How to Fail a First Date in Under 45 Minutes (A Masterclass)

Let Your Workmates Swipe Right For You (What Could Go Wrong?)

Last year, in that weird little lull before the office closed for Christmas, I made a fatal mistake. I let my coworkers take over my Bumble. Now, in their defence, they were full of festive spirit, had diamond rings on their fingers, and believed wholeheartedly in the magic of holiday romance. Me? I was just trying to finish my to-do list and sneak one last matcha latte before the cafe downstairs shut shop for the season. But apparently, I lack the discernment to choose men wisely. So naturally, they took my phone and started swiping with the gusto of women who’ve found their soulmates and want you to suffer the same fate.

They found him. The one. A teddy bear of a man. Warm eyes. Decent beard. Looked like he’d say please and thank you to the waitress. Personally, I wasn’t convinced, but the chat was fine. Bland, but fine. And a few days after Christmas, we agreed to meet at a cute little café. My hopes weren’t high, but I figured, why not? Maybe this was the plot twist in my rom-com. Spoiler: it wasn’t. It was a deleted scene from a cringe compilation.

I arrived bang on time, because punctuality is my love language. But he was nowhere in sight. I did a lap. I checked my reflection. I tried not to look like I’d been stood up. At the five-minute mark, I opened Bumble to message him a polite “cool cool, guess I’ll die then” goodbye, and just as I was about to hit send, ping. A message. He was out the back of the venue. Not inside. Not out front. Out. The. Back. Like a gremlin. Hiding in the shadows.

The Matcha Incident (And Other First-Date Crimes)

So I find him. We do the awkward hug. He’s wearing thongs. I pretend not to notice. We sit down. After a few minutes of awkward silence, I suggest we order something. You’d think this would be the perfect opportunity for him to show some kind of… I don’t know… social grace? A gentlemanly gesture? No. Turns out he’d already ordered his drink. On a first date. Without waiting. So I’m sitting there in front of him, awkwardly scanning a QR code and ordering my $5 matcha via the app, wondering if I should PayPal request him later out of spite.

My matcha arrives he doesn’t even ask about me. No curious questions. No, “what’s your favourite childhood movie” or “if you were a kitchen appliance what would you be” type banter. Instead, he tells me how awkward first dates are. Which, fair. But I’m now apparently the fifth first date he’s been on in two months. At that point I was ready to order a second matcha just so I had something to throw in his face. Then comes the kicker: he launches into a monologue about his ex. A ten-year relationship. No ring. No engagement. Just vibes and trauma. And now I’m stuck in a free therapy session for a man I didn’t even pick for myself.

At this point, my brain checked out. Fully ejected. I went into survival mode. If he wasn’t going to entertain me, I’d entertain myself. So I started talking about dating psychology. The biology of attraction. Why meet-cutes in bookshops are the superior method of romantic engagement. I became the podcast episode. The lecture. The show. It was either that or claw my way out of my own skin.

Cringe Chemistry and the 45-Minute Rule

Let me explain something. If you’re on a date with me and I start talking about the history of courtship rituals across cultures, I am bored. I am mentally at home in my pyjamas with Lulu purring beside me. And if at the 45-minute mark you suggest we go for a walk and I say, “No thank you, I need to get home to my cat,” understand that it is not about the cat. It is a gentle, polite, soft-girl coded exit. You have been dismissed with grace. Take it and go.

He looked a little surprised. Maybe he thought he was doing well. Maybe he assumed I was just shy and needed time. Maybe he didn’t notice that I’d completely dissociated halfway through his breakup story and had started planning my next blog post in my head. But either way, I finished my matcha, gave him a charming smile, and bounced.

When I got home, Lulu didn’t even greet me. He just blinked at me like, “Really? That’s who you let take you out?” Fair call. I curled up on the couch, ordered Vietnamese, and did a full debrief with my girls on IG, including screenshots. Consensus? Men are not serious people.

A Gentle Reminder: Be Better, Boys

Let’s set the record straight. If you ask someone on a date, you are the host of that interaction. You don’t have to go full Jane Austen, but maybe don’t hide behind the café like a cryptid. Maybe wait to order until your date arrives. Maybe don’t trauma dump about your decade-long situationship to someone you just met. Or do. But understand you’re not getting a second date.

I know dating is awkward. I know it’s hard. But it’s not that hard to not be a complete disappointment. The bar is low, and some of you are still tripping over it like it’s an Olympic hurdle. You don’t need a script. You just need to be a kind, present, curious person. And if you’re not emotionally available, don’t date. Go to therapy. Get a journal. Buy a dog. Leave the rest of us alone.

Oh, and if you’re reading this and wondering if it was you, I promise it was. Cheers for the matcha. You still owe me $5.

How To Spot a Dud Before You Even Leave the House

In hindsight, there were signs. The dry Bumble chat. The overuse of emojis. The fact that my coworkers liked him. Love them dearly, but they’re all happily partnered with good, stable men. They forget what it’s like in the trenches. They see a man with a beard and think it’s personality.

Here’s what I’ve learned. If a man describes himself as “chill,” he’s emotionally stunted. If his bio says he’s “looking for something casual,” run. And if the highlight of your chat is a discussion about weekend plans and he doesn’t ask you anything? Hard pass.

Next time, I’m swiping solo. Or better yet, I’ll let Lulu choose. He has better instincts than I do, and at least he won’t pick someone who drinks a smoothie alone before a date and talks about his ex for forty-five minutes like it’s an open mic night at Divorcee Anonymous.

In conclusion: If you want a second date, be better. Or don’t. But understand that if you take me out and it’s giving beige wallpaper energy, I will turn the entire thing into content. That’s the deal. Happy dating, darlings.

We Need to Stop Clapping for Basic Decency – Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity

In today's episode of Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity, we're unpacking why we need to stop clapping for basic decency. You know the script. A man texts back within twenty-four hours and we're screenshotting it to the group chat. A man plans a date more than three hours in advance and we call him a unicorn. A man manages to listen, pay attention, and behave like a fully formed adult, and our nervous systems short-circuit because we genuinely don't know how to receive it.Here's the truth nobody is saying out loud. The bar has been dragged so low that Satan himself needs a chiropractor after a competitive round of limbo. We've been culturally trained to be grateful for behaviour that should not require gratitude. We've been told these things are bonuses when they're actually the entry requirement. And in the meantime, women have been quietly doing the basic decency thing forever, without applause, while men get standing ovations for outputs we generated for them.Today we're talking about why a great man is genuinely just an average woman, who benefits when the bar stays low, the invisible labour women have been performing for free for centuries, and the friend-test that cuts straight through every excuse we've ever made for mediocre men. Let's get into it.For more visit BryJaimea.com or follow over on IG @BryJaimea

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