A Wellington woman documents returning to dating in her late 30s.
Disclaimer: No real names have been used, and any likeness to characters is either by chance or simply a reflection of the sad state of dating at this point in history. The author remains anonymous and reserves the right to conduct further fieldwork.
I have never really dated casually. Partly because I am the pōtiki of an overbearing whānau, partly because I am awkward – late diagnosed neurodivergence may explain some of it. However, I somehow found myself single after over a decade of being wifed up, a single māmā on the downhill towards 40.
I am of the generation of wāhine who were seen as manic pixie dream girls, only to discover we aren’t quirky, we are autistic.
This, combined with a penchant for running towards men covered in red flags and empathy as a fatal flaw, has seen me end up in long-term relationships that left long-term trauma.
But after a lot of therapy and the careful, intentional curation of my hype squad, I am at my most self-aware and confident self. My therapist suggested I use dating to practice autonomy and learn more about myself. She also suggested I start small, by smiling at someone I find attractive on the streets. I smiled at Sir Ashley Bloomfield on Lambton Quay and then downloaded Bumble.
My overbearing whānau still play their part in this chapter of my life. Mum vets my matches while we get pedicures and my adult nephews ruthlessly critique my profile photos. There have been more than a few “we can do better than this, Aunty” moments.
A first venture. We went on a handful of dates, even accidentally made out before the inevitable Google deep dive. He flew to Tāmaki to see Jordan Peterson, and a lot about him then made sense. I teased him relentlessly about his politics and how he doesn’t even vote. Eventually, he said we shouldn’t see one another any more, which I was relieved about because I was trying to decide if I should push through the discomfort.
Was this an example of me needing to be in the growth zone? Was time with him making me want to scrub my skin off because he was the first post-marriage person in my personal space bubble? Or was the desire to scour my skin after dates just my instincts kicking in? Why did he wear shoes with zips on the sides like an overgrown toddler? Did his mother miss the version of him he was before he became a Jordan Peterson Chad? Did he get enough hugs as a child?
He maha ngā pātai, lots of questions.
After his “let’s not see each other anymore” text, he would occasionally still ping me for sartorial advice. Inevitably, it would come back to me not taking him seriously, him hating my “woke feminist agenda,” and then him being… umm, “direct”, you could say.
Rinse and repeat. I blocked him in the end. I like clean mental space, and it is a hard no on Jordan Peterson fans.
He wasn’t my type. But a video of Meghan and Harry had been released, so I thought, why not say yes to a date with a redhead? He was polite, and the kōrero was fine, but I would liken him to someone you share a lift with. Pleasant enough, but you are relieved when the doors open and you don’t have to get off together. I didn’t envision making room for his mountain bike in my hallway, but that didn’t necessarily mean I instantly dismissed him.
My hoamahi asked how the date was, to which I replied, “It was fine, I have more chemistry with the IT guy though.”
In a post-date message, he also acknowledged the lack of spark or chemistry: To use his own words, “There is no indication this could be something meaningful or long-term.” However, he expressed that he was open to “smashing”, to put it eloquently. There’s nothing wrong with being upfront about wanting something casual; that’s where my head was, too. But casual doesn’t mean careless. His way of “communicating” his intent was rude. No chemistry, but he wants to get naked? Make it make sense. Isn’t chemistry the point?
My man, why not just stay home, rub one out, and leave me out of this conversation? It is dehumanising to tell someone you feel no chemistry but still want physical access.
Somehow, I still coached him through some of his thought patterns, which bizarrely led to ramen offers and “Will I see you at Rogaine? There is too much to unpack here, and there is not enough ramen on the entire stretch of The Terrace to unravel his dissonance and lack of manners.
As an aside, the wording on apps is wild. “Intimacy, no commitment.”
This isn’t intimacy. Intimacy is someone rubbing Vicks on your chest when you’re sick, noticing your eye twitches when you haven’t slept enough, or asking you to text when you get home safely. Intimacy is a quiet bay in which someone can rest. It is knowing that sometimes you are the safe bay, and sometimes you need the safe bay, and trusting that you can ask for it.
To take it further, intimacy doesn’t need stillness named, because you have unzipped one another enough to feel and anticipate the ebb and flow of each other’s tides.
A better phrase for the apps would be “casual and consensual”.
