This month, our columnist is hunting for a plus one for a friend's wedding.
It’s Thursday afternoon. I’m sitting at my desk, my 100 denier tights slowly but surely cutting off my circulation while my stomach is rumbling because the salad I had for lunch tasted like more. I’ve just passed the 3pm slump and come out of another meeting that easily could have been a phone call. The little blue notification light on my Samsung S9
is blinking like 90. My girlo Whatsapp group is hopping because my bestie is getting married in May and needs our opinion on every single detail.
I am living for it. A weekend on the sesh with all my friends celebrating the first one of us to walk down aisle while we Instagram it from every angle. BUT at the back of all this excitement there is a sharp little realisation – I need to find someone to come to this wedding with.
On the quest to find my plus one, two of my girlos have tried to set me up and after weeks of pulling every excuse I could think of out of my ass as why I shouldn’t go I finally caved and said OKAY. There is something a little bit soul destroying about it. I felt like I was admitting defeat. Do my girlos feel sorry for me OR have they actually met someone that they thought “F*ck me, you’re Dublin Girlo’s soulmate, she has to meet you.” My girlos have seen my Tinder conversations, seen me getting ready for dates and dissected the conversations from start to finish after them. Do they know I’m doing something wrong and just don’t know how to tell me?
One fella texted me straight away – no WhatsApp picture – immediate red flag, I ignored it (I shouldn’t have). Two years younger than me, working in finance, I had been told he was hilarious and okay looking (another red flag, again I ignored it, beggars can’t be choosers and all that). So I played the game. I replied the usual to suss him out. “Hey how’s you? How d’ya know your one? What d’ya do at the weekends? Are you mad for the sniff?”
After a few days I agreed to go for a drink and within 30 seconds of getting there I was planning how I was gonna loaf the Hun who gave him my number without ruining
my eyebrows. He was grand, but not for me. How could someone who knows me forever get it so wrong!
The second fella followed me on the ‘gram and after two weeks of silence crept back to my
selfies from 2016 and liked every one of them. I bit the bullet and slid into his DMs, and the chats were flying. We texted all day every day for a fortnight and then we Netflix and chilled. I was optimistic, he was good looking, a proper Dub (the dream) he made me laugh, I made him laugh, we wore the head off each other like 15 year olds for two hours straight and I could feel his horn pressed up against my leg but refused to touch it even though I was dying to. I had to severely moisturise my chin that night because it was raw from his stubble. But then I got left on ‘seen’ the next day.
Again, I sat at home trying to work out how I’m gonna chin my other Hun without breaking an acrylic for setting me up with him. Today I am going from work to meet another one for a coffee – yes, you read the right, a f*cking coffee! But I can’t bring myself to shave my legs or apply another layer of my fave YSL foundation that’s €44 a bottle for someone who is never gonna see me naked or someone who I’m instantly gonna hate, or worse still, someone who is instantly gonna hate me!
And if this one fails I’m asking Vicki to put up a singles ad on page three for me. Do you like Jägerbombs? And going to raves? Are you any good at cunnilingus? Do you have half a brain? Answers on a postcard to Dublin Girlo, care of STELLAR magazine.
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