Welcome back to the blog where love lives, dies, and occasionally reeks of church. With summer in full swing and my dating life still in hibernation, I’ve had front-row seats to the romantic escapades of others... from behind the bar.
I’ll be honest, I’ve completely given up on dating for the past few months. Not a single date. Nada. Zilch. I probably should get back out there now that I’m on summer holidays and have all the time in the world to emotionally spiral over someone I barely know.
Although working moonlight bar shifts in the centre of Milton Keynes has been a front row seat to the dating circus, and I’ve seen enough. It’s like Love Island meets mild public intoxication, and I’m the bartender slash confessional priest, quietly wiping down the bar and pretending not to eavesdrop.
There’s one girl who’s had a full conveyor belt of dates and honestly? I’m rooting for her. She told me she’s on a mission to meet her husband and, in the same spirit as two years ago me, she’s out here doing the work. Date after date after date.
She said, “If it doesn’t happen, at least no one can say I didn’t try.”
Respect.
As for me... I’ve had absolutely no desire to date. It genuinely feels like I’ve exhausted all possible men within a ten mile radius and now the only people I seem to come across are ones I’ve already rejected.
I’m literally recycling men.
But maybe I’ll get back on it. Maybe.
Because let me tell you, nothing kills your own dating buzz quite like spotting your past mistakes walking through the door.
Just yesterday, I had to do a tactical sprint to the toilets when Smelly Pew Guy showed up. And although it’s been years since we went on a date, it still haunts me.
Yes, I ghosted him.
No, I don’t regret it.
The man smelt like a damp Bible in a church that hadn’t been aired out since 1842.
But how do you say that to someone?
“Hey, it’s not you, it’s the centuries of mildew you seem to be storing in your jumper.”
So that’s where I’m at. Teetering between a romantic comeback and staying firmly in my passive observer era.
Maybe I’ll get back on the apps. Maybe I won’t.
Maybe the next post will be an exciting update on my love life. More realistically, it’ll be another cautionary tale from behind the bar.
Either way, cheers to another summer of love. Although probably not mine.
I’ll be behind the bar, watching yours unfold from a safe, hygienic distance.
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