My Rant

I'm fed up. I'm 27 and what am I currently faced with? Men who would rather text me than date me, men with girlfriend's in other cities. Men? Boys. I normally try and keep