I never thought I’d say this but I met the love of my life on a Tinder date.
The thing was it wasn’t with my Tinder date. It was with a rather shy, spectacled guy with a man bun, gazing at me over his VB. Romantic huh?
As I waited patiently for my dropkick date to finish chatting up every female in the vicinity, this new player in the game of my affections had sneaked in and asked me out. Slight problem, he was 23 (later revealing the truth – he was actually 21) and I was 36.
Our “date” a week later, was a takeaway coffee on a brick wall in a park. He was nervous; constantly untying his hair and man bunning it back up again. I was silly and told hilarious and inappropriate stories, which to me felt like yesterday but in reality they’d happened when he wasn’t even born.
What on earth was I doing? I mean as I’d been tapping away on my word processor, finishing my Uni thesis on female empowerment, he was busy trying to keep his Tamagotchi alive. Had I finally cracked it?
It was never going to happen.
LISTEN: Edwina Bartholomew shares her relationship wake up call. (Post continues…)
But for some reason, it did happen. I somehow began to see a life with this guy and took up residence on this love bubble where age was of no consequence and we could survive on pure pheromones and passion pop.
Not everyone felt the same as I did. I ignored informative statements about underdeveloped frontal lobes of the under 25’s and I zoned out of long winded speeches on why it wouldn’t work. My marriage hadn’t worked either and the two years of singledom that followed certainly didn’t reveal my Mr Darcy. My biggest issue was that he’d never even seen (let alone heard of), Top Gun.
That was three years ago. He’s barely recognisable as that awkward 21-year-old that had a hand crafted coat hanger antenna on his P-plated Ute. Now we live together with our dog in de-facto bliss, planning for the future. Well, bliss may be overdoing it, it’s been hard. Really hard.