IT’S one thing finding someone to love, it’s a completely different thing making sure they are worthy of it, and that you’ll get some in return.
I’ve unwittingly set a standard when it comes to my favourite ex that no one can possibly live up to. He’s perched up there on his pedestal of perfection, crushing anyone who comes near the summit with a single blow.
I go through stages of just loving him as friend and knowing that anything more may ruin our close relationship; to believing I’ll never love anyone as much as him and missing him so much that I actually physically hurt.
But it’s a losing battle because I’ll never broach the subject with him, because I don’t know how he feels, and I’d rather not know, than know he doesn’t.
That’s not to say if someone else came along that I wouldn’t try to break the hold — they just haven’t yet.
I would like to share with you a story which just goes to prove that some things, and some people, are just too good to be true.
I gave up quite quickly on my foray into online dating — doomed as it was from the beginning when my profile was rejected.
But the friend who introduced me to this phenomenon has lasted a little bit longer. Already she has been on several dates; some memorable, some completely forgettable.
“Tall, athletic build, Bruce Willis look-a-like. Enjoys Aikedo, salsa dancing, and the countryside,” said the profile.
Impressed by the information, she eagerly contacted ‘Bruce’ to find out more.
Unfortunately, he replied with a photo attached, confirming that he was not the tall, strapping rambler she had in mind.
This poor chap obviously thought because he was bald meant that he looked like the Die Hard star, and, as my friend so eloquently put it: “In his world I would be justified in saying I was an exact clone of Angelina Jolie.”
His athleticism also caused criticism: “He probably thinks being able to down 20 pints in a row is considered an Olympic sport.”
Before that there was Mike, who at first seemed charming and lovely. However, after she told him it probably wasn’t meant to be, his true Gwen Taylor-loving self was exposed, and my friend’s inbox was soon full with emails proclaiming his undying love for both of them; her letterbox with signed photos and memorabilia of the ‘Barbara’ star. At the last update, he was giving out her email address for character references. She thought it best not to reply.
I think from now on she will stick to profiles with photos, if she’s going to stick with online dating at all.
I was tempted to remind her that if there was a tall athletic Bruce Willis look-a-like looking for love, he probably wouldn’t have to look far, and especially not on a dating website.
Finding failure instead of love in front of a computer screen, I decided to return to the manual method of meeting people face to face; there has to be someone that even comes close to the pedestal perching perfect one out there?
On my first ‘research trip’ I bumped into someone I held a certain level of affection for. Nice-looking, affluent, single and asking for my number, he bought me a drink, and asked me if we could get together sometime.
He was definitely too good to be true. When he did finally get in touch, it was for a favour. People like me just don’t get people like him.
Take a left in the minefield of love and dating, and you will find yourself taking a PhD in Sod’s Law.
My ‘Angelina’ was with her last boyfriend for a whole 18 months and didn’t need a partner for anything the whole time. Now, faced with a wedding next year she’s on the look out for a plus one ‘preferably male and good looking’.
However, she was slightly miffed to find that the bride has not only presumed she is single at the moment, and will be unattached at this time next year, but automatically presumed she would be using her gay male friend as a straight pretender. Not that she herself hadn’t already considered it, it was just entirely different for someone else to.
It would however be returning a favour: a few years ago, she spent the whole evening acting as his girlfriend for a night out with his unsuspecting parents.
We both seem to have no problem attracting men — they’re just the wrong ones.
On a recent weekend away, another friend and I met two lovely men. They were charming, friendly, funny, and attentive. They saw we were two girls from out of town and came over to introduce themselves and make sure we were enjoying ourselves.
It’s just a pity that they were both in their seventies, and took the seats that the next group of attractive young men coming in the door could have filled.
I’m a grade ‘A’ flirt and I’m enjoying practising these skills with unsuspecting randoms at the moment, not getting into anything serious, but rather enjoying myself and getting much needed male attention at the same time.
The only problem is I’m still being crushed my crush, just waiting for the day that he either tells me he loves me, or loves someone else.
But I’ll survive until then. I’ve practically lived my whole life with one unrequited love or another. And in the words of JM Barrie: “Let no one who loves be unhappy. Even love unreturned has its rainbow.”
And I’ve certainly led a colourful life up until now.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Half empty, or half fool
FOR WEBSITE READERS ONLY
WHENEVER I see reports of binge drinking females in the news, I always have a smug little chuckle to myself, and think ‘thank goodness I’m not as bad as that’.
After my shenanigans of last weekend, now I’m not so sure.
No matter how inebriated I have been in the past, I’ve always remembered what I’ve said and done, albeit sometimes with a little help from my equally sorry friends. Mostly, it’s things I’d rather have forgotten.
I’m now faced with the dilemma that there’s still at least two hours and four conversations I know nothing about, and probably never will.
Ten and a half hours of alcohol resulted in my automatic homing device kicking in and me seeing far too much of my newly bought pine toilet seat.
The main culprit of my unsteady demise was the free alcohol laid on at a corporate do, which had a midday kick off. Add to this a heavy lunch, with a side order of school day reminiscence.
If only I’d stayed in the same company for the remainder of the day; I probably would have been home long before I was, but I had a prior engagement with a group who were only cracking open their first refreshments at 9pm.
