Drinking used to get me through bad dates. When I quit alcohol, I also stopped using dating apps.
She decided to quit both booze and dating apps.
She's happier making the most of what she has rather than worrying about what she doesn't.
When my ex-partner moved out, among his parting words were: "You're amazing. You'll meet someone else in no time."
But as anyone who's braved the world of dating apps will know, meeting someone you really like, who likes you back enough to show up reliably and not ghost you after a couple of months, is soul-crushingly hard. At least, it has been for me.
Getting matches wasn't a problem, but surviving the tedious small talk without dying of boredom or the conversation fizzling out before we'd arranged to meet seemed next to impossible.
But if by some miracle we did make it to an in-person date, what did we do? Of course, we went for a drink.
Going for a drink was the default first date. It's cheaper than a meal, quick, and low-pressure, and avoids the potential torture of enduring a three-course dinner with someone who turns out to be duller than a six-hour delay at an airport.
I would grab a casual wine after work, and if there was no spark or the guy turned out to be 10 years older than his profile pictures (yes, this happened), I would make my excuses after a glass or two.
Not only was drinking helpful, but it was often expected. While there is talk that the younger generation is less interested in alcohol, many of my peers still see teetotallers as boring and no fun, hardly the impression you want to give when you're just getting to know someone.
First dates are hard. I relied on booze to make them easier. If there was no spark, wine made me chattier and able to fill the awkward silences. If the guy was a bit creepy, it made me brave enough to face the awkward goodbye and leave early.
On the rare occasions when I did meet someone I fancied, having alcohol in my system gave me the courage I needed to flirt, instead of blushing and running away like a nervous teenager.
But as years passed by, the whole routine became a Sisyphean cycle of hope and disappointment. I would wake up with a mild hangover and another story to amuse my coupled-up friends.
I tried coffee dates, but the concept didn't really work in London, where I live. Many people live out of town, so it makes sense to grab a drink at the end of the working day. And I had no desire to do full hair and makeup and drag myself downtown on a Saturday.
So, a year and a half ago, I quit. Not just the booze, but the dating apps too.
Searching for "The One" had become a full-time job. Hours of swiping and tedious chitchat, for it to either fizzle out or end in an excruciating evening wishing I was back home watching Netflix in my PJs. It was an emotional roller coaster, especially when I met someone I liked, allowed myself to get my hopes up, and then ended up dumped or ghosted.
I realized it wasn't being single that made me miserable. It was the constant effort of trying not to be single. The apps were taking up so much of my time — I must have spent days of my life chatting to people I never even met.
The number of words I'd typed into Bumble, I could have written a novel — and then at least I'd have had something to show for it all, apart from RSI in my thumbs.
Without the apps and the booze, I'm sleeping better, I'm healthier, and most importantly, my mental health has improved. I haven't cried in over a year (it used to be a fairly regular occurrence — always caused by a man). When I think about downloading the apps again, I feel that sick dread in my stomach, usually only reserved for my triennial smear test.
Now I focus on enjoying life and making the best of what I do have, instead of worrying about what I don't. I'm a travel writer and photographer, so I'm abroad a lot, exploring the world and having incredible experiences. When I'm home, I go out with friends, attend networking events, or pitch for my next trip.
If I do meet someone, it'll be because we've met through shared interests and have already decided we like each other before we go on an actual date. Maybe I'll even agree to dinner.
Read the original article on Business Insider
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Business Insider
03-08-2025
- Business Insider
My name is not common. I still correct people in work emails when they get it wrong.
