Tales from the Dating Front Line

“Can I ask you a question?”

Um.  Sure.  Just make it quick, I’m on my way home to pack for my holiday.  On second thoughts…

“How do you cycle in high heels?”

I’m wearing heels, sure.  But these are sensible for me, a mere two inches, and they even have a wide base, and lace up.

“Er. I put them into the toe clips and away I go…”

He’s caught me when I’m leaving the council offices, and I have no real choice but to walk with him as we both depart, hopefully soon to go our separate ways.

In the 200 meters between the exit and my bike, I’ve found out he looks after his mother; he’s the youngest son; he used to do martial arts but never really got into that “athletics stuff”; he smokes; and he’s an Actor.  Fleee!  Another aspiring actor!

He hangs around my bike as I unchain it, and continues to talk at me.  He tells me I’m striking, and I have a Good Energy; I’m a phoenix, a sign of rebirth; how he’s going through a rebirth himself at the moment; how he was a family man and that’s what ruined his acting career the first time, and how it consequently ruined his family life, although he’s a Good Father.  How he now has an opportunity to make a new life.

I end up giving him my real name and phone number just to get rid of him.

He kisses me goodbye, on both cheeks.  Then hugs me tight - argh! I’m English!  I can barely touch friends, let alone strangers!

He tells me we have a lot to catch up on when I get back off holiday - the only time I got a chance to talk I hastily told him I was too busy for a drink tonight, and might not even be able to answer his texts because I was going away tomorrow.  He suggests we start running together.  Tells me he has a really good therapist who’s helping him to quit smoking.

He kisses me twice again, as I edge away.  This time, the second is alarmingly close to my lips.

I get on the bike, hoping to be a lot less subtle about fleeing.  He tells me he wants to watch me ride away.

He asks if I’m married, and I foolishly tell him the truth - I am not married.  He says he hopes it will happen for me one day.  Maybe he and I are destined, maybe he’s the one I’m waiting for, maybe if we got married we’d live happily ever after. I tell him I’m seeing someone, and he says he is too, but it’s just practice.

Then he kisses me twice again, the last very definitely aiming for my lips, which I sidestep at the last second, narrowly avoiding falling off my bike.

I cycle away as fast as I can, given I’m on the pavement next to the council building and there’s a traffic warden just itching to dish out some sort of penalty to me, despite the lack of car.

At the next junction, he catches up with me, and I have to ride in front of a car to get away.

I went straight home, and the first thing I did was wash my face.  Three times.  

With bleach.

I went shopping for a car.  I should have thought of this earlier - what better place to meet guys?  You have the sales guys falling over backwards to serve you, and men of all ages looking for things they shouldn’t really own.

The sales guy I was dealing with was quite cute - tall, built, great voice.  Sadly the first second thing I noticed was the wedding ring.

After window-shopping for cars and guys, I finally got back to my poor, soon-to-be ex, the MX5.  And there’s a note under the wiper.

Living in London, my initial thought was terror - even parked on private property it’s not safe from evil traffic wardens!  I calm myself down, assuming it was a notification that the car had been valued (at approximately three pound fifty seven pence).

But no.  I’d pulled.

It was the phone number of the guy who valued my car, and a note requesting that I get in touch for a drink some time.

I was so flattered, I very nearly texted him to say “Thank you for the compliment, but I’m <insert excuse here>”.

But I didn’t, I threw it away a week later.

I get chatting to a tall, handsome Italian at the bar.  OK, a friend forces me to start chatting to him, because otherwise I would never have managed it.

Turns out the guy works at Abercrombie & Fitch, and although that place is in darkness most of the time they still have certain standards on the appearance of their employees.  Also turns out they don’t pay their people very much.  So I offer to buy him a drink (get me, the generous girl-about-town).

Whilst waiting - for an age - for the barman to pay attention to us (I don’t think he took kindly to the peremptory way the Italian snapped his fingers at him), he asks me how old I am.  Now, I’m all for cutting to the chase, but this is a bit up-front for me.  I consider lying, or skirting the question.  But I decide if it means that much to him, I’ll probably save a lot of time by simply telling the truth.  So I do.

He walks away from me, and doesn’t even wait for his drink.  

Seems that cute, poor, Italian boys aren’t interested in women with well-paid jobs that are 13 years older than them.

His loss.

I was dating this guy.

He romanced me in a foreign city, and we continued back on home ground.  I was promoted to being his plus one at events.  Then we were spending weekends together.  We even talked about shopping for home furnishings together.

And I started having strange emotions.  Instead of trying to be what he might want me to be, I wanted to be me.  To show him all the different parts of my personality.  To really open up to him, let him in like I hadn’t let anyone in for a while.  I wrote him e-mails trying to explain how I felt, because I couldn’t do it face to face yet. I saved the e-mails in draft for the right time to send them.

One day, during this tumultuous time, he invites me out to dinner.  Sits me down.  Takes my hand….

And dumps me.

It’s OK.  After a couple of years, I got over it.  

I still have the e-mails in my drafts folder though.

My Twat Attract seems to be fully engaged at the moment.  All the wrong sorts of men are crawling out of the woodwork of my past to contact me.

The sad thing is, I’m not turning them down.

When a guy wants to meet you for “a drink” after he’s finished with his other evening commitments, and he makes the effort to turn up but doesn’t arrive until after last orders, it’s not drinking he’s interested in…

I met a cute guy!

He’s not wearing a wedding ring.

We got on like a house on fire.

…

His mate asked me out for a drink the next morning.  

Two very different men.

Two nights.

One weekend.

One happy lady.

“You bored me

With your stories

I can’t believe that I endured you 

For as long as I did”

Well, I guess your experiences are to learn from.  I remember breaking up with this one and my ever-supportive, ever-caring best friend (who I am still very close to despite having gone through a LOT of men since then) saying to me “Don’t worry, it’s normal to fall out of love with people”.

I found it impossible to explain to her at the time that I’d never loved him.  I tolerated him, I craved him, but I never loved him.  Although I’d miss him when he wasn’t there, every time he walked in the room I remember my heart sinking: “Oh.  It’s you.”

And when my concerned mother asked me why on earth we were together, my answer was “there’s no-one better”.

Eventually I finished with him (for the third time - why can I never make the first time stick?).  When he realised it was really over, he confessed that he was planning to “make the arrangement more permanent” at my next birthday.

How terrifying! Someone I purposefully picked fights with; who annoyed me with every move, every word he said; who I had spent the last 18 months trying desperately to push away, not only didn’t notice the hints but thought we were perfect for each other.

No wonder I find dating tricky.

PS Favourite memory: aforementioned best friend being violently ill in his BMW when he took her home from a comic relief wine tasting night on campus.  No, don’t feel sorry for him - he gatecrashed our girly night out, he deserved it for turning up unexpectedly and standing aloof and sober when we’d pre-planned a big night out for all four of us girls.

I’ve been dating this guy for a few weeks (don’t get excited, this is an old story).

He seems terribly keen to tell me his ex girlfriend has been chasing him a lot.  I’m not interested, this is not a competitive sport for me.  I won’t rise to the bait and remind him of my virtues over hers, that’s up to him.

“She’s lost loads of weight too!”.

“That’s daft,” I say. “It’s not like you dumped her because she was fat.”

“Well actually…”

What, really???

I should’ve broken it off right then.