this is my life and the Universe loves f***ing with me, this also just happened literally moments before I was to meet my latest OkCupid hottie for our first date.
As Sharon so sweetly tried to smooth down my billowing dress ( remind me NEVER to wear that ill-fated polka dot dress to another date!) so onlookers would not see my multiple tummy tuck-in tights and the security guards called for the first aiders, Hellrider83 came to find me.
Cue the awkward “So sorry about this. Could we possibly reschedule our first date?” conversation, with Sharon and co listening in.
Seriously…ground swallow me whole!
To his credit, Hellrider83 stuck around for the mucho embarrassing wheelchair ride through the mall and even offered to go with me to the nurse at Dischem to have my ankle wrapped but he looked hellavu relieved when I told him to go , I’d be fine and I would text him.
Which I did, and apologized profusely for my Joneseque behaviour and ….not a peep out of him. Nada, zilch, zero after three days. I’d been dumped, again, before even being dated.
F*** it! NEXT!
I wouldn’t mind, really, but by then, EVERYONE in Cavendish Square knew that this poor girl twisted her ankle whilst on a first date… the pity looks, the “Shame, my dear!” comments while trying to stop their tears of laughter running down their cheeks, were not doing my fragile ego any favours.
So it’s that time of year again and you find yourself Bridget Jonesing through life, do you stay at home and hide or do you celebrate?
As tempting as it is to stalk your crush’s profile for the umpteenth time…don’t do it for the love of your own sanity. You know that he knows that you’ve been watching. So put down the ice cream and step away from the computer or close the app on your phone. There is only one option for us single gals and that is to throw yourself a Big, Phat Party and celebrate! How? You ask. Here are my Top 10 survival tips for single gals on Valentine’s Day:
1. 50 Shades Darker – oh come on now let’s not be coy you’ve read all 3 books so go grab a group of your nearest and dearest gal pals and go watch the damn movie!
2. How about a good old fashion book club (*wink*wink*)? Discuss the 50 shades book with your girls whilst imbibing copious amounts of bubbly and discussing at great lengths why piercing blue eyed Ian Somerhalder was not cast as Mr Grey.
3. You know those 2 for one happy hour specials? Now you can have BOTH 🙂 Get your Carrie on! Yay you! (please don’t drive if you choose this option)
4. How about a Movie Marathon? Jacob and Edward vs Carrie Bradshaw ? Take your pick…or why not watch both…?
5. You know that ridiculous amount of money you would’ve blown on a romantic weekend away for two? How about that awesome pair of Manolos that you have been eyeing since well before christmas? Go BUY those damn HEELS!
6. Hop on to The Entertainer App and find a great spa deal for you and your BFF…or take the whole gaggle of girls. What could be more fun than being pampered with your friends?
7. Travelstart has some great domestic local flights for only R499 one way, so perhaps you should still take that weekend away for yourself! Enjoy the Dolce far niente….’the sweetness of doing nothing’ on your own weekend Eat, Pray, Love.
8. How about spending some time with your loved ones? Prepare a nice home cooked meal for your family, crack open that bottle you’ve been saving and share some good laughs.
9. Do something you’ve always wanted to do. That chocolate truffle making course? Abseiling off of Table Mountain (not me) ? Learning how to surf (maybe)… cute instructor included 😉 #Justsaying
10. Last but not least, most importantly, is make time for you. Don’t get so swept up in the day’s activities that you forget the greatest love of all is self love. Take time to nurture that with perhaps a quiet stroll on the beach to gather your thoughts. Or pen your thoughts in a journal. Create a Vision board of your goals, dreams and desires of where you see yourself in the next few years. Don’t be so hung up on not having a romantic partner that you lose sight of the most important person in your life……YOU!
There you have it ladies, whether you’re a Carrie or a Bridget wishing you a fantastic Valentine’s Day filled with Love!
I was absolutely mortified for a split second, thinking that I had now further endorsed Americans ‘views on African citizens being uncouth. Then I realised, well f*** it, at least one other person had seen my fabulous ass in the Big Apple, and that’s ok with me.
Kids, I am exceptionally good at flirting with anything that moves when it comes to getting something I really, really want – like chocolate, another helping of dessert and a discount on my travel bookings.
When it comes to chatting up the opposite sex, though, I have no game. As in nada, zero, NOTHING!
It was a hot, gorgeous day at the mountain and I was waiting for my 12pm appointment. I figured it would be a routine tour of my company’s operations and I would be done with it but man, alive, was I in for a nice, good-looking surprise!
The minute I laid eyes on Wes in the reception area my tummy did a funny somersault and I started having all kinds of inappropriate fantasies.
Blonde, blue-eyed with a slight Goth vibe and extremely cute dimples, Wes was my type to a damn T and I hadn’t had that kind of reaction to a guy in a LONG time.
