Just before the pandemic hit, I emerged from a 10-year relationship – newly single and stuck with half a mortgage, a Brompton bike bought on an impulse and a high-maintenance ginkgo tree. After giving myself four months to recover, I bounced back into the dating world, not necessarily looking for a husband (yeah, right) but to conduct what I told myself was an anthropological experiment.
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So yes, this is about dating. On Tinder, Bumble, Hinge, all while donning the armour of a Chinese diasporic auntie in sensible shoes and with 40-something hang-ups.
Too old for bars, I launched a three-pronged plan: swing dance classes (fun, but everyone was already coupled up from primary school), community centre craft sessions (mudslinging with lovely people – all born before 1955), and the intervention of meddlesome friends.
“Divorce market is hot right now,” said meddlesome friend E. “Asian women are ageless! Just redefine ‘relationship’.”
Her bold new suggestion? An agricultural economist who did Aikido. We met – I soon ran out of Aikido-related small talk.
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So I turned to dating apps. Five of them. Because I am nothing if not a pragmatic auntie maximising outcomes.