People are getting it twisted and mistaking physical access for intimacy. It’s neither here nor there to me morally how people interact on the apps, as long as they’re on the same page, but let’s leave the English language out of it and stop co-opting terms to make transactional access sound palatable. Cultural scripts are distorting intimacy, and the result is objectively average men thinking it’s fine to reduce me to a body on standby. Considering how fantastic I am, he’s lucky to have spent time in my orbit.
The end outcome with the Spy: Mission Blocked.
A Bumble Unmatch who couldn’t take no for an answer. He Baby Reindeered me, joined a bunch of groups I was in, saw a niche Facebook event I’d RSVP’d to, and showed up.
The event? A wholesome annual winter solstice skinny-dip.
He stood before me on the sand, nodded like we were old friends, and disrobed.
It’s easy to laugh, but men and women fall prey to the overly eager swiper. There is a whole other essay about entitlement and access and how, even surrounded by friends and safe men, I didn’t feel empowered enough to call out his behaviour.
I have since updated my internet footprint and now only RSVP to private events.
A mild-mannered public servant already juggling two girlfriends and auditioning for a third.
We matched by accident. He didn’t have the Ethical Non-Monogamy (ENM) tag, and I didn’t read the bio properly; he made an honest mistake, and I am dyslexic. He has since updated his profile, and I have returned to remedial reading.
I’ve had to explain polyamory to my 70-year-old mother, who was very confused about what happened to Girlfriend One and Two. I told her nothing happened; he was exploring diversifying his portfolio.
He did tell me after our first date that I didn’t make the cut for Girlfriend Three, but he has since indicated he’s open to a slow burn and said, “Shall we keep in touch and see how this evolves?”
His clarity is absolutely compelling. He knows what he wants and what he is realistically able to offer. He treats honesty like oxygen: vital, unremarkable, every day. At the same time, many of us in the “ethical monogamy” camp are gasping for air while we pretend we don’t have any needs and avoid hard conversations, inevitably falling into situationships.
I have a friend in a poly dynamic, and it brings me absolute joy to see the abundance of love they receive.
Don’t tell my mother this, but secretly, I’m intrigued by the idea of being Girlfriend Three. Imagine, absolutely no pressure, and if he is on some kind of man bullshit, two other women have got to deal with him first before he gets to me. It’s ideal for a girlie who does shared care and is only interested in seeing someone about one and a half times a week, preferably on rubbish-bin night.
He is not blocked as he hasn’t committed a blockable offence, and we run in similar circles. Catching up with the Multitasking King is always a thought-provoking, mana-enhancing and enriching experience.
We’ve had great kōrero about modern dating and romance, particularly how the concept of friends with benefits seems to have evolved into benefits without the friendly part.
I’m willing to consume all the ramen on The Terrace to understand this dynamic, but not romantic ramen at this stage.
He was perfectly fine and polite. He asked me on a Sunday evening date, and I said yes. However, I realised I didn’t want to meet him after my yes. I would’ve rather cleaned my kitchen and listened to music.
It was too late to bail when I realised this, and I was hungry anyway. He mistook our lack of awkward silences for chemistry. I told him I was neurodivergent and would yap all night. You’re welcome, my bro.
He wanted a second date. I didn’t. I fumbled the graceful exit, so for five days, he sent daily check-ins:
Good morning, beautiful.
I hope you have a wonderful day.
What’s for dinner?
Sleep well.
My inbox prefers to be flooded with peer-reviewed publications, absurd news articles, songs, and photos with no context.
He also mentioned several times that fatherhood was a part of his forward agenda. Hey, I’m down with cute casual dates and studying the human condition via kisses and cuddles, and he was a lovely human, but I would never deny or delay someone something as vital as parenthood.
I would rather he direct his texts, energy, and date nights to someone who shares his long-term goals. I eventually found the words to express this with manaakitanga. There is someone out there who will love that volume of messaging.
Wāhine mā, I’m here to tell you there’s hope. All you need to do is drop your age settings.
The future is the mid-20s to early 30s, where emotional literacy is foreplay and enthusiasm is the new stoicism. These young men have chaotic, endearing energy, that damn fire from whaea (respectfully) text message vibe. They send memes, not mixed signals. They call out their mates before they call you back.
There’s the builder who affirms you without needing to flirt. He brings his kuri over for you to play with while he builds a raised flower bed. The one who brings coffee to your tari on your lunch break while you help him update his CV. The one who excitedly sends you his set list for an upcoming DJ gig.
Then there’s the one who declared he was single, slid into your DMs, Googled your work address, and dropped off chocolate with a note saying he was free the next night, if you were. All within 24 hours.
