Why I Started Dating Myself

WORDS & PICTURES: Abi Prowse

I still remember the first time I took myself out on a date. I was two months post-traumatic breakup and two days into the year I would spend working in Italy; although I was still very much nursing my wounds, I had begun to take a few tentative steps towards a happy sense of independence, and was feeling cautiously optimistic about the future. A six-hour train journey from my new home in Friuli-Venezia Giulia saw me spat out into the crowds of the grand, bustling Torino Porta Nuova station: the destination of a three-day training course I was taking for my upcoming job in an Italian high school.

I remember jumping into a nearby taxi – the first and last I would ever take in Italy – still bundled in the cosy shawl of Englishness which I had yet to shed. I checked into a hostel a fair distance away from the city centre and dropped my bags in my shared room – which, as it turned out, would later house a total stranger who remains, to this day, one of my dearest friends. Then I sat on the edge of one of the single beds. For the first time ever, I was completely alone in a new city. I had no one to share decisions with, and no one else’s whims to cater to. I was free of judgment, free of arguments about whose turn it was to choose what we did. I was elated. So, in celebration of this newfound liberation, I knew exactly what I wanted to do.

A short walk from the hostel was a street I immediately fell in love with; the honey-coloured houses were splattered in expertly-crafted street art, the wrought iron balconies laden with plants and flowers. Locals moved slowly up and down the cobbles, filling the space with the convivial chatter and laidback buzz that seems to characterise all Italian cities. It was the final weekend of September, and the balmy heat of summer still lingered in the evening air. Armed with a good book and a sense of determination, I sat somewhat nervously down at a small table outside a modest-looking restaurant, allowing my eyes to roam the other diners. I was surprised to discover that I was not alone in my solo dining mission – although, to the others, this mundane, everyday occurrence could hardly be classed as a ‘mission’.

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Relaxing a little, I ordered a small beer and a pizza from the friendly waiter, before opening my book and diving back within its pages. I could feel independence begin to tickle at me, slowly starting to spread through my being, like sinking into a warm bath. The time passed in a comfortable blur, the golden sun fading into the soft blue light of the early evening, before plunging quickly into inky blackness. I had nowhere to be, and was in no particular rush. The realisation of this hit me in a rush of euphoria; I could decide exactly how to spend my time that evening, without waiting for the approval of others.

A number of years have passed since that September night in Turin, and the details have grown hazy. I remember chatting some more to my waiter, although I can’t remember what we spoke about. I remember ordering dessert, although I can’t remember what that dessert was. I remember finishing my book, although I can’t remember what I was reading. What I do remember, however, is the sense of peace and whole-hearted contentedness I felt, knowing that the evening was mine, to do with as I pleased; and, five years later, that sensation has not dimmed.

Love and relationships have come and gone in the past five years, the way they do in your twenties, but I always make sure to dedicate time to dating myself, whatever my relationship status. Whilst I’m definitely not perfect, I’m learning the importance of treating yourself with the same dedication, care, and respect with which you treat the ones you love. Because if you wait around for someone else to take you to the places you’ve always wanted to go to, you might never make it there.