My Last First Date… well, kind of...

By the time Jackson came along, I had my dating rules set in stone:

Rule #1: Don’t over-text before you meet. Smooth texters often flop in person.

Rule #2: Always have an exit plan—fake birthdays, urgent “work calls,” or friends staged on standby.

Rule #3: Never shave your legs unless you’re genuinely optimistic. Wasted effort otherwise.

So when Jackson and I matched on Tinder, I didn’t instantly roll my eyes. He seemed… different. Normal. Promising. He had values, a work ethic, and our chats weren’t just about cars, beers, or bad emojis. It felt refreshing. And honestly? I was in a good place—knee-deep in F45, feeling fit and confident, enjoying my own company.

So when he asked me out for a drink, I was actually excited. Which, by this stage in dating life, was a rare miracle.

The Tinder Profile That Made the Cut

And fun fact? I still have one of Jackson’s original Tinder screenshots saved. You know, the kind where you swipe right because they look normal enough — not holding a giant fish, not posting shirtless gym selfies, and not posing with a random baby that “isn’t theirs.”

His profile was simple, clean, and gave me the vibe of “decent human who can string a sentence together.” (And yes, I may whip out that screenshot occasionally when I’m telling this story, just to prove I didn’t completely lose the plot in choosing him.)

Scene One: The Date That Fell Flat

Jackson got there first. When I walked into the bar, I spotted him instantly: crisp Tommy Hilfiger shirt, neatly styled hair, sitting up straight like he’d practiced “good first impression” posture in the mirror before leaving.

Cute? Yes. Connection? Not so much.

From the moment I sat down, the vibe was… off. Not catastrophic, just mismatched. I was sparkling—funny, witty, leaning into the banter. But every line I tossed out landed like a paper plane with no wings. He was polite, he smiled, but the rhythm wasn’t there.

My brain went into overdrive:Is it me? No, it’s not me. I’m hilarious.Maybe he’s nervous. Maybe Mercury is in retrograde.Or maybe I should’ve stayed home with wine and chocolate.

By the halfway mark, I was already plotting my escape. Then he hit me with this:

“So… what are you doing after this? You’ve got those birthday drinks tonight, right? Mind if I come along?”

Cue internal panic. My actual birthday had been the night before. I’d made up the drinks as my exit strategy. The “party” didn’t exist.

My brain:Abort mission. Abort mission.Smile, Shannon. You’ve got this. You are Beyoncé. Beyoncé does not get caught in lies.

I plastered on my sweetest grin:“Ohh yeah… just a few friends. It’s already kind of… sorted.”

Translation: No, because the party is imaginary, but thanks anyway.

I finished my drink like it was freedom in a glass, stood up, and sashayed out with my best “it’s been lovely” smile. Inside?Never again. Not my guy. Not my vibe. NEXT.

Except… it wasn’t “next.”

Scene Two: The Persistent One

Most men would’ve read the room (and the fake birthday brush-off) and moved on. But Jackson? He kept popping back up in my inbox. Not every day, not in a creepy way—just steady check-ins.

And me? I perfected the art of polite ghosting. I’d see his messages, leave them unread for weeks, then drop in with:

“Ohhh sorry, just saw this!”Or: “I’ve been soooo busy!”

Busy doing what? Dating other people. Watching true crime. Eating chocolate in pyjamas. Basically, anything other than replying to Jackson.

But he didn’t push. He didn’t sulk. He didn’t disappear. He just… stayed. Patient, consistent, quietly determined. And even though I was ignoring it, part of me noticed.

Scene Three: The In-Between Disasters

While Jackson was lurking patiently in my inbox, I wasn’t exactly living like a nun. I went on a few other dates — and let me tell you, they were… something.

There was Movie Voucher Guy. He proudly announced he’d “sorted the tickets” and then steered me straight into a random action flick. Why? Because he had a voucher. Nothing says romance like a two-for-one coupon and a movie you didn’t choose. I spent half the time wondering if I was the date… or just the plus-one to his bargain.

Then came Rugby League Guy. He invited me to a game, which actually sounded fun — until my clumsy self spilled a tiny bit of my drink. First drink of the night, okay? His reaction? Judgey side-eyes like I’d just burned down the stadium. Meanwhile, this man was in his mid-30s… still living at home. Sir, please don’t throw shade from your childhood bedroom.

And then there was “All G” Guy. Everything I said was met with, “All G.” At first, I thought it was quirky. By the end of the night, I was ready to launch myself into orbit. It wasn’t “all good,” it was “all grating.” One more “All G” and I was gone.

So yeah, I was out there. But none of these contenders exactly screamed “husband material.” Meanwhile, Jackson was still in the background — steady, patient, and, importantly, not saying “All G.”

Scene Four: Coffee, Take Two

Four months later, I finally caved. Coffee, I decided. No wine, no excuses, no “birthday parties.” Just caffeine and a quick escape if needed.

When I arrived, Jackson walked in looking… different. He’d been working out. He had this new confidence about him. Don’t get me wrong, he’d already been cute—but this? This was hot. And suddenly, I was the nervous one.

Inner monologue:Oh no. Why does he look so good?

Why am I nervous? I don’t get nervous.

Did I seriously ghost THIS for four months? Shannon, you idiot.

We sat down, ordered our coffees, and started talking. And it just… flowed. The awkwardness from the first date was gone. No forced smiles, no static energy. Just banter, laughter, and ease.

For the first time, I wasn’t calculating an exit strategy. I wasn’t wishing for Netflix. I was in it. And I liked it.

Scene Five: The Last First Date

Looking back now, it cracks me up. My husband—the man I built a life and family with—was the same guy I nearly wrote off after one bad date.

It wasn’t love at first sight. It wasn’t violins, fireworks, or slow-motion walks into the sunset. It was persistence, timing, patience… and yes, a solid Tommy Hilfiger shirt.

I lied about birthdays. I ignored him. I dated other men. And he kept showing up, quietly, consistently, until I was finally ready to see him properly.

And when I did? That coffee became my last first date.

Lessons Learned

✨ Don’t over-text before you meet. Real life is the real test.✨ Always have an exit strategy. (Pro tip: “birthday drinks” works wonders.)✨ Persistence can be attractive—when it’s respectful.✨ Sometimes the worst first impression leads to the best forever.✨

And please — don’t waste your time on men who:

• Pay for romance with movie vouchers,

• Judge you for spilling a drink while living at home, or

• Think “All G” is a personality trait.

  
  

And here’s what I always tell my friends: you have to keep dating. It only takes one. Well, in my case, two dates with the same guy—but usually just one. You have to sit through the bad ones to get to the good one. Vet them online first, sure, but don’t let a flop keep you from trying again.

A friend once asked me, “How do you get guys to drive all the way from Brisbane to the Gold Coast for you—an hour’s drive—when I can’t get a guy to come to Milton from South Bank (five minutes)?”

The answer was simple: I was in my confidence zone. I didn’t give a shit. If you weren’t willing to meet me where I wanted, it wasn’t happening. End of story. Confidence is magnetic. When you stop chasing, they start showing up.

And that’s why I call Jackson my last first date… well, kind of. Because sometimes the guy you almost write off ends up being the guy who changes everything.

✨ PSA: Ladies, the bad dates aren’t failures—they’re just the warm-up acts before the headline show.