Meet Me On the Corner

I've got a date.

He seems nice, and from his one profile picture, he looks OK. But you can't really tell from a picture what someone is going to be like, can you? 

My profile pic. Can you tell who she is yet?

You can't even tell what they really look like! I know some delicious-looking folk who just don't take a good photo. Likewise, I know how many pics I have to take, from all different angles (usually me looking up to the camera) before I get one that I'm happy with, though it often doesn't bear much resemblance to me. Everyone comments "Wow, what a lovely picture" and I think "Hehe, little do you know..."  

Little do you know.

One reason why I decided to sign up was because I am fed up with not meeting anyone new. I also miss going out and doing stuff with a special someone. Y'know - let's get a coffee, let's go for a walk, let's see a film. So when he suggested we meet up, I said yes right away. We've only exchanged a couple of messages, and they've not been that wordy. (Actually, mine were more on the long-winded side. I know you'll find that hard to believe.) I also think that I'm better in person than on paper. Anyone who has met me knows that I like to smile and laugh, and make daft jokes. These things come across less well in the written word.  (NB I like to smile and laugh. I don't always get the opportunity. I'm trying very hard not to descend into miserable old bag-ness, though it seems easier some days.)

Such a miserable old bag...

So we are going to meet on Saturday morning. Somewhere local to me, which is a relief, as I'll feel safe. I have to reassure myself a lot these days that I am safe and OK and that no-one is going to hurt me. I'm not talking about physical pain - it's more of a comfort thing, to calm the panic and tension I often feel. I know it's odd meeting in the am, but I have the gig in the evening, and I would like to rest up beforehand. There's no "I'll-be-under-the-clock-wearing-a-red-carnation" here. It's all "I'll text you when I've arrived". Plus I'll probably recognise him from his pic. Technology leaches a bit of the romance out of things.

I am, of course, terrified. For so many reasons. In fact, I am blinded with an adrenalin headache, that started yesterday when the event was confirmed, and is now into to its twenty-fifth hour. The only time my jaw has unlocked is when I'm pouring chocolate into it. My whole bod is more wound up than Zebedee after a month of abstinence.

Firstly, what if I hate him? When I announced the date on FB, I had a flood of supportive comments. Plus one about a rhino, but never mind. Several friends remarked that I'd know within minutes of meeting if I like him. I imagine the same would go for the opposite emotion. My fear is that I'll think he's rotten, but won't want to hurt his feelings by clearing off directly, and therefore I'll be stuck with him. I know that even if my initial reaction involves holding back a mouthful of sick, I would still give him a chance, in case I am wrong. I can always walk away. I don't ever have to see him again. It's just tough disappointing someone. I'm never comfortable with that.

Then the antithesis, which is worse as I'd have no control over this: What if I think he's the bee's knees, but he thinks I'm the mule's stools? My self-esteem will probably be assuming this every second I'm with him, and I'll have to keep reminding myself that he wouldn't be there if he didn't want to be. Also, that this is just a meeting. Two people, having a drink and talking. It is NOT a binding legal contract to spend the rest of our lives together. 

We're meeting in public, in daylight and I shall NOT be inviting him back to mine, nor giving him my address. That's a bit of fear that I can deal with, for now.

Ah, this whole internet dating thing has left me feeling fragile. It seems so forced; artificial, even. I've returned to a shrinking, forlorn being, hugging myself and having the occasional blub. The necessity for this whole thing - the process, the pantomime - it makes my heart sore.

Reading the profiles on the website, I'm often struck with a feeling of inferiority. I'm never going to be good enough for these chaps. This is Guardian Soulmates - recommended to me by several folk, which is why I signed up. Of course I should have considered the fact that a lot of its users are Guardian readers! Dur. I am not. I don't read broadsheets. Or even newspapers. (BBC News Website, in case you were wondering how I know what's going on.) So there are many highbrow blokes on there. I've already encountered a film director, travel writer, actor - even a double Emmy Award winner! It's not just jobs, it's attitudes too. I know I have to ignore the profiles declaiming celeb culture and soap operas (not that I'm into either, I just work with them...) and find the ones that match me. It's hard not to feel belittled. Match.com was similar, but from the opposite end. Most messages I received were littered with bad spelling, text abbreviations and - gasp - misplaced apostrophes. To me, that's just as big a turn-off as halitosis! So from being a big(ger) fish in the Match pond, I move to being a relative tiddler in the ocean of Guardian, and quite frankly I'm floundering.

Is this my sole-mate?

I am frightened of all these scary new blokes and longing for the comfort of already knowing someone and not having to go through all the tedious introductory blah-blah. While I do have those moments of soul-sucking loneliness, I also have times where I'm almost relieved not to have anyone else to worry about. I sit at my laptop, binge-watching Frasier, my glass of water at my side (not wine), having just toasted a few marshmallows over the gas cooker for pudding. Who would put up with such quirks? In past relationships, I've suppressed them, worried that I'd scare my partner off if I revealed the real me. I don't think that's healthy. Somewhere I must summon up the gall to be myself and back that up.

I have an increasing desire to change my appearance in some way - like I don't wish to look like me any more. Is this what they call a mid-life crisis? The few grey hairs poking out and taunting me are just asking to be dealt with. I have even been seriously considering a tattoo - just a small one - to remind me to live. I feel I'm dowdy, mumsy (without actually being a mother) and bland. I want to exude colour and fun, not look like a sixth-form prefect from 1952. I'm pretty sure this is all in my mind, though my sagging skin and bagging chops don't help. 

Make-up-free me

Incidentally, the pics in this blog entry are some of the ones that go with my profile. It's not a sudden attack of narcissism! We're instructed to use a variety of recent pics that build an idea of what we like and what we are like. Full-length ones are recommended. You'll have seen most of them before. I don't seem to have many up-to-date ones. This one's the oldest, from Jan 2014:

I enjoy a good strum. (Not a euphemism.)

I know I need to be patient. I remind myself that this time three years ago, I was half way through a twenty-four week period of chemo hell. That's where I learned patience. I bucked against it every day, every painful fatigue-fuelled hour. It got more and more difficult as the sessions went on, like climbing an increasing incline. However I got to the top in the end. I'm forever being told "when you stop looking, that's when you'll find someone." As a single person, I don't think you really ever stop looking. I had made a conscious decision to do that, but it didn't work, hence all this palaver.

Full-length and floaty

I am also scared of making a bad decision. When vulnerability comes a-knocking, reason escapes out of the bathroom window, thus leading to some questionable life choices. And yet I'm going on this date. I think I've only ever been on one date before. It was in my teaching days, and it was dull. I was relieved to escape the guy, who looked like Penfold.

Crumbs, Chief! She's watching Frasier again.

I knew he looked like Penfold beforehand, but I still agreed to go out with him, giving him the benefit of my mounting doubts. The animated Penfold was quite cute and cuddly, if a bit wet; the date Penfold was so much less. The only underwear he managed to divest me of was my socks, via the boredom method. I allowed a polite amount of time before I "simply had to get back to do some marking." That was my one and only foray into the dating world.

Yes, this is how I treat blokes who lie about their height

Saturday's chap doesn't resemble a cartoon character. He's tall (so he says) and intelligent, and I am going to meet him with my baggy chops held high, being the very essence of myself, as that is all I am.

Will it be love at first sight, or Gaviscon all round? Will he turn up, see me and run? What the hell am I going to wear? BROAD daylight - what was I thinking? All the answers and more to be unleashed on your eyeballs very soon...