The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - Saturday
‘You’ve got to lie about your age’ – Stacey Duguid joins Hinge
Embracing the single life and ready for adventure, meet our new columnist Stacey Duguid
In case you missed last week’s introductory column, allow me to provide some context: after a long marriage, I am newly single and trying to get my head around dating. Given I’m about to turn 47, it’s highly unlikely you’ll find me rolling around Soho finding “boys” in bars. Those days are well and truly over. I think. Yes, of course they are. I am far too elegant and sophisticated these days, and anyway, I am bound to find a lovely “gentleman” via my wide network of friends. Yes, I can see it now: a low-key party at a friend’s house; they’ll invite a highly eligible bachelor in a similar situation (ie, separated, with kids) and “pow!”, he’ll ask me to dinner. That’s how it works in midlife, right? Um. Wrong. Very, very wrong.
“Have you joined Hinge yet?” enquired my most glamorous fashion friend, as we set off on a five-mile walk to chew the fat on all things life, including parenting solo, career reboots and dating in your mid-40s. “All the eligible men are on Hinge”, she continued, as if delivering news so
An inbox full of men skydiving from planes, skiing off mountaintops. What fresh hell is this?
bleeding obvious, I was the only idiot in town not to get with the dating-app programme. “It’s the best one but lie about your age, no one wants to date a 47-year-old”. With the words, “no one wants to date a 47-year-old” ringing in my ears, back home, I stared at the mirror, pinning my cheeks back with my forefingers. Could I pass for 40? Do I want to pass for 40? No, I want to start this journey honestly. I want to meet someone who loves me for me. No lies.
Coming out of a 10-year marriage and out of lockdown simultaneously, there are days when I feel like a cowgirl riding a mechanical rodeo bull, one arm above my head, whooping “yee haw”. Then there are “the other days”; days when the simple act of brushing my teeth feels like a huge achievement. I waited for a “cowgirl day”, before tackling my Hinge profile.
With a made-up name of Anna – no clue why, sounds more innocent than Stacey? – I uploaded a selection of pics (a mix of casual and evening as instructed by my fashion friend) and answered the rather ridiculous question prompts (intellectually stretching they are not).
Within an hour, my inbox was full. An inbox full of men! Wait, an inbox full of men skydiving from planes, skiing off mountaintops and swimming in shark-infested waters. What fresh hell is this? Really! What’s wrong with just having a quiet night at the pub?
I flicked through countless messages, keen to find someone a) with their top on and b) not engaged in some kind of dangerous sporting activity. That’s when I came across a man named Scott. Scott, 43, also separated, also living in north-west London appeared to be pretty much perfect. We exchanged a few messages on the app, then he asked me for my number. Then he popped the big question: “Would you like to meet up?” Easy to say, yes, from the safety of my sofa, where I’ve basically been sheltering, for the past year, I realised.
I’ve barely been out with my best girlfriends, never mind a random stranger met on the internet. What if I have nothing to say? Feeling like a girl about to resit her O levels (no, not GCSEs), I began to imagine all the questions he might ask. Should I swot up on the past five years’ Pulitzer Prize winners? Do I have well thought through opinions on global politics? Will he care about my 20-year career in fashion? Will he be wearing nice shoes? “Oh, God, Stacey,” I found myself saying out loud, “noone cares about nice shoes – shoes can be bought; kindness, humour and good manners cannot.”
Then I spiralled. My mind hurling a host of excuses as to why I couldn’t possibly go on a date. Two hours later, still on the sofa, I realised it was time to get a grip. Manicures, pedicures, trips to the gym – none of it would assuage my nerves, and anyway, if not now, when?
He’s funny. He’s clever. There are no pics of him skydiving out of planes!
This could work, I thought, as I hopped off the bus and headed into Regent’s Park, where we were due to meet for a walk. (I vowed not to do the dreaded date walk, but he insisted).
With racing heart, not from the anticipation of meeting Prince Charming (he fell off his horse several miles back), but at the sudden realisation I was about to meet a complete stranger, one only seen via a flickery FaceTime call the previous week. “Scott? Is that you?” I asked, as a well put together, yet elderly looking gentleman hobbled towards me, a man who could easily pass for my father. And there I was, panicked at the idea of shaving seven years off my age – Scott had shaved off 30. Dear Hinge, I’d like a refund.