Naturally, I default to Aunty mode and create space as he quietly tells me he’s still grieving the last person he opened his heart to. I tell him, “Me too.”
I tell one of them, half-teasing, half-testing: “Can’t you find a nice girl your own age to flirt shamelessly with, one whose heart and body haven’t already been ravaged by life?”
He is sincere and steady with his response. “You shouldn’t feel that way, whaea. You have so much to offer.”
My only complicated situationship, and the only person that got the holy trinity of access: to my bookshelf, my vagina and my heart, in that order.
Making this the shortest chapter is intentional, as I wish to uphold his tapu and mana. But I had a few Cute Wee Cries and made my therapist laugh multiple times. When he couriered my stuff back, he tucked in a partially used Unity Bookstore loyalty card. His postscript said, “Please accept this as a thank you, only a few more stamps till you get the discount.” After this chapter, I rethought my processes and refined my dating goals.
I didn’t think catching feelings was on my agenda, so in a way… ngā mihi Holy Ghoster. The stamp card is also appreciated, although I’ll probably not use it, as I would prefer to keep it as a reminder that even endings can come with gifts
Hands down, the best first date I’ve been on. However, a kihi at the end wouldn’t have gone amiss. Of course, some level of propriety is required with bus behaviour.
I couldn’t quite tell if he liked me, but I definitely liked him. Perhaps, unknown to both of us, I ended up a test subject for his intimacy thresholds. But kei te aha, aren’t we all working on something? Best to find someone willing to work on themselves, nē?
Intriguing, intelligent, and with excellent musical taste, he was tall and carried the rare blessing of a full head of hair in his forties. The talking stage, though, moved more slowly than the Maramataka. Still, if he continued to expose himself as readily as he was willing to expose his tootsies on the second date, I would have happily kept granting continuances.
He once told me his line of communication was broken, but he intended to fix it. He fixed it just in time to send the longest version of “it’s not you, it’s me” known to women and then booked a one-way flight out of Pōneke.
(Has he not seen Berger’s Post-It scene? There were easier ways to do this, Counsel.)
He is probably reading this from the Koru Lounge, where he drinks zero-carb beer and wears a freshly laundered Ralph Lauren shirt, taking a reprieve from the weight of his many trials.
I hope he keeps up that subversive dancing and his small, yet radical acts of self-care wherever that plane is headed.
The brain learns that an environment is safe through repeated exposure to safe situations. I am using dating as a medium for neuroplasticity. I am unlearning and leaving behind patterns that do not serve me.
A friend once told me she was sick of seeing me throw my love into an abyss. “Find yourself a trampoline,” she says, someone who gives back with interest.
Have I wasted time if her words still ring true? Or am I demonstrating that I am finally learning to walk away when I identify the disparity in what I have to give and what I am receiving?
Aroha mai, aroha atu.
My ever-growing blocked list would confirm that I am learning boundaries in real time. The Multitasking King tells me that my standards are not too high; they reflect how I see myself.
It is Monday, a long day in the tari, and yet another failed talking stage has recently ended. I am debating whether to resign myself to another round on the apps. I grab my phone, open an app, send a few messages, and leave.
I make my way through the city, past restaurants and people on sidewalks, no doubt a few of them on awkward first dates. I arrive at the address from my messages, walk in, scan the room, and there they are. Not all of them, of course, one’s always late.
My quiet bay. My carefully curated hype-squad.
The one who made me dress up and took me out for oysters and wine when The Ex moved out.
The one who came over with a bottle of Taittinger the first time the house was officially Girls Only.
The one who gave me a sex toy and said, “So you can stay single longer this time!”
The one who will not stop sending me memes about dating Christians 👻
The one I messaged and said, “Help! I can’t look at my phone, I’ve just been sent a very intimate photo!” (It was legs sprawled out in a living room, art peeking out, but that somehow felt more revealing than a dick pic.)
They are the ones who make me laugh until I cry, immediately after calling them crying. They are the ones who text straight after a date, “How was it?!” and keep my location on to make sure I get home safe.
This is true intimacy. Anyone who enters my world intending to stay around needs to meet me here, in laughter, safety, gentle roasts, and even gentler check-ins, and meet me with the joy of being fully known but free at the same time.
I smile at my hāpu friend, pat her puku and pull back my hair into a ponytail.
The lights dim. The beat drops.
“I’m so sick of onlinneeee love.”
And we dance.