Posted by Sophie Westrope on September 16, 2014 · 1 Comment
To put it simply, I’m not great at dating. Never have been. I just can’t quite work it out. I’ve been bombarded with a list of confusing and contradicting rules by peers and, in hindsight, brainwashing awful women’s magazines since the beginning of time. Or rather since the first day a boy noticed me for something other than being smart and therefore a possible candidate for finishing his homework/coursework/any assignment ever.
And since that fateful day I have regrettably and foolishly measured my own self worth, tragically, on the presence of a male in my life and his opinion of me. My happiness has generally been equal to the amount of attention I’ve been getting from somebody I’ve decided is a viable suitor for me.. With horrendous outcomes.
I’ve gone through lots of tissues and bars of dairy milk and the whole clichéd shebang female heartbreak ritual that’s tattooed into our cerebral cortex by every form of media and pop culture, which tells us ladies that we are sad damsels who need love in order to feel fulfilled. Hell, it’s the exact foundation that Katherine Heigl built her movie career on!
So here I am, after only roughly seven years of ‘dating’ or courting or really not knowing what the hell I’m doing with these hairy creatures, calling bullshit on the whole thing. I’m bowing out. Deleting Tinder, clearing my phonebook of anybody I have ever engaged in teasing flirtations with after just one single silly drunken escapade way back when, and ridding myself of any links to past conquests.
This sabbatical is now in full effect from this moment on, after publishing this whine of a post.
Unless of course by some strange miracle a tall, dark and handsome bearded babe waltzes into my bedroom and demands I let him wine and dine me. But other than that minor exception, I just cannot be bothered with the politics anymore.
I give it a month tops..
