Pink Shorts Guy

Once again, I found myself lurking at the top of the station ramp, squinting down at the entrance of Evans Cycles like some kind of love-hungry meerkat on high alert. It’s become a bit of a tradition now—staking out the meeting spot before a date to get a sneak peek and gauge whether I’m about to walk into a rom-com or a full-blown horror show.

Why Evans Cycles, you ask? I don’t know. Something about watching men in padded lycra trousers bustling in and out gives me hope. Hope that one of them might be my date. Hope that one of them might not be my date.

This guy—let’s call him Pink Shorts (you’ll understand in a sec)—had one of those profiles. You know the type: vague headshots, taken from flattering angles during activities like kayaking or climbing (which he clearly hasn't done in years), and always in groups. You’re left playing Guess Who? with an entire cast of potential suitors, hoping you’re not being catfished by the guy in the back holding the pub dog.

Anyway, there I was, early as usual (because I believe in punctuality and strategic reconnaissance). Eyes locked on Evans Cycles. A parade of men passed by—some maybe-too-attractive, some aggressively neutral, and then… him.

He lingered. He loitered. He looked lost, or like he was waiting for something. Or someone. He was short—not in a charming Tom Holland way, more in a “wait, is that a child or a grown man?” way. His proportions were... bold. A barrel-like belly sat defiantly over the waistband of his bright pink shorts—yes, pink shorts. And to top it off, a shiny bald patch caught the light like a beacon of despair.

I willed it not to be him. Maybe he’s waiting for a mate. Maybe he’s here for a bike part. Maybe—ping—a text:

“I’m here, wearing pink shorts :)”

Oh.No.

I’m f*cked.

Now, I know what you're thinking: Run! Fake a twisted ankle! Pretend to be on a call from MI5! But no. I’ve done the karma-dodging dip before, and it always comes back to bite me. So I plastered on my best “maybe this will be a character-building experience” face and walked over.

We went for a little stroll, made some lukewarm small talk, and grabbed an outdoor drink. Think of it less like a date and more like awkwardly sipping lemonade with your mum’s distant cousin while trying to avoid eye contact with his belly button.

After a short but polite effort, we both seemed to know it was going nowhere. We said our goodbyes, did the whole “nice to meet you” routine, and parted ways. End scene.

Until... ping (again):

“Hey, I didn’t really feel a spark, so I don’t think we should pursue this.”

Excuse me, what? This man—this man in pink shorts with a gut that needed its own postcode—had the audacity to reject me? Naturally, I responded with a breezy:

“Yeah, same here.”

Which, let’s be honest, always sounds like the digital equivalent of “you can’t fire me, I quit!” But in this case? Truly, genuinely, wholeheartedly accurate.

Still, there’s something deeply humbling about being rejected by someone you had mentally rejected thirty minutes prior. I wanted to be the one doing the ghosting, the swiping left in real life, the walking away in slow motion while a dramatic wind lifted my hair (and not just the pink shorts).

Instead, I got humbled by Karma in pastel leisurewear.

Anyway, lesson learned: never trust a profile full of group shots. Or pink shorts. Especially pink shorts.

Until next time, may your dates be tall, your drinks be cold, and your “no spark” texts come before you spot the bald patch.

Fancy another tale of modern dating gone sideways? Stay tuned. I've got plenty.