Uber Romantic: A 21st Century Dating Story
- Ginger Frog
- Aug 11, 2017
- 3 min read
It wasn’t long after signing back up to online dating that the telephone numbers started to come through. This isn’t me bragging; it’s just how it works. And it’s not like I received hundreds. I’m pretty fussy about who I chat with – there’s no point wasting anyone’s time – and the numbers tend to come in after a few days of repartee. A week in, I had three. Three numbers of men who wanted to pursue a connection away from the site and potentially arrange a date. Yay. Perhaps I’m not destined to be forever alone after all.
Date One: lasted longer than any other date I’ve been on. We met for lunch and spent hours together chatting constantly about anything and everything. He was engaging, interesting and charmingly attentive. Naturally, despite forming a gazillion rules about keeping my boundaries firmly intact and my emotions firmly in check, there was kissing and sighing and suddenly I was dangerously vulnerable once more.
I liked him. Lots.
Consequently, and against everyone else’s better judgement, I didn’t pursue the other two numbers and lost interest in forming any further attachments online. I know, I know, this is the behaviour of a desperate, crazy person. But I didn’t want to confuse things before working out where this one connection was going, if indeed anywhere. Fact is, I clearly wanted it to.
Date Two: he took me to the theatre. The man has game. Apparently it was a fluke that he arranged to do my favourite thing. I’m not so sure, but either which way, it was a win. And I was heading into seriously murky waters and dangerous territory.
I formed a new mantra: “It’s only been two dates. Only two dates.” Despite repeatedly reminding myself of this, and the fact that we weren’t officially a couple, somehow his photo and entire life history was shared with my close family. And every time I gave myself a lecture on not getting carried away and not telling anyone else. And then I told my friends and my extended family, who were soon followed by distant friends. Followed by you lot. Face. Palm. It’s a slippery slope from here on in right?
The following Saturday, devoid of a date as Mr Marriage-Material was in London, I ventured out for brunch with some friends. A ‘Bottomless Prosecco Brunch’. Two bottles of Prosecco and four espresso martinis later and I’m the wrong side of drunk. Naturally, this is when I decided it’d be good to message him… (I can hear your groans by the way…)
But I was remarkably sensible, just chatty, no protestations of love, no pleas for life-long commitment. My fairy-godmother was clearly looking out for me.
“Where exactly are you?” he messages from his room at the Savoy.
“Waiting for the bus. I’ve reached my limit. I need my bed,” I replied. (Ok, so I may have edited that ever so slightly…)
“But where exactly are you?” he says. Bizarre question. As much as I’d have liked him to appear from nowhere on a white steed and sweep me off my feet (not difficult with two legs full of alcoholic bubbles), I knew he was in London.
“Outside the Bath Brew House. Why?”
“I’m sending you an Uber. Don’t wait for the bus.”
And there we have it. The modern version of the knight in shining armour. Unable to rescue me in person, he sent an Uber – on his account – to sweep me up and take me home. That’s seriously lovely, right? That justifies me losing my head? Proves he’s worth abandoning sense for?
Send help. I’m done for.
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