Swipe Right For Scrooge
’Tis the season I officially gave up on love.
It’s five sleeps before the most magical day of the year and I feel that the Grinch snuck into my flat and zapped away any ounce of hope and optimism that love would find me on December 25th and beyond. Don’t get me wrong, I sauntered into the first few days of November with a jovial spirit, a diary brimming with festive fêtes, and lots of cringeworthy Christmas films in my Netflix queue. I had so much childlike enthusiasm I even asked Santa for a boyfriend, having been reminded by many of my seemingly jaded friends that this is the time for Christmas miracles.
After a brief hiatus from the apps (I couldn’t fall into the ‘Cuffing Season’ trap) I was delighted to find there were many romantic prospects on the horizon. For the first time in many months, I was encountering less bozos and boozehounds and more seemingly capable men willing to explore a relationship in a meaningful way. The days (and dates) flew by, mulled wine was consumed in a festive fashion and flirty messages brightened my screen.
But soon enough, the romantic possibilities began to wither away. One by one, all prospective suitors made their exits. I’m not over what my ex did to me and don’t see a way out…I have more of a meaningful connection with someone else I met…and my personal favourite from a lingering ex, I finally realised I’m not able to love you the way you deserve.
As glittery magic began to seep out of me, much like the yellow liquid dripping from my cracked boiler, I realised it would be yet another Christmas without heat and one without a warm body that made my heart flutter like the Sugar Plum Fairy. But, like any good story arc in any of one of our favourite festive flicks, I shifted my focus to a new direction.
I began to develop delusions that a flame from the past would make a dashing appearance onto the scene. If there was any time of the year for a wishful winter reunion, the days leading up to Christmas would be it. In all of my fantastical daydreams, I couldn’t help but envision a WhatsApp message appearing from none other than #SirGlitterPants (one I’ve long considered to be my twin flame and the one that got away). Or on another alternate storyline, a jolly invitation for a little namaste action from a gentleman I developed a hearty attraction to during a recent yoga retreat in the desert. But, alas, they lost my number, like I began to lose even more hope in Christmas miracles — or hope in anything at all for that matter.
The stark reality of being single in a dark, rainy London began to seep in. Amongst cheery colleagues about to embark on their break and Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas” played ad nauseam, all I could think of was how my heart was in tatters, like a batch of Christmas biscuit baking gone wrong.
While my phone sits there like a bleak piece of coal, it seems almost extravagant to see the light. I fear that I’ve begun to transform into a total Scrooge… but then again, even in the Bill Murray version he found love, so maybe it’s not too late for a Christmas miracle after all.
The Rebel Read
Surely it never hurts to ask Father Christmas for a bit of help. The Art of Asking by Amanda Palmer was the 11th Rebel Book Club read in March 2016.
