The 300 Dates Of A Recently Single Woman

I landed the new job. Forty-five minutes away, but I didn't care. I'd drive it daily if it meant climbing the ladder instead of watching people half as competent get promoted because they had the right last name or better-smelling coffee.

I'd already spent two years living with my parents. Working. Saving. Grinding. Every extra shift, every side hustle, every random birthday card with a check from Grandma. I stashed it all for one thing: a house.

And finally, I found it.

Three bedrooms. Two bathrooms. Nothing fancy. No crown molding or HGTV island fantasies. But it was mine. It was enough. It was perfect.

Now let me pause and say: I know how lucky I am.

My family is the kind people dream about. Ride-or-die. Show up at 3 a.m. with tools kind of family. My dad stepped in and bought the house for me. Not because I couldn't afford it, but because it was a foreclosure, and foreclosed homes come with weird rules. You can't use certain loans. You can't finance repairs upfront. It's like the homebuying version of an obstacle course.

Technically, my dad could've bought it, fixed it up, and sold it to me later. But then he'd have to charge me double just to cover the costs. Instead, he bought it outright. I paid him back.

That was the deal.

My goal? Pay it off in five years.

Spoiler: I did.

I moved in two days before starting the new job. That week was chaos in a bottle. My sister stayed the first month to help with the kids, thank God for her. But I knew I needed more than a temporary babysitter. The job didn't come with weekends off, and my hours? Inconsistent at best. I had little kids. I needed backup. Consistent backup.

Enter Tilly.

Tilly was… well, Tilly.

She was about ten years older than me, a family friend with limited mobility. She only had the use of one hand. But she was willing to help, and that was more than I could say for most able-bodied adults at the time. She moved into the smallest bedroom in the house, set up her foldable crafting tables, and slowly, miraculously, made it hers.

She loved crafting. Lived for it, honestly. If she'd had the square footage, I think she would've opened a full-blown glitter-based Etsy empire. Instead, she crammed her yarn, beads, stamps, half-painted figurines, embroidery hoops, and enough fabric to make clothes for a small army into a room the size of a walk-in closet. It looked like a Pinterest board had thrown up.

She lived 75% of her life online, chatrooms, fandom pages, virtual worlds. She knew all the acronyms and none of the drama in my real life. But for someone who never left the house, she was surprisingly present.

She helped with the kids. She picked them up from school. She cooked dinner sometimes, folded laundry with one hand and a sitcom in the background. My family even helped her buy a car so she could run small errands or take the kids if I got stuck at work. I drove her over an hour to the city to take her driver's test at a place that could accommodate her. Our small-town DMV was about as accessible as a haunted corn maze.

She passed. First try.

She grinned like she'd won the damn Olympics.

We went out for dinner to celebrate. My treat.

That was one of those golden little moments. Things were coming together. The job was solid. The house was mine. The kids were okay. I had help. I had peace.

But peace is boring.

And my job? Was only ten minutes from the city where I used to go on dates.

Which meant… I could get off work and go straight out.

And oh, did I.

Way too often.

This was the part of my life where dating shifted from casual chaos to full-blown spreadsheet status. I was swiping on breaks. Scheduling on lunch. Coordinating outfits with stoplights in traffic. It was a different kind of grind. A new kind of hustle. Less money. More emotional whiplash.

I'd thought I was doing a lot before, when I lived at home with my parents?

That was child's play.

Now I had my own space, no one to report to, and just enough energy at the end of the day to think "sure, why not?" to absolutely everything.

Dates became a revolving door. My inbox? A battlefield. My outfits? Strategically chosen for fast exits and limited bra commitment. My patience? Hanging by a glitter-thread of dry shampoo and half-hearted optimism.

It was messy.

It was exciting.

It was exhausting.

And unfortunately, it's about to get worse.

But hey.

At least I had Tilly.

At least I had a house.

At least I had a tiny blue dress that made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I was going to make it in this life.