Three Single GIRLFriends, One Man On The Prowl…How We Discovered He Was After All of Us....or, How I Found Out I Was "A Type", Not A Unicorn
I like to believe that within each and every one of us we have unique traits that allow us to stand out in a crowd, or at the very least, stop us from blending into a sea of sameness with our Lulu Lemon daywear, Canada Goose jackets, Uggs and beige hair. I’ve often fancied myself to be somewhat of a unicorn, I’ve even got the official I Am A Unicorn T-shirt, for further authentication.
But recently I’ve come to learn (in the most interesting of ways) that I am no unicorn. I am a type— a blonde, light eye, slim(ish), fashion-forward, on the other side of fifty who could be most often seen posing with a cocktail —type.
Now in most circumstances in life, this means nothing. A type? Who cares? What possible interest could this have more than some random stranger mistaking me for Brenda from Bethesda?
But wait.
Here’s where it gets interesting.
What happens when three, blonde, single-type girlfriends are online dating? One city, three women—ONE TYPE.
You’d think (and you’d be dead wrong) that in a city like London, England with its roughly 9 million human inhabitants, the dating pool would be deep, refreshing, offering a plethora of exciting man choices. And those dating apps with their data-supported algorithms, so advanced that if required, should be able to track missing children, would be pushing out those fabulous desirable dudes like a human man Pez dispenser.
But if you are a “type” that pool drains so quickly that even lying face down there is not enough depth to drown in.
So here’s my story…
How I Discovered I Was A Type, Not A Unicorn.
I will now introduce the word “overlap”.
I had matched with Lloyd on Raya, a young hipster dating app my daughters introduced me to. Think of it as the Soho House of the online dating world, thus effectively ensuring me that I was likely one of seven people over the age of forty.
Realistically, I safely assumed, that Lloyd and I were the only two people on the site with no new pronouns or tattoos in Sanskrit, so he asked me out. But any excitement was immediately bludgeoned to death by one single photo. Lloyd, with his unbuttoned shirt to his navel, his Mr T gold chain tangled in this matted chest hair, and a wink, that gave me the impression Lloyd was clearly stuck in the Dean Martin ’70s or perhaps had been in a coma for the last fifty years. So I never met Lloyd. But trust me, I remembered him.
Shortly thereafter, my Blonde-Type girlfriend Number 2 got matched with Lloyd. A different app, same chest hair. She agreed to meet him for coffee. He arrived dressed in mustard coloured corduroys, with messy hair, and had a silk opera scarf loosely tossed around his neck. Lloyd lost her after he said not once but twice, “Look at me. No, really, look at me.” We think this might have been the British equivalent of Joey Tribiani’s, “How you doing” pickup line.
One night, over cocktails (dah), Number 3 is sharing with Number 2 and me the delicious, savoury details of the man with who she had recently had a date(s). Upon immediately asking for a photo to put a face to the delicious details, we made the hysterical, small world discovery, we had all in some way been “touched” by Lloyd. After the laughter was somewhat curtailed (that took a while), details, texts, photos shared, and a few more necessary cocktails, we came to one of two conclusions; that either Lloyd is dating every woman in London, or Lloyd has a type…and we were it.
With no imminent danger of any of us falling in love with Lloyd, we decided on the brilliant plan of all three of us inviting Lloyd out for drinks. And why not? It’s got to be a hell of a lot more fun than some of the dates I've been on. I mean, I'd be going on a date with two of my besties, and the man with the chest hair my friend may (or may not) have run her fingers through.
To be clear, this was not an ambush. Lloyd was briefed and accepted the invitation with the pride and confidence of a Californian cult leader. And I for one thought it showed a lot of depth of his character to agree, or maybe he was thinking this had all the ingredients for a foursome, can’t be sure.
Now, I would’ve loved nothing more to end this tantalizing tale by sharing with you my readers, a drunken selfie of Lloyd surrounded by his Chic Collective Trio, but alas, that is not the ending. As the three of us waited at The Ivy for Lloyd, we received a text saying he wasn’t coming. Some lame pansy excuse about some reaction to his second vaccine. #featherweightlloyd
So a few tasty takeaways, my online dating friends. The pool is dangerously shallow, so talk to your friends, share your dude photos and know this, if a guy can’t manage an evening out with you and your friends, (or shows up wearing a silk opera scarf) dump his ass. The sooner he understands our real soulmates are our girlfriends, the higher the chance of happily ever.
So to quote my favorite fire squad, the Spice Girls, ‘if you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends.
