
It was a few weeks ago when, in a fleeting moment of feeling extroverted, I agreed to go on a first date with a guy I had matched with on a dating app.
The conversation was flowing, he was kind and intelligent, there was non-stop laughter — for a brief moment, I wasn't regretting trading in a night of hibernation for a pleasant chat with a stranger.
But, as I said, it was brief.
"When was your last relationship?" my date asked me, as he went to sip his drink.
"I've never been in one," I confidently replied.
He slowly placed his drink back down on the table. "Well," he paused, "That's a red flag."
This guy had found… an ick.
It was the same ick that I let define myself for the majority of my 20s. I had spent my life stressing about being forever lonely and fearing I would carry the reputation of being the 'chronically single girl' to my grave.
On the one hand, I was proud of prioritising other important things in life — my career, quality time with family and friends, travel.
Yet, on the other hand, being the source of fun dating stories for everyone in my life was a role I was desperately willing to retire from. As a hopeless romantic, I yearned for my very own love story.
Come the beginning of 2024, I thought I had finally reached a level of maturity that allowed me to feel unbothered — almost heartless — when it came to dating. I thought I was finally at peace with myself, but that most recent first date confirmed I had unfinished business I needed to attend to.
Post red-flag-date, I felt a sudden urge to get down to the nitty gritty: What's wrong with me? Why was finding love proving to be so unattainable? Is being alone really a red flag? Does the social mortification attached to being single only grow stronger with age?