Soon after my divorce, I came across a meme on Instagram that said: Get married in your 20s so that by your 30s you can get divorced and start being happy.
Oh you can bet I double-tapped the hell out of that.
To me, divorce represents not even a happy ending but a joyful beginning, a renewal of vows to be true and loving to yourself, above anyone else.
(If you’re a woman raised in a patriarchy — so, basically, if you’re a woman — the very idea that this is something you’re allowed to do is at once bewildering and glorious.)
I got divorced in 2018. I’m a single mother with a five-year-old son and a full-time job.
I knew, coming out of my marriage, that I needed to spend some time alone to figure out who I was, once I’d shed the identity of wife and partner.
The common sense thing to do, obviously, was not date. But life was stressful and I needed a distraction and friends kept telling me that all I needed to do was start an account on a dating app and swipe my woes away. And so I did.
Wow guys, how do I even begin to tell you what that has been like?
Well, first up I think the biggest lesson I have learnt from it all is this: You and your divorced status are not the reason some people will treat you like shit.
Some people are just mean, ok? And that’s not a reflection of you or your worth.
The truth is, dating as a divorcee is pretty much the same as dating as a single person. I have a lot of single, never-married friends who are dating in the hopes of finding a life partner, and we’ve bonded over our very similar dating experiences.
What’s different between me and these friends is that maybe I don’t want to get married again.
(I say “maybe” because I didn’t like my own lived experience of it, I dislike the statistics that show women’s health and sanity tend to decline after marriage while men tend to get healthier and happier, or how difficult it is to leave a marriage when things go bad. But… I’m open to the idea that the universe may have some plot twists for me. If a Chris Hemsworth type falls in love with me and begs me to build a life with him, am I going to say no?!)
With that in mind, my standards are perhaps more flexible than that of my friends who are looking for a life partner. What they may view as deal breakers, I see as minor inconveniences, or even benefits — circuit breakers (sorry, too soon?) to ensure that I won’t ever find my dates too appealing and catch feelings.
So you still live with your parents? It’s OK, I have my own place where we can Netflix and chill.
You’re 16 years younger than me? As long as you don’t expect me to feed you breakfast the morning after, we can hang.
You’re a workaholic with very little free time to tend to a budding relationship? I, too, only have crumbs to spare.
But of course that’s not to say that I don’t have any deal breakers.
Mine are informed by my own past experiences, as I’m sure yours are too.
Where in my past life as a single, carefree 20-something I was into boys who were funny, witty and hyper-intelligent, I now place a lot more importance on emotional intelligence, sensitivity and thoughtfulness.
I don’t care anymore if you’re not that smart. I get my fill of intellectual conversation with my friends and colleagues.
I’d still like it if you are funny, but now I prefer a gentle humour, one that doesn’t rely on sarcasm and sharp putdowns to make a point.
I no longer stand for anyone who invalidates my feelings. Recently I told a man I’d matched with on Bumble that I had met up with some friends for dinner and to complain about the shitshow that is 2020.
He replied: “Oh the year hasn’t been that bad. It could have been worse.”
Unmatched.
I don’t accept mansplainers. Once, an expatriate who had only been in Singapore for TWO WEEKS tried to tell me why I was wrong in my understanding of the CPF system.
(I wrote about manpower issues and personal finance for much of my career.)
Unmatched.
To be honest, it took a while for me to learn what my boundaries are and how to protect them.
But the journey, while tough, has been enlightening and yes, it has made me stronger and happier.
The more people I talk to and meet, the more I learn about myself — what I like and dislike, what I can put up with and what I really shouldn’t for the sake of my mental health. I also learn more about what I really want in my dates and (possible) future partner.
Sometimes what I’ve learnt has been illuminating in ways I really never expected.
“One thing you learn quickly about dating in the age of dating apps is that some people aren’t ashamed to make it clear you are not much more than a piece of meat to them.”
I once talked to a guy from Tinder for two weeks who seemed really funny and I thoroughly enjoyed our conversations. But when we met in real life, he was dull and barely asked me any questions about myself.
I wanted to know how I had sized him up so wrongly, so I went to re-read our texts. That’s when I realised: I was the one who had kept the conversation flowing. I was enjoying the buzz of sending him my perfectly-crafted zingers. In short, I had been laughing at my own jokes and thinking I was enjoying his conversation.
Some lessons are not so amusing.
One thing you learn quickly about dating in the age of dating apps is that some people aren’t ashamed to make it clear you are not much more than a piece of meat to them.
People can be really lewd, in the guise of being “honest” and “straightforward”. Somehow they all sound the same, it’s like they all have a script they’re copy-pasting from.
Now I can predict their plot twists from a mile away. For example, when he says “Have you dated a Caucasian before?” he’s probably just a few steps away from following up with: “So you think you can handle my huge dick?”
(If you’re wondering whether he’s also being racist here, let me help you out: Yes he is.)
But this upfront nastiness is honestly preferable to the strategy some men have, of pretending they are keen to explore a serious relationship with you, but then ghosting after they’ve lost interest.
The first time it happened to me, I was blindsided and devastated.
But I’ve since lost track of the number of times I’ve been ghosted. I’ve even come to expect it now. I still think it’s rude af, but it no longer bothers me as much.
Once I had seven – SEVEN! – nice dates with a guy before he disappeared into thin air with no goodbye.
You learn through these strange and sometimes hurtful experiences that you can survive them, but also sometimes you realise that maybe you don’t want to put yourself through such lessons in the first place.
I’ve lost count of the number of times I decided to completely give up on dating. In fact, at the start of this year, I was resolved to stay off the apps forever. But then, you know, this pandemic happened.
Like a lot of single friends who live alone or semi-alone, I felt the full weight of isolation during lockdown, but I held out on online dating throughout that period. I didn’t see the point, and I was craving the company of my friends and family, not that of strangers.
But weirdly, even after we were allowed out again, I felt not relief nor release but instead, an even more profound sense that my wings had been clipped.
Like so many other Singaporeans with disposable income, I travel as much as I can and it has been a challenge to accept the reality that my world may have shrunk to this tiny island for several years.
So I began swiping on the apps again.
After everything I’ve been through (translate: all the douchebags I’ve met), what am I looking for now?
A distraction, mostly. A way to escape the monotony of life without a grand holiday to look forward to. If I cannot lose myself in a foreign city, I can give myself the experience of discovering new people – and in the process, put into practice everything I’ve learnt so far about identifying red flags, protecting my boundaries and putting myself first.
And if one of these people happens to be a sweet, intelligent Chris Hemsworth-type who falls in love with me and begs me to build a life with him, who knows? I might even say yes.
