I have long been accused by family and friends alike of being too fussy when it comes to potential boyfriends.
Meeting men under the influence of vast quantities of alcohol, I regularly fall in unconditional, Stella-tinted-spectacles-aided love. On the first date I’m baffled at how lager can screw with one’s perception to such an extent - the man who laughed like a drain and had a voice so loud it could be heard by the deaf, springs to mind.
It is rare there is a second date.
Breaking the news to my gays, that the love has again died so soon, is always tough.
Through utter frustration one of my closest gays, Robert, recently subjected me to a verbal onslaught, of which the general gist was:
“It’s not them Ellie, it’s you. You will grow old, surround yourself with feral cats, children will fear you and the townsfolk will attempt to drown you as a witch.
“The stench of urine from your granny-flat will be so unbearable that a mile-round radius of the area will be cordoned off and not even the spotty carer from meals on wheels will dare to cross the threshold. Subsequently you will meet your end when the bin-bags, crammed full with the charity-shop clothes you have collected over the course of 60 years, tumble down and suffocate you to death.”
These harsh words scared me so much so that I agreed to a second date with the latest social degenerate I’d found myself acquainted with.
Despite the fact he was slightly shorter, slightly younger and was wearing high-top trainers suggestive of a secret boy crush on N-Dubz. But four pints later, we did sort of get on and so the second meeting was set.
To which he turned up wearing a bright green sweater with a picture of a tiger on the front, which was so small it would be better suited to a Build-a-Bear.
My first instinct was to make like Forest Gump, but I’d been spotted. So I stayed, and drank the pain away.
The next day, Robert’s onslaught still haunted me. So, attempting to overlook the fashion horrors that had passed, I considered the possibility of a third date.
Two days later, a text message: “Hello Ellie, hope you had a nice weekend. Just to let you know I don’t think we should see each other again, I’m not looking for anyone right now.”
Dropped
By a short boy
In a green tiger jumper
I had hit rock bottom. It was too late to reverse the years of relationship nonchalance and Robert’s wise words were already a self-fulfilled prophecy.
Destined to a life of smug married women looking at me with pity, issuing such patronising phrases as “aw, you’ll be next” and “you just haven’t found the right person yet.”
Pushing 30, the dust is fast settling and the biological clock is drowning out even the guy who laughed like a drain. I can empathise with geriatric cats in catteries everywhere, who look out with longing eyes at passers by, screaming “pick me, pick me.”
But no one ever will.
It took me a day to get over the sheer horror of the situation.
When I did I took solace from the fact that, with the UK divorce rate rocketing, before long the majority of the aforementioned smug wives will join me, slightly damaged, back on the shelf after discovering hotel receipts confirming their husband’s sordid affair with Debbie on reception.
A shell of their former selves through many wasted years of trying to “make things work” with the man they settled for, they will spend a decade regaining some sort of self-identity.
In the meantime, I will long be over the embarrassment of being ditched by tiger boy and, lesson learnt, have reverted back to fussiness, met my perfect match and the tables will turn.
My verdict?
It pays to be fussy.
There is no such thing as a perfect match unfortunately, you can still choose a good 'un without him being perfect.
ReplyDeleteWhirlwind romances rarely succeed, I think those that you work at end up having more love and longevity. So you can still be fussy but don't close your mind and just look for 'perfection' cos there ain't such a thing. Apart from you and I obviously.
Compromise is key, don't write someone off cos they may not be your 'type', I used to do that and what kind of man is still gonna be a skinny indie boy with a guitar in their 40's? And what kind of 'tard would want them to be? Unless you fancied Cain Dingle of course. Taste evolves over time and some things become bigger and more important than their favourite band or a particular hair style.
All this aside, a tiny green tiger jumper is quite frankly unforgiveable and the reason he texted you that message is cos he clearly realised that you were far too good for him and he had no chance.