The Biggest Serial Killer? Serial Dating.

The Biggest Serial Killer? Serial Dating.

That’s right. I said it. I was a happy-go-lucky girl in Glasgow but at the moment, I won’t lie, I’m a bit dead inside. Why?

I’ve become the latest victim of the biggest serial killer around – serial dating.

I’m not trying to be a serial dater by any means – believe me – there’s nothing worse than going through the small talk rigmarole again and again – it seems to have just happened. After each date, I’ve become more hopeful that my knight in shining armour will be the next but alas, I’m faced with perpetual disappointment and I’m growing pretty tiresome of it. The worst part is, none of my dates have been what I might describe as bad. There’s been good chat, a few laughs, finding out more about the other and a steady level of chemistry. There’s just always something missing – whether it be on my part or theirs – but either way, it’s a bloody pain in the arse.

It’s only just occurred to me that my mixed bag of emotions are a product of my current lifestyle. I don’t particularly want to spend my time constantly soul searching and whisking myself off onto dates as often as I change my knickers (which, for those of you wondering, is in fact daily) but that is exactly what I’ve been doing. I’ve been scouring out all manners of ways to meet men in the hope that I’ll fall head over heels one night and still, nothing. Of course, I’d be thrilled to meet someone who I could share things with – my thoughts, my feelings, my holidays, my bed, my Ann Summers collection – but it will happen when it happens, so why did I find myself in such a bloody rush to pin someone down and mark them as my other half?

I guess when you do reach the age where your social circle are settled – and you’re not – you panic.

I, for one, think this is perfectly normal. Deep down, we all experience the notion that the clock is ticking and it seems to be more predominant when certain things occur, an engagement or betrothal, for instance. I am at the stage where all of my friends around me are settling in, settling down, moving in, making babies and I’m still sat here watching Netflix and wondering how acceptable it would be to order Dominos pizza two nights in a row.

My panic of being alone clearly consumed me as I spent hours on end trying to meet Mr Perfect in such a short space of time and little did I know, the dating demon was devouring me from the inside out. I was becoming a serial dater and I couldn’t even see it. I hate those people. I would openly voice my detest at their actions but here I was, not practicing what I preach. Unbeknownst to me, I was rushing things to cut to the chase, I was keeping my options open and would become easily bored. The warning signs were there, but I was so wrapped up in my quest to fill the empty spaces in my heart and between my legs that I subconsciously ignored them.

Don’t be fooled by thinking that a copious amount of dates in a short space of time will give you a self-esteem boost you desire or bring you closer to meeting the man you’re meant to be with, it won’t. Trust me now – I’ve done the leg work. I don’t feel fulfilled by getting dolled up to the nines a number of times to no physical or emotional avail, in fact I feel the complete opposite – empty. I am a shell of my former self as I have used all of my energy to seek out a spouse.

If you, like me, have found yourself labelled as a serial dater, don’t worry, it happens to the best of us. Remember, we’re good people with good intentions but sometimes, we just don’t see this shit happening right in front of our faces. It’s surprising to think that people are genuinely serial daters out of choice. It makes you wonder just how desperate, lonely or needy these individuals are because it’s an emotional rollercoaster I certainly don’t want to ride anymore. Serial dating isn’t healthy for the heart, or for the head, and now I know how to avoid it at all costs in the future.

I hate what I’ve become, so for now, it’s bye bye to Bumble. I need to wake up and smell the coffee and take my own bloody advice. 

March is going to be about nothing (and no one) but me, and I’m pretty excited.

love naomi


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