St Andrews: The Worst Place to be Single

I’m sure you’re a very nice person, but the sight of you holding hands, walking along the beach as though the credits of the rom-com you just starred in are rolling and it’s NOT fucking freezing, makes me feel violently ill.

St Andrews is the all-time worst place to be single, especially if you’re a girl. Coming from the East Coast of the U.S., I was seduced by the promise of beautiful British boys with their adorable accents and charming floppy hair frolicking along the Scottish seaside. And I was convinced they were all dying to meet a laid-back, fun-loving all-American girl like myself. To my surprise, I found that I was not that ‘exotic American girl’ but rather one of probably 6,999 female immigrants from the USA all of whom assumed this search for prince charming would be a piece of cake.  Not to mention the competing troupe of Scandinavian models I encountered on my arrival, strutting over cobblestones in their 10-inch heels as if it was as simple as walking down the catwalks that I know they frequent.

Three years later, with my fantasies properly brought down to reality, single-life in St Andrews is still impossible. So what exactly makes being single in St Andrews suck quite so hard? Is it the overwhelming ratio of attractive girls to mediocre-looking guys? Is it the fact that almost every attractive guy I’ve ever met in this town is either already taken or gay? Is it that I’m sure there’s a secret club where all these attractive men I only ever see as they’re LEAVING the library go to hide from me? IS IT JUST ME??

No. It’s the town. It’s the fact that there are absolutely no places to interact with new people in a casual, pressure-free setting. No way to meet guys that doesn’t involve lying on the floor in Ma Bells wearing a shirt that says “Shag me, I’m single.”

As you may have noticed if you read the review of speed-dating last week, I’m not the only one who’s encountered such difficulties.

Too many times have I heard that ‘last call’ from the ‘pub’ and witnessed the ominous pairing-off of couples as they head home to get cozy and lovingly share a slice of Empire pizza. Looking around me, I can see the dispirited sighs from all those single people left behind – like the fat kids picked last for every sports team. All I want is a boy to buy me Empire – is that too much to ask? With all the bars/pubs closing at or around 12am, I can’t help feeling like Cinderella, surrounded by rotting pumpkin and various vermin as I wait for someone to pick up the shoe I’ve drunkenly flung to the curb. It has yet to happen.

What about the Lizard you ask? No. Just…no. Sure there are DJ events and house parties and such, but what percentage of drunken hookups actually turn into meaningful relationships? Well, apparently quite a few, otherwise how would these couples have come about? But what is their secret??

I’m not saying that single-life in St Andrews is the end of the world. My grades are up, I’ve knit about 10 different garments this semester, I’ve started writing for online publications (it’s amazing how many outlets there are for my sexual frustration).

All I’m asking for is a change of attitude. Why not strike up a conversation in line for some machine-coffee at the 1413 (does anyone call it that)? Or perhaps offer to buy someone a drink, just because they seem nice?

I, for one, am tired of that end-of-skype question my mother always finishes with:  

“So…anyone new in your life lately?”