This week, my gorgeous friend and writer Roisin McAweaney (pictured above) is taking over the feels to share her reflections on drink-free dating.
I quit drinking at the tail end of twenty five, which now seems arrogantly young. But enough was enough. White wine had become too frequent a player in my life and I was done. Lockdown arrived, and with it, every pub up and down the country shut. Which, at the time, felt very handy. Lockdown left, the pubs reopened, and so did my single status.
I had only stepped out of an on-again-off-again-on-again-no-definitely-off-again with one guy because it had been illegal for us to meet up. It literally took the government intervening to get me out of that one.
He was gone, so were the drinks, and on the apps I went. But dating was to be different this time round. Large white wines no longer accompanied it. What to do? One Google of 'sober dating' and I am encouraged to find 'sober singles' in my area. This is about as appealing to me as it is to you. I don't even know why. Denial, I guess. Whenever I see a sober activity my brain loudly rebuts with, oh that sounds like a barrel of laughs, before I darkly remember I am one of them now.
Rock climbing? Paintballing? I don't want to scale a wall or carry a gun just to find someone to hang out with.
Do I tell them prior? Warn them with a message before we meet at the pub? Or do I wait until they get there and then trap them with my order of a Becks Blue?
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All ventures into sober dating have so far followed the same pattern. At first, men are interested and supportive of my decision not to drink. They say they like it. Telling me it's great, actually. It's a chance for them to drink less. They order lemonades when we end up in a bring-your-own restaurant. We sit happily on the sofa, watching iPlayer, enjoying fancy herbal tea.
“I thought it would be a problem, but it's not” says one, clearly thinking this is a major compliment. Perhaps in our society, it is.
Then, inevitably, we start to bore each other. The dates toll up but so do their drinks. By date three, it's a glass of wine with dinner. By date six, I watch them sink five pints of Guinness. Anything to sedate themselves from the woman drinking tonic water with strangely strong opinions.
“I imagine I'll stop drinking one day too” another says before fighting with the bar staff and ghosting me the next day. I'd like to think it's because he was embarrassed, but I'd imagine it's more because his interest started to wane at the exact moment mine was beginning. Turns out that's still a cruel certainty of the dating game, Aperol Spritz in hand or not.
I'm dumped in Forest Hill Wetherspoons. He's talking but all I can think is, God this shouldn't happen to sober people. Not here. But less than two pounds for a non-alcoholic beer? Unlimited coffee? I still love it.
I'm not doing it right. I know I'm not. They say no one is an island but perhaps no one apart from the one who insists on going to the pub but won't partake in the main sport of it. What to do? I think I’ll chill out. Take a break. Throw myself into writing, I guess. The only thing I love as much as taking part in turbulent relationships that start and end in Wetherspoons.
And then? I think it’s time to accept the new world I occupy and move through that instead. Stop holding on to the past and going against the tide. Celebrate what I’ve gained in the last two and a half years, which is far more than a bottle of Gallo ever gave me. Welcome the next chapter with open arms, rather than necking non-alcoholic beers until the early hours just to prove I haven't changed. I have, actually.
I guess it would be neat for my standards for a partner to grow too. I could look for someone straight forward and communicative. Someone less like a rubik's cube. We shall see on that one. I’ll keep you posted.
Everybody needs a vice.
Dating without drinks
Love this, what a beautiful piece. X