"I'm really bad with names, and I know I'm going to mess this up. I-i-is it Jayce-Lee?" the teacher would say while the class snickered in the background, much to my embarrassment. It's actually pronounced juh-sehl-lee. Unfortunately, those awkward moments didn't disappear after school — they followed me into my career. Whenever someone misspells my name in an email, I can still hear those snickers in my head: Jasley. Jaselyn. Joselyn. Jas. Jaselley. All loud and wrong. I feel disrespected In the corporate world, we are frequently told to uphold professionalism in all forms of communication. I was taught to double- and triple-check my emails for typos before sending them. I understood that misspelling someone's name was a sign of carelessness and, ultimately, disrespect. I'd digitally dot every I and cross every T in all my emails, just to receive a response saying, with random versions of what's supposed to be my name. My name is in my email, signature, website, LinkedIn, and bylines. It's exhausting. To some, my request to spell my name correctly may seem dramatic. But I care. Many people from diverse backgrounds with unique names can relate. It's not "just a name —" it's my name. I'm named after 2 women in my family I'm named after two fearless and confident women: my mother and grandmother. My name is a combination of the first syllables of my mother's and grandmother's names: Jacqueline and Celina, with a special twist in its spelling. It's also a nod to my Dominican culture, where it's common for mothers to create unique names by blending parts of loved ones' names. My name is prophetic, foreshadowing how I would navigate the world: fearlessly and confidently, just like my mother and grandmother. I wear my name, its unique pronunciation and spelling with pride. So yes, it is deep to me. That's why I'm also intentional about extending the same care to others with names that reflect their culture, language, and proud lineage. I resonate deeply with Netflix's "The Residence" actor Uzo Aduba's quote on her own name: "My mom taught me not to change my name for those unwilling to learn it. If they can learn to say Tchaikovsky, Dostoyevsky, and Michelangelo, they can learn to say Uzoamaka." For a long time, I didn't fully grasp the weight of that statement. Back in school, I would shy away from correcting my teachers. I used to feel embarrassed. However, as an adult, I've learned to reclaim the beauty of my name and correct people without feeling like I was doing too much. I correct people in professional settings These days, when I get a "Hey, Jasley!" email, I correct the sender with a simple line like "By the way, my name is spelled Jasely" or "I noticed you spelled this way, but my name's actually spelled like this." No one has ever gotten upset when I corrected them. In fact, they usually appreciate the clarification, apologize, and move forward with the correct spelling. I may not be Dostoyevsky, Freud, or Arnold Schwarzenegger, but my name carries just as much weight. My identity is beautifully woven into it.
Business Insider
03-08-2025
- Business Insider
My name is not common. I still correct people in work emails when they get it wrong.
Growing up, I always dreaded the first day of school. I winced and braced myself as the teacher traveled down the roster. I always knew my name was next when it was introduced with an awkward chuckle and disclaimer. "I'm really bad with names, and I know I'm going to mess this up. I-i-is it Jayce-Lee?" the teacher would say while the class snickered in the background, much to my embarrassment. It's actually pronounced juh-sehl-lee. Unfortunately, those awkward moments didn't disappear after school — they followed me into my career. Whenever someone misspells my name in an email, I can still hear those snickers in my head: Jasley. Jaselyn. Joselyn. Jas. Jaselley. All loud and wrong. I feel disrespected In the corporate world, we are frequently told to uphold professionalism in all forms of communication. I was taught to double- and triple-check my emails for typos before sending them. I understood that misspelling someone's name was a sign of carelessness and, ultimately, disrespect. I'd digitally dot every I and cross every T in all my emails, just to receive a response saying, with random versions of what's supposed to be my name. My name is in my email, signature, website, LinkedIn, and bylines. It's exhausting. To some, my request to spell my name correctly may seem dramatic. But I care. Many people from diverse backgrounds with unique names can relate. It's not "just a name —" it's my name. I'm named after 2 women in my family I'm named after two fearless and confident women: my mother and grandmother. My name is a combination of the first syllables of my mother's and grandmother's names: Jacqueline and Celina, with a special twist in its spelling. It's also a nod to my Dominican culture, where it's common for mothers to create unique names by blending parts of loved ones' names. My name is prophetic, foreshadowing how I would navigate the world: fearlessly and confidently, just like my mother and grandmother. I wear my name, its unique pronunciation and spelling with pride. So yes, it is deep to me. That's why I'm also intentional about extending the same care to others with names that reflect their culture, language, and proud lineage. I resonate deeply with Netflix's "The Residence" actor Uzo Aduba's quote on her own name: "My mom taught me not to change my name for those unwilling to learn it. If they can learn to say Tchaikovsky, Dostoyevsky, and Michelangelo, they can learn to say Uzoamaka." For a long time, I didn't fully grasp the weight of that statement. Back in school, I would shy away from correcting my teachers. I used to feel embarrassed. However, as an adult, I've learned to reclaim the beauty of my name and correct people without feeling like I was doing too much. I correct people in professional settings These days, when I get a "Hey, Jasley!" email, I correct the sender with a simple line like "By the way, my name is spelled Jasely" or "I noticed you spelled this way, but my name's actually spelled like this." No one has ever gotten upset when I corrected them. In fact, they usually appreciate the clarification, apologize, and move forward with the correct spelling. I may not be Dostoyevsky, Freud, or Arnold Schwarzenegger, but my name carries just as much weight. My identity is beautifully woven into it.
