Being a thirty-something single woman isn’t scary — dating is terrifying

It’s me. I know it’s me; it can’t always be them. Every date I’ve been on since turning thirty ends the same way. Really well, and then…nothing. So, what’s wrong with me?

Single people aren’t really allowed to ask this question. Our non-single friends are sick of hearing it and tired of reassuring us. And I don’t blame them. There must be nothing more irritating than having a sad stuck record bodysnatch your best friend the night before her thirtieth birthday. We aren’t really even supposed to think about this, but we do. Every day.

I’m not even sure we really believe there is something wrong with us. I think we quite like the person we’ve arrived at by this age. We’ve suffered through the hardship and heartbreaks of our twenties, established which friends are likely to stick around until the end, probably started to carve out a semblance of a career and are living a pleasantly independent lifestyle. Things are good.

Come to think of it, it really is a stupid question and I’m not sure what answer will sate us. But I’ll take a stab at it.

After a while, we’ll get weary of relating our woes to our happily entangled friends. And, after a while, we’ll start to suspect they’re thinking the same thing; yeah, what is wrong with her?

Let’s face it, we have been unlucky in the love lottery to get to this point alone. Nobody has fallen madly in love with us and that is what leads to this deconstruction of self. Until we meet someone who takes us from the single person status we occupy, to the non-single person status we covet, this is our daily fate. And it amounts to an industrial load of overthinking.

For me, it works out at around 1,095 days of questioning what makes me different to all the other women my age who have succeeded in finding and pinning down love. That’s well over 26,000 hours of thankless emotional labour. Roughly 156 sleepless nights, 36 miniature breakdowns, another 36 hysterical phone calls and, at least, 2 full-on crises of confidence.

If you haven’t already done the maths, let me help you out; I’ve been single for: A Long Time. That means I’ve not had a long-term relationship for nearly four years (I think you get a badge at five), have only had a string of one-night-only dates since my last relationship ended and, in actual fact, haven’t had a one-night-only date for a whole year. Not a dicky-bird.

My girlfriends are way past married now, and welcoming their second babies into the world. The desire to close the social chasm between us is growing, but there’s something holding me back. Yes, lockdown brought with it an involuntary period of abstinence, but there’s no guaranteeing that I’d have wanted to carry on dating anyway — because dating is terrifying.

I don’t know if it’s the sudden onset of panic and pressure that comes with entering a new decade as a woman; that our tocks are ticking fast and the race is on to find a husband. Or if it’s the dating scene itself that has undergone a rapid and hideous evolution while we were looking the other way. Whatever. The idea of meeting up with a stranger, sitting opposite him so I can ask him routine questions about his job, his family and what he gets up to at the weekend whilst sipping a sour flute of fizzy wine and trying to picture him at my parents’ dinner table, doesn’t get my heart throbbing anymore.

I can guess what will happen; maybe we’ll have a great time, maybe he’ll make me laugh, maybe we’ll do some flirting, maybe I’ll decide he’s perfect. Maybe. But if there’s one thing I can be certain about, it’s this: we will never see each other again. Which is a waste of one evening and, because the whole experience will likely send me into an exhausting spiral of self-doubt and anguish, a waste of a few more evenings, too. And I don’t think any self-respecting woman in her thirties should have to tolerate time wasters.

Put simply, when it comes to dating, I don’t wanna; please don’t make me.

My friends think I’m starting to sound jaded and bitter. You probably do by now as well. But it’s not bitterness, just good old fashioned fear. I’m petrified. Petrified of getting hurt at this stage in the game — and not only because getting hurt is obviously painful, and embarrassing, and frustrating. But because, like I said before, things are good. I may be very, very not married right now, but I’ve achieved the most I’ve ever achieved in the last four years. The last thing I want is for someone to come into my life, albeit briefly, and upset that rate of progress. I could be on the cusp of something brilliant — stranger things have happened — and I can’t afford any setback of any kind.

Do you know how long it takes to get over a break up? Or a bad date? Or a good date? Me neither. It’s different every time, and you can never predict the impact it will have. It’s not worth the risk.

So, you may agree with my friends, and think I’m cynical for saying this, but here goes…What’s the point? What’s the point in expending so much time and effort touting your wares, when the market isn’t even ready? There is a big difference between taking your time, and wasting it. I say hold fire, and wait for some customers with intent to swing by your shop window. It’s not cynicism, it’s good economy and intelligent marketing. And any marketer will tell you, a water-tight strategy will get you maximum return on investment.

As the character Miranda from Sex and the City observes, “Men are like cabs. When they’re available, their light goes on.” There seems to be a frustrating truth in that, based on my own limited experience and condensed sample size. When men decide they want something serious, that’s it. The next woman he meets is the one he’ll get serious with. His lightbulb will ding, and he’ll invite her inside and show a keen interest in where they’re heading. Up until that point, though, he’ll just keep driving past her— no matter how much leg she shows.

It has nothing to do with you, and the answer to the question, ‘What’s wrong with me?’ really is, ‘Nothing’. Nothing you can do, or say, or wear, or be will change this legacy of behaviour.

Well, fine. If it’s a waiting game anyway, I’d rather fill my time with other things that don’t scare me as much.

Like skydiving, or base jumping, or getting a pet tarantula and sharing my bed with it.