My attempt at online dating

Provence

One of my daughters and a few pals, thinking I need company, have been urging me to get Bumble, the online dating app where women make the first move. I’ve thought in the past month or so that I might like some sort of relationship, but contemplating the reality is scary. When someone you love passionately dies, love lives on but sometimes too much; both sweet and painful memories can be paralyzing. “You can’t be on your own in the cave for ever,” someone said recently.  Why not?

Friends Dave and Kate met on Bumble. He said: “You must remember, Catriona, there are lots of decent men out there who haven’t read The Waste Land. Don’t let it put you off.” I told him I hadn’t read it all either, and had promised my daughters that if anyone ever so much as began quoting metaphysical poetry or T.S. Eliot I’d run a mile. The girls told me any prospective suitors should have their own house, a legal car and not be in dispute with HMRC. Unrealistically, I added still looks good in a T-shirt.  

‘You must remember, there are decent men out there who haven’t read The Waste Land. Don’t let it put you off’

But what about Jeremy and his words? I’m still in love with both. Last summer I was asked by a publisher if I’d like to write a book on coming to France. I sent a proposal and although I haven’t heard back I’ve kept going on from the sample first chapter. To that end I’ve been rereading old emails, journals and notebooks. Jeremy’s still here. Early lovelorn texts during long separations — he in Devon looking after his mother and grandsons, me taking refuge in Provence and struggling to find work. Our agreement was not to live together full-time, but he’d still message: “Marry me Treena!” My reticence, which was only partly due to the fact that it took five years for me to get unmarried, upset him. By the time I thought it might be a good idea, Jeremy, being so ill, was less keen, although we did marry in the end. His final Christmas card dropped out of a book the other day: “Merry Christmas darling Treena, with all my love and gratitude and apologies for this pickle I’ve got myself into. It’s been wonderful though — hasn’t it? You and me. Us. You dear thing. XXX.”

Despite — or perhaps because of this — in a despairing and lonely mood, I decided to try Bumble after all, but by mistake joined DateMyAge. Oblivious, I spent an hour setting up a profile, first scrolling through 17,000 photos on my phone looking for six I didn’t hate of myself. The sixth and most flattering was of my feet in Uggs in front of the fire. Then I had to write a spiel, describing myself — that was dispiriting. Next, I was to choose three causes I felt passionate about from a list of eight: the environment, politics, gender, feminism, Gaza — I forget the rest. As a protest against the use of the word “passionate” in this context and the prescriptive list, I left that section blank. The site asked me to set a distance limit. I tried for a minimum distance of 800 miles (a decent arm’s length) but the app wouldn’t allow that: 110 miles was the farthest. Although I was beginning to feel queasy, I pressed the “go live” button. Photos appeared. The men either looked fake, like models, or were all stubble, jowls and gray teeth and made Jackson Lamb look like Brad Pitt. After ten minutes, my inbox began filling up. Claude has viewed your profile eighteen times. “Hello my dear, what are you doing here?” Pierre wanted me to know he felt a deep connection with me and asked if I’d thought about the future. Why were these men emailing me? Weren’t women supposed to swipe or something first? The penny dropped. I panicked and went back looking for a “delete profile” option but there was none, so I contacted “help” and asked them to terminate the account, which they did five hours and a bulging inbox later.

Masochism took hold and I downloaded Bumble, correctly this time, and went through the whole rigmarole again. What can you tell from a photo or a poorly written blurb? What can you tell from a date even, where people show only their best side? I haven’t been on a date since I was a teenager — with big hair, lots of eye make-up and white heels like a character from a Jilly Cooper bonkbuster. David Bowie was top of the charts with “Let’s Dance” and Margaret Thatcher was about to win a landslide victory. How do you find out quickly if someone has an explosive temper, rages, or is controlling, self-obsessed, too heavy a drinker, aggressive, needy, prone to sulking, paranoid or otherwise weird and best avoided? They’re not going to tell you. 

Scrolling again, this time I set the app to “travel” and “London.” This lot were professional in their approach. Good, mostly believable photos and funny answers to daft questions. Tom, a retired medic of sixty-seven, told us the quickest way to his heart was, in an emergency, through his chest. My heart was sinking and I forgot which way to swipe, inadvertently telling “Michael” I was interested, which caused more anxiety while I worked out how to unswipe. I messaged Kate for a tutorial, but it was no good. Pulse racing, I deleted the app. Instant relief. Safer with ghosts. The record for the shortest time spent online dating surely belongs to me: an hour-and-a-half, and if you subtract the time spent setting it up and messaging Kate — two-and-a-half minutes. 

This article was originally published in The Spectator’s UK magazine. Subscribe to the World edition here.