Boston Globe
29-07-2025
- Boston Globe
Goose droppings plague Finland's short and precious summers
Now, after Sisyphean summers facing down the fowl's feces, he thinks that he just may have found a solution: a wheeled cage with a strong resemblance to an old-fashioned hand lawn mower that is meant to sift the dirtied sand and whisk up only the offending feces. The contraption may be Helsinki's most innovative poop-fighting effort yet. It is being tested this summer on about half the city's 25 public beaches. It was designed in-house by beach staff members, who drew inspiration from a public competition last year meant to crowdsource poop-scooping ideas. Advertisement Finns are hardly alone in their fight against goose droppings, which can carry dangerous germs like E. coli and Salmonella. In other places, officials fight the problem at its source: the birds themselves. In recent years, Canadians have tried to relocate the geese, New Yorkers hired a patrol dog, and Californians moved to cull them. Advertisement But Finland does not allow culling, and hunting geese in urban Helsinki would not be a feasible option anyway. The Finns are desperate for solutions because their summers are precious. They live so far north, two months are about all they get. However brief, the summers they do get can sometimes be unpredictably hot, with this past Sunday marking the 16th consecutive day that temperatures exceeded 30 degrees Celsius, or 86 degrees Fahrenheit, somewhere in Finland — a record. So on a recent afternoon — a warm day in a city where anything over 77 degrees Fahrenheit (25 Celsius) is considered hot — Pauli Puirava biked with his wife and two children to Hietsu Beach, whose formal name is Hietaranta. They brought some nuts and a few juice boxes for their children, five and eight. 'The summer is so short,' said Puirava, an entrepreneur, pharmacist, and restaurateur. 'We really have to make the most out of it.' Helsinki's humans are not the only ones who gravitate to the beach in summer. Last July, according to the Finnish Environment Institute, researchers counted about 5,300 geese in the Helsinki area. The plump birds are everywhere. They jaywalk across bike paths, swagger through crosswalks barefoot like the Beatles, preen in the parks, and sometimes strut between office buildings and cultural landmarks in the city center. In parks, the problem can be even worse, with the droppings matting the grass and squishing into the treads of shoes. At the beach, sunbathers must check the sand before they lay down their blankets. Beach volleyball players hope that a dive does not bring them face-to-face with the feces. And parents, like Puirava, keep a watchful eye out so their young children do not end up putting the droppings in their mouths. Advertisement 'You have to watch your every step,' he said. 'Wherever you go outdoors in Helsinki, there is nowhere without goose poop.' To keep up with the cleaning demands, the ranks of summer maintenance workers have grown in the past decade, Lundgren said. Some beaches can see well over 40 pounds of excrement a day, he said. His team keeps looking for new solutions. They once tried to mix the poop into the sand, which just dirtied the water, he said. They tried to scare the geese by broadcasting the sounds of sea eagles, but the geese quickly got wise to it. He even considered hiring gig workers, in this case, skilled patrol dogs, as have other Finnish cities. But, he said, the few eligible dogs would have been too expensive. 'And,' he lamented, 'they would have been able to get there only a couple of times per week.' The latest hope was the new wheeled contraption that the summer maintenance crew at Hietsu Beach rolled out to use, said crew leader Minni Aakko. But they soon found it was heavy, she said, dragging on wet sand. Now, the machine that was supposed to be the solution mostly sits in the storage room. So Aakko has returned to the old-fashioned method: scooping up goose poop with a spade and rubbery gloves. She finds the work almost meditative, she said. But the smell — grassy, a little mildewy, and undeniably fecal — can linger. 'It's not bad work,' she said. 'But it's not my favorite job here.' This article originally appeared in Advertisement