I got so flustered by how hot Wes was, I managed to walk into a door, knock into an open gate, drop my phone and blush so profusely, I looked like a dragon had scorched me – all in the space of 10 minutes.
Earth, swallow me whole!
The fact that he seemed to be bemused by my blunderings did not alleviate my embarrassment. I finally let the poor guy off the hook by leading him to a cable car and agreeing to catch-up on email before our next visit, where I would hopefully be much more composed.
I’d had countless unbelievable experiences ( hotel stays, theatre shows, concerts, restaurants meals and events) through my work as a travel writer and met world-renowned illusionists (with the front page newspaper coverage and national TV broadcasts to reflect my efforts) through my magical PR job so having my crazy dating and running stories recognised by Garmin was an all-new writing career high!
Here’s a look at why Ms Jones and I were kindred spirits in the spring of 2016:
Lying to a preacher man:
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned …ok, so I have never been to confession but if I ever do, I solemnly swear that I will never, EVER lie to a man of the cloth again as I did on a sunny September afternoon.
The holy man in question was a layman deacon and, unfortunately for me, the My CiTi bus driver who had a tendency to speak the word of God to me whether I wanted him to or not.
We had had a previous run-in a month earlier when I had set him straight about me not following the Islamic way and him trying to bully me into coming to church with him – obviously I refused. Have I mentioned I had major commitment issues, especially when it came to religion?
On this particular spring day, I firmly told Brother Simon that I did not want to speak to him about religious matters at all.
He condescendingly assured me he wasn’t going to preach to me and rather asked about my personal life i.e. was I married? Where was I living and whom with?
The man was starting to sound like a stalker and a single woman can never be too careful about her safety so I panicked and lied… I told him that I was unmarried but that I lived with He Who Shall Not Be Named and we’d been together for 10 years.
Sweet Mother of the Seven!
The man saw red and went off at me about how I was giving my body away to a user and sinning against God. He ranted and raved for the better part of 10 minutes about how He Who Shall Not Be Named was just using me for sex and didn’t respect me.
I couldn’t believe my ears – I had lied to shut this cleric up and here I was getting slut shamed instead!
Only in my wildest dreams would I be sinning all night every night for ten years…
Kids, I have never felt so ashamed of something I didn’t do in all of my life … Damned if I do and damned if I don’t.
Eavesdropping on a noisy neighbour:
“Oh God! Oh God, Oh God … F***!”
By September 2016, I had been listening to my male and very vocal downstairs neighbour scream his gratitude to his Creator in the throes of passion for the better part of nine months.
The fact that he was doing this at 8pm and 1am respectively with his apartment windows left wide open for everyone in all of Vredehoek to hear his every grunt and movement aside, the thing that bothered me most was that I never heard his partner … which begs three questions: 1) was he gagging his companion, 2) was he using a blow-up doll or 3) was he just that good at loving himself?
More importantly, how the f*** did I politely ask him to keep it down?
I was sorely tempted to march down to his apartment the next time he got too loud and say: “ Look, if you aren’t going to be quiet about it, at least invite me in to join you!” but as we all know, I am utterly useless at chatting up men. I am also nowhere near that adventurous!
To avoid embarrassment, I quickly ran past his front door every time I needed to leave and prayed that I would never have to see him at a building meeting ever because I would blush all fifty shades of red for sure.
“Fazielah, pick your jaw up from the floor right now and stop staring! Wait, did I brush my hair this morning? Good Gods, this man is HOT!”
Those were the rambling thoughts running through my lust-addled mind as the elevator doors of your Nan’s hospital opened on the totally shaggable doctor one fine winter’s day in 2016, Kids.
Typically, it was once again one of those bloody days I hadn’t bothered to do much more that put my long hair up in a ponytail and just about remembered to slap on some lip gloss before visiting your grandmother to collect my Harry Potter cosplaying tools.
As the elevator whizzed up to the eleventh floor, I was in a bit of an insomniac-induced stupor and barely paid attention to the frantic new father or senior patients who got on-board.
The doors opened on the ninth floor and there he was: Dr Sexy himself – in all of his effortless white collar shirt; form fitting jeans; stethoscope casually hung around his neck; bemused blue eyes and Lord Farquaad-flowing blonde haired glory:
He stopped for a split second, smiling his million dollar smile at me (I am pretty sure I heard a chorus of angels singing Hallelujah at that very moment!), before boarding the elevator.
I wish I could say that I had said something smart or smiled back at him but judging from the rueful grin and head shake from the frantic father next to me, I pretty much just drooled back at Dr Sexy whilst imagining all kinds of naughty scenarios that you don’t need to know about.
As I finally disembarked on the eleventh off while trying desperately not to look back at my five second crush, I tripped over my own feet …