Dread and Circuses: Uni’s over, what now?

COLUMN | ISSUE TEN | ISOLATION

Written by Luke Fisher (he/him) | @lukefish7__ | Sports Columnist

Illustration by Tashi Donnelly (she/her) | @tashi_rd | Editor

Meeting potential partners post-uni is hard. If you weren’t aware, I’ve transitioned to unc status, having graduated from AUT last year. Much like how America is a third-world country wearing a Gucci belt, I’m a child who can make small talk around a coffee machine and complain about the traffic.

I guess I was hoping my introduction to the rat race would come with a bonus psychological upheaval in which I’d suddenly become an idealised adult. Meal-prepping; grabbing coffee with a colleague before work; wearing a scarf when it’s cold; having social skills; maintaining a healthy diet and exercise regime; going on first, second, even third dates; having the ingredients for a charcuterie board; doing yoga often; catching a flight to Queenstown for the weekend; adopting a dog; executing a flawless conversation with a supermarket cashier that wraps up naturally as I pay – you get the gist.

I had similar high hopes for puberty, but instead of height and bigger muscles (and stuff), all I got was pimples and pit hair. Likewise, I’m still just me. Same insecurities. Same social defects. Same maladroitness when it comes to women.

I’ve been blessed with many tools to combat isolation that I’ve continued to use since graduating. Sport is one of the sharpest. But obviously, two mediocre footballing performances a week cannot adequately cater to most human beings’ wide range of social needs. And consistently blasting female football players in the face with attempted clearances that didn’t gain elevation quickly enough isn’t getting me very far. I have tried at times, often unsuccessfully, to expand my horizons. Other times, I’m just too scared. 

Anyway, here’s a general roundup of things I’ve tried, seeing as I’m no longer thrust into the social mixing bowl every weekday that us former university students now realise we took for granted.

Hingeing my Hopes

Hinge and dating apps in general promise so, so much. The appeal, to me and presumably many others, is that it lets you bypass the two awkward questions of real-life dating: are they single, and do they find me somewhat attractive? It can’t be that hard. Establish your wit and charm over a few thoughtful sans-serif messages, organise a meet-up, and skip off into the sunset – Bob’s your uncle.

But, like so many who came before, I was disappointed. First off, I had to wade through all of the profiles on my screen touting such classics as:

• This year, I really want to: Travel more.

• My most irrational fear: Men.

• I go crazy for: An Aperol Spritz.

• Worst idea I’ve ever had: Downloading this app.

Side note: I reinstalled Hinge for the [redacted]th time to research some of these prompts, and found they’ve built AI functionality into the app. So when I wanted to respond to someone talking about getting their splits back with a joke about the banana-based dessert, RizzGPT was instead recommending I try comparing our stretching routines. I’ll see your child’s pose and raise my happy baby.

I did manage to go on a few dates and establish proof of life. But I found the initial appeal of the app was actually what made the experiences so lacklustre. There was none of the mystery, none of the anxiety that comes with meeting someone organically and forming an attraction to them. No stakes. Those uncomfortable feelings I was attempting to avoid by going down the dating app route are what make romance so whizpopping.

So, back to the drawing board.

Runnin’ Down a Dream

I have this dream scenario where I’m on a run, cruising at a 5’30” pace, before I look up and see my future wife about fifteen metres away. We make eye contact, exchange a smile, and I ask to run with her. She approves. I grab a lamppost and I, like a spaceship saving fuel, perform a flawless slingshot manoeuvre and arrive at her side. The rest is history.

Recently, on a run on the Pakuranga Rotary Path, I tried to make this dream come true.

I’m running towards a cute girl, and we do the aforementioned eye-contact-smile thing. I continue on for another hundred metres, fighting an internal battle over whether or not to go back. Eventually I beat off my demons and decide to go back, but by this time she’s well ahead of me, so I have to turn on the afterburners to catch up.

But suddenly I make a turn, and she’s just there, walking, on her phone. Since I don't have time to mentally prepare myself, I abort and speed straight past her. As I continue running, cursing myself for being such a wet sock, I settle on a plan of running back and saying something like, “Hey, I was too scared to say hi earlier, but I just bought some bravery from the dairy, can I jog with you?”

By that time, we’ve passed a fork in the route, and I have to guess which way she’s gone and try to intercept her. I guess correctly, but as I round a corner she’s right there, again, like ten metres away, coming straight for me. Naturally, I wimp out again. My final play is to stand on the Panmure Bridge looking wistfully over the water, and say hi as she walks past. This time I actually got the words out. But my limp “excuse me” fails to breach her over-ear headphones and she walks straight past. Shit.

Any further attempts would've generated nothing but a police report, so I sulk back home.

Ol’ Faithful

Sports. And men. When all else fails, I’ve always got those fallbacks. Jokes aside, I’m so privileged to have a great group of friends and a variety of sports in my corner that stay with me through the trials and tribulations above. When Hinge lets me down, I download Scala, a tennis matchmaking app where you can arrange to meet after dark in Mount Eden with a bloke by the name of Ramirez and recreate the Federer-Nadal rivalry for three hours. (I was Roger Federer and I won that match).

The point I want to make, beyond this entire piece being a therapy session, is there are opportunities for connection all around us. And screwing them up is part of that. It’s what makes the rare ones you don’t screw up so magical. So smile at people you walk past. Work out what you love doing, and find other people who love doing that thing. That’s a challenge to you, the reader, and a challenge to myself. For me, that means attending a run club meet, and all that that entails. What does it mean for you?