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Monthly Archives: January 2014

And never EVER darken my doorstep again, you evil bitch!!!

Yes, tis the season for receiving long scorching letters of disgust and disapproval from disappointed suitors…am I the only one who gets these? Am I really the baddest ass in town?

I seem to do romantic disengagement really badly.  For instance, years ago, I told a guy I was dating/sleeping with that I didn’t see it going any further.  We were in bed at the time – not the best choice of venue – and he’d just given me a red rose to symbolise…whatever red roses symbolise.  But WHY, he asked.  Tell me, I really want to know! Well, after a while, I did – I didn’t find his body shape attractive.  He was nice about it.  He got out of bed and went home.  He slid into a state of serious depression which lasted about two years and nearly cost him his job. Nice work, evil bitch.

Then there was the mad guy I dated a couple of years back who was already planning our honeymoon after two meetings, and who got very annoyed indeed about having romantic phone conversations cut short by phrases such as ‘but now I have to go and cook dinner.’  That ended in an email so excoriating I had to put it behind a firewall for several weeks until it was safe to touch, and a threat that if ever he saw me again he couldn’t be responsible for the demonic fury which would then be unleashed.

And now, there is the letter tucked in my bottom drawer at work, of which so far I’ve only dared to read the first two sentences.  I’ve been dating this man for eight months, and so far we’ve held hands, kissed (with our mouths closed), and walked a few blocks clasping each other’s waists awkwardly.  Enter my beautiful river god, and I soon realised that this dalliance would have to end.  But I don’t know what got into me – instead of just sending a Dear John email, I had to accept the guy’s invitation to dinner and a movie, and then – sitting in his loungeroom clutching his specially bought fizzy grape drink – come out with ‘I’m sorry but I’ve met someone’.  The atmosphere turned in a second from cozy to icy.  And no wonder.  In the ensuing silence, I felt impelled to add that things had been going along rather slowly between us, and so, um, and so…Yeah, quite.  Anyway now I am the Hitler of interpersonal relationships, and serve me right.

It hurts.  I normally think of myself as a nice person.  But clearly, on these occasions, something goes badly wrong. I break rules, I behave with ill-considered callousness – to tell the truth, I get hopelessly embarrassed and then my limbic system takes over and woe betide!

Phew!  Clearly, there is a right way and a wrong way.  But what are they?  Come on, I need a crash course!!

When you expect sand..

I’m the kind of person who’s always expecting to get sand kicked in her face.

So what I do is, I hang back from people.  I draw a line around them, at the point where if they do kick sand in my face, I’m too far off for much of it to stick.  Then if they say ‘nyah nyah, got you that time!’, I can pretend I didn’t hear, or they were talking to someone else, or that it doesn’t matter.

There are downsides to this.  The main one being, if anyone happens to come within the magic circle, I get irrationally anxious.  WHEN will they kick the sand?  WHAT if I’m not ready to jump back when they do?  WHAT if they start shouting nyah nyah, and I turn red and cry?  Crossing that line is a scary thing.

Hippy boy and me have run foul of the line several times now.  But I think he’s ok.  I don’t think he will kick sand in my face.  I trust him not to.  I MAKE myself trust, because it’s the only thing to do.  To me, it’s like walking into a lion’s den with my eyes open, because Daniel said it’s alright.  They’re pussycats really.

Does anyone else get this?

It’s not love but…

I’m entranced.  There’s no other word for it.

The swell of those biceps.  That smiling face, half-moon lips, innocent-cunning eyes, that I could look at and into for hours.  And hours.  That lazy-deep voice, with the funny almost-stilted phrasing that I can’t place.  The thick curly hair that I sometimes catch my fingers in by mistake.

There are more cerebral aspects, if you could call them that.  The easy way he shoots the balls down the pockets at pool – pow, bang, snap!  The way he corners the car, as if he was born at the wheel.  The way he sings along to the blues, and stops and blushes when he catches me looking at him.  The funny little things he says, that leave me with no quick answer.  The slow, easy sweetness of him.

And yet, he likes football and cricket, for chrissake.  He thinks black lipstick is sexy (that indefinable look that says ‘roadkill’ like nothing else can!).  He reads two books a year.  This year one of them was mine.  The other was probably on mud bricks.  But hey.

It’s not like I haven’t got choices.  I could choose the man whose intellectual interests match mine like pearls match a twinset, who is kind and emotionally mature, reads more books than I do and writes them too.  That’d be the right thing to do, I guess.  After all, I’m too old for this impulse-shopping shit.  Right?

Oh but this other man, there’s no other word for him but beautiful.  He shines.  I can’t pass that up, not yet.