After reading
’s wonderful piece on finding love back in the day, it inspired me to return to something I wrote in 2014 on Tumblr. Google it kids…At the time, I remember thinking I had written a vaguely humorous account of my first-hand experience with internet dating; but re-reading it now feels like hearing a recording of my voice - familiar yet unsettling. While we're all guilty of asking, 'Do I really sound like that?' when confronted with the wail of a cockney banshee - just me then? I do, in fact, recognise the person who wrote this piece.
Furthermore, the tone is far from funny. It’s weary and resentful.
Ten years ago, I was 42, single (obviously), grateful to have a job but unfulfilled in every sense, working in an office where I didn’t quite ‘fit.’ It was a bleak time, coming off the back of significant personal and professional losses.
These days, we talk more openly about grief, and we often refer to its so-called seven stages - shock, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance, and finally, the processing of loss to the point where we “carry on.” Those two little words suggest a line’s been drawn, but in truth, it's never that simple.
Everyone experiences it to some degree. I’m not alone in that, yet the infuriating thing is that with each new loss - whether it be a parent, a child, a pet, a relationship, or even a job - our old wounds are reopened and the grief returns, resembling an old adversary you’d rather hoped had left the building.
I vividly remember, during that difficult time, a ginger cat who frequented my local train station in the mornings. He was a regular fixture, brightening the monotony of the daily commute, and everyone loved him. His owner lived nearby, and his friendly feline presence offered a small, welcome escape from the grind. Then, one morning, he was gone.
I asked Jack, the genial fella who manned the turnstiles, back when humans still did that job, where the cat was. His eyes welled up as he replied, "He’s dead."
A heartless man in a van had apparently run the cat over while leaving the station’s car park. Jack said the driver could have avoided him, but chose not to, and unsurprisingly, he didn’t stop.
I’m sure many were upset to hear the news, but my reaction was visceral. I called in sick to work and went straight home. Some might call it an overreaction, but I’ve always hated cruelty in any form, and in that moment I was consumed by the sheer injustice of it all - the way this innocent, carefree creature had his life snuffed out in seconds, for no reason at all.
In many ways, the cat’s tragic death was my tipping point. It came to symbolise everything that had been taken from me, all the injustices that had quietly accumulated over time.
Anger initially feels natural, even justified - a stage of grief that should pass. But sometimes it lingers, becoming a constant companion that morphs into resentment. For me, this stemmed from a deep sense of powerlessness - the unfairness of my losses and the helplessness in preventing them. It wasn’t just about losing people or opportunities; it was about losing control, as if life was happening to me without my consent, leaving me to pick up the pieces.
While anger can be fiery and explosive, a short burst that demands release, resentment is quieter, more insidious. It creeps in slowly, spreading like a stain, unnoticed until it’s seeped into every part of you. You start carrying it with you everywhere, and it begins to colour the way you see the world.
This is clearly evident in my piece, below. Much is discussed these days about the perimenopause, women over fifty years of age have more of a voice than ever before. While the physical symptoms can be anything from mildly annoying to utterly debilitating, less is said about the experience of being an unhappy, single, childless woman in her early 40s, searching for love in a supposedly enlightened, post-Sex and the City era, where we're meant to feel empowered. Who needs a man, right?
But then your biological clock starts ticking louder than Big Ben. You’re not even sure if you want kids, but you’d like the choice, and here you are, on a dating site, feeling like that kid in school who stood awkwardly while others were picked first for teams - watching as the numbers around you dwindle, until you’re left standing alone, painfully aware of the humiliation of being passed over.
Naturally so, resentment becomes a part of your identity. It’s no longer just a reaction to past injustices; it begins to shape how you view everything. You start to anticipate loss, to see injustice in every corner, as if the world is always conspiring to take something else from you. And so, you cling to that resentment, believing it will shield you from future pain. But in reality, it only keeps you trapped in the past.
It’s exhausting, carrying that weight. But at the time, letting go feels impossible, because, who are you without it? You keep your friends close, but your enemy closer.
Ten years on, I’m not that person anymore. I’m far happier now, and although my husband* deserves plenty of credit for that, a big part of my growth was learning to rid myself of resentment. Shortly after writing the piece below, in 2014, I made the choice to step back from dating, pull up the Shazza drawbridge, and focus on finding joy in the quiet corners of my own life.
It wasn’t a grand epiphany or an overnight transformation, but rather a slow realisation that I didn’t need to compromise my self-worth to fit someone else’s mould - I just needed to embrace a different version of reality. I could never have imagined, that in that time, I would eventually get married, be mum to three wonderful step kids, and experience a whole new different country and culture.
Although life is very different for me now, grief and loss will always leave their mark - but they don’t have to be the whole story. I’ve learned that while grief may revisit with every loss, I don’t have to allow resentment to follow.
First Impressions - 2014
They say you never get another chance to make a great first impression. That it can take as little as ten seconds to ascertain whether you like or dislike a stranger. I beg to differ. It’s taken me a fraction of that time to decide that the man standing before me is “not my type.”
Internet Dating. You might assume that matrimonial services are a recent phenomenon, but the modern newspaper was invented in 1690, and it wasn’t long before men and women alike placed personal advertisements in search of their ideal partners. At the time, being single carried a significant stigma, and seeking help to remedy that was often viewed as an act of desperation, regardless of the potential outcome.
