Fast forward twenty years and me and the fictious Bridget Jones once again find ourselves in similar situations. We are both widows with young children. She has two, I have three. I am fascinated that Helen Fielding has followed this storyline as, since I was widowed seven years ago, I have been amazed at how little contemporary literary reference there is to us 'young widows'.
What I have gained most from match.com, and the last thing I expected to, is I now feel calmer about being single. My relationship status no longer causes me to panic, and start thinking of cat names. Online dating made something click - it's not about being in a relationship, it's about finding the person who you want to be with.
As a young Jewish man, I take issue with the meddling, match making elders in my community. There comes a time in every Jew's life, where a compulsion to play cupid takes hold. I have been subject to its viceroy grip. Aunties and uncles orchestrate awkward family get-togethers, disguised under the pretence of a religious evening.
The first date went so well, I hadn't really felt like I was trying; now I'm flailing and babbling. And when I'm not firing off questions, there is silence. I watch him fidget like a constipated toddler on a tricycle trying to let out a fart. He fiddles with his laces, runs his hands through his hair...
I am pretty sure, I am the kind of woman that pick-up artists around the world would refer to as a "10". Have I not an excessive amount of lumps here and there? Men love that. And don't get me started on my extensive knowledge of Fresh Prince of Bel Air-trivia. In all ways, I am a catch. I think I am damn well entitled to make some demands of my own, when choosing a man.