Instead of thinking, ‘I’d better stop now’, I joined them and continued at their pace, forgetting I already had an eight and a half hour lead on them.
During the evening I discovered beer goggles really do exist. I also tried out lesser known brands of wine goggles, vodka goggles and apple liqueur goggles. I was strutting around with my hair down thinking I looked perfect, when in fact the reality was more like Rick Parfitt.
I never want to feel like that again. Four days later while I am writing this, I’m still feeling the effects.
The morning after the night before, I tried to piece together the jigsaw, ashamed and uncertain about my behaviour. I woke up not knowing what I’d said and done, how I got home and where I’d been, and I’ve got to the point where I don’t really want to hear any more.
All I wanted to do was sleep, but I was stuck in that restless kind of mode, that you want to get up and do things but when you try you can’t move.
After updating my nearest and dearest on my whereabouts and wellbeing (or not so in this case), I got a window of movement and grabbed it.
In the five minutes it took me to get to my friend’s house it had worn off and from then on I felt rubbish again.
Anything I ate or drank just sat in my stomach, waiting for a way out. I think I can safely say I will never be bulimic. It just sat and sat and sat.
Despite nearly dropping off all day, sleep evaded me that night. The few hours I got was full of dreams about a giant inflatable Screwball Scramble game in the middle of a lake; the same lake that then had giant submarines in, and the one that I was dancing in fully-clothed with a young and very attractive long-haired man in front of a Scottish castle. The reason I know it was Scottish was because it was purple. Don’t ask, I don’t know.
In the days following, we all sat around dissecting the evening, having a laugh about just how bad we were, and it would have been funny if the conversation didn’t keep coming back to me.
I feel I was very lucky, that all I came away with was a dodgy belly and a sore toe. There are so many other young women who disappear from their group of friends, and never come back.
There are dangers in binge drinking, but I think the biggest problem is self control, of which I seem to have very little. Like Zammo, I’ll just say no in future. We always say ‘never again’ but I really think I mean it this time.
I’m going to test the ‘I don’t need drink to have a good time’ theory; one I have held with high regard for a while, but not actually put in place of late.
No, but seriously.
WHENEVER I see reports of binge drinking females in the news, I always have a smug little chuckle to myself, and think ‘thank goodness I’m not as bad as that’.
After my shenanigans of last weekend, now I’m not so sure.
No matter how inebriated I have been in the past, I’ve always remembered what I’ve said and done, albeit sometimes with a little help from my equally sorry friends. Mostly, it’s things I’d rather have forgotten.
I’m now faced with the dilemma that there’s still at least two hours and four conversations I know nothing about, and probably never will.
Ten and a half hours of alcohol resulted in my automatic homing device kicking in and me seeing far too much of my newly bought pine toilet seat.
The main culprit of my unsteady demise was the free alcohol laid on at a corporate do, which had a midday kick off. Add to this a heavy lunch, with a side order of school day reminiscence.
If only I’d stayed in the same company for the remainder of the day; I probably would have been home long before I was, but I had a prior engagement with a group who were only cracking open their first refreshments at 9pm.
Instead of thinking, ‘I’d better stop now’, I joined them and continued at their pace, forgetting I already had an eight and a half hour lead on them.
During the evening I discovered beer goggles really do exist. I also tried out lesser known brands of wine goggles, vodka goggles and apple liqueur goggles. I was strutting around with my hair down thinking I looked perfect, when in fact the reality was more like Rick Parfitt.
I never want to feel like that again. Four days later while I am writing this, I’m still feeling the effects.
The morning after the night before, I tried to piece together the jigsaw, ashamed and uncertain about my behaviour. I woke up not knowing what I’d said and done, how I got home and where I’d been, and I’ve got to the point where I don’t really want to hear any more.
All I wanted to do was sleep, but I was stuck in that restless kind of mode, that you want to get up and do things but when you try you can’t move.
After updating my nearest and dearest on my whereabouts and wellbeing (or not so in this case), I got a window of movement and grabbed it.
In the five minutes it took me to get to my friend’s house it had worn off and from then on I felt rubbish again.
Anything I ate or drank just sat in my stomach, waiting for a way out. I think I can safely say I will never be bulimic. It just sat and sat and sat.
Despite nearly dropping off all day, sleep evaded me that night. The few hours I got was full of dreams about a giant inflatable Screwball Scramble game in the middle of a lake; the same lake that then had giant submarines in, and the one that I was dancing in fully-clothed with a young and very attractive long-haired man in front of a Scottish castle. The reason I know it was Scottish was because it was purple. Don’t ask, I don’t know.
In the days following, we all sat around dissecting the evening, having a laugh about just how bad we were, and it would have been funny if the conversation didn’t keep coming back to me.
I feel I was very lucky, that all I came away with was a dodgy belly and a sore toe. There are so many other young women who disappear from their group of friends, and never come back.
There are dangers in binge drinking, but I think the biggest problem is self control, of which I seem to have very little. Like Zammo, I’ll just say no in future. We always say ‘never again’ but I really think I mean it this time.
I’m going to test the ‘I don’t need drink to have a good time’ theory; one I have held with high regard for a while, but not actually put in place of late.
No, but seriously.