Fast forward three hundred years, and not much has changed. In a sense, dating apps are simply the latest evolution of our longstanding practice: creating new ways to communicate and then using those methods to seek love, sex, and companionship. Sites such as Guardian Soulmates1 and My Single Friend are celebrated as a fun and convenient way for adults to connect, but they’re still viewed by many as a last resort.
Where once our twenties was the time to embrace hedonism, oft faced with a sea of potential suitors, little did I know that our thirties was the time to get serious. Spend too long on that dance-floor and you’ve missed the boat, that vessel known as HMS Commitment. I speak from personal experience. I was the life and soul, the glue that held the pack together. Even when my coupled friends started to slack, succumbing to the lure of the Blockbuster/takeaway combo, I could be found at our local club, fighting the good fight. So what if the DJ knew me by name? I just didn’t want the good times to stop.
I’d had relationships, some of which good, most of which bad, one of which brilliant* - all of which ended. Many of my contemporaries had been lucky enough to meet their match when the planets were aligned. Shared interests blossomed into friendship, friendship blossomed into romance, romance blossomed into marriage and babies. I naturally assumed that my day would come.
Because of my fatalistic view on romance, it took some time to admit that I was unlikely to find my Prince Charming by the workplace photocopier, the pub jukebox, or in the frozen food aisle of Sainsburys. So with a reluctant heart I joined the world of online dating, and in doing so I have learnt a lot about myself and less about men. Let me share with you my findings...
Photographic Evidence
If a grown man has just one picture of his 40-year-old self, he's either oblivious to the digital age or just too ugly to try. And beware of that one photo - taken at arm’s length, facing a mirrored wardrobe. I don’t need a tour of his bedroom if we’re not meeting, let alone sleeping together. On the flip side, if he’s snowboarding on the French Alps in all of his photos, you’re dealing with an Alpha Male. He’ll list “snowboarding” as a key attribute, as if that’s the secret to a good relationship. I don't know about you, but I've never found myself in a post-coital haze thinking, "That was wonderful, Dave, but I really wish you could snowboard.”
Age
Men are obsessed with it. Even the most intelligent ones prefer women ten years younger. Forty - somethings seeking women aged 18-32? Peter Pan syndrome. These men cling to their youth, loving their freedom, their toys, their mates, their mums doing their ironing. They think they need a girlfriend, but she must fit into their carefree lifestyle - young, undemanding, spontaneous. A woman their own age? Too complicated, with opinions and expectations. Yet, that woman could be his best friend, sharing the same childhood, music, and mullet mistakes. He just doesn’t know it.
Profiles
Look closely at his likes and dislikes. If a man’s profile says he loves nights out but does also enjoy a quiet night in, that’s a good sign. A man who embraces the takeaway/sofa combo is low maintenance, unlike one who insists on being seen at Shoreditch House or a Tate Modern exhibit, every weekend. The real deal won’t judge you for wanting to see a Sandra Bullock rom-com once in a while. Genuine connection doesn’t need to be pretentious.
Hobbies
Surprisingly, there are a lot of men out there who rarely drink. Their profiles will state something along the lines of “I get high on life!” Now, call me old fashioned, but I like a man to enjoy a pint. Furthermore, if he’s seen you at your worst, i.e. three sheets to the wind and singing along to Foreigner, and still likes you (maybe likes you even more) then he’s a keeper. I personally mistrust men who admit to knowing nothing about football or rugby. Controversial I know, but many women will agree on this. Janice might bemoan the fact that Barry indoors is hogging the telly every Saturday afternoon, but she will be secretly pleased that he ticks the box marked ‘Ball Sports.’
Lastly, beware of men with strict requirements: "Slim but curvy, preferably blonde, feminine but strong, intelligent, sexy, mischievous, a good listener, and open to new experiences." Translation: they want a deaf, literate shapeshifter with questionable morals.
At the end of the day, perfection doesn’t exist, on either side, but if you’re lucky, you might find a good pal, fancy each other, and maybe—just maybe—have a rewarding relationship.
I appreciate every single person who engages with me on this platform. Hitting the Like ❤️ button and/or commenting at the foot of this page, helps spread the word about Pigeon Post. Thank-you for your support 😘
This is great, Sharon! I'm glad you navigated a way through and that things worked out, differently from how you initially imagined, but with an opportunity for adventure. And thank you so much for the mention. I'm glad my How I Met My Match piece sparked you to share more about your own life.
So much wisdom in this Sharon. Sometimes you meet someone when you are not expecting it - when you are concentrating on other things. Reading your experiences just makes one realise how tough life is, and what a struggle it is not to be sunk by it - to learn, evolve and carry on when your chin is on the floor. It's what makes us what we are, and so generous of you to share. I can relate as I'm sure everyone who has lived a few decades can.
I loved the bit on online dating: "He’ll list “snowboarding” as a key attribute, as if that’s the secret to a good relationship. I don't know about you, but I've never found myself in a post-coital haze thinking, "That was wonderful, Dave, but I really wish you could snowboard.” Genius! 😂