I twiddled with my messy bun and the new hair sprouting from my chin as I pondered intimacy, and the extreme lack of it, whilst chilling in yet another pair of joggers. There was a certain type of loneliness that had set in, triggered by old Snapchat memories and a good aul craving for a Netflix and chill date with a fuckboy.
It felt like I was months away from romance, and lifetimes away from wearing underwear the size of a piece of dental floss again. I craved a date, not necessarily with potential, but simply for the banter over a glass of Pinot Grigio, and somebody new to debate documentaries with.
As a 25-year-old woman in lockdown, I was feeling the fear, but what that fear was, I wasn’t too sure. There was no pink gin, no dodgy texts to exes, no cringey confidence in a chipper at 2am – It was just still. I had been sucked down a “What if?” and “When though?” rabbit hole, and was stuck at the bottom all by myself, munching on cheese puffs and rewatching all my comfort shows. Online shopping wasn’t even filling the void anymore, but you know, I was still double checking that anyway, should another bralet that doesn’t fit (not even one nip, never mind two whole boobs) bring me joy for a solid seven seconds.
My love life had come to a standstill, even my Snapchat and Tinder regulars all seemed to be loved up. The romantic slate was fresh, but due to lockdown number 653, the door was locked and my legs were hairy. So here I was, feeling ever so sorry for myself even though I had every dating app deleted, and kept asking myself: “I wonder if that ego-driven twat I hooked up with twice in 2017 before he went weird on me is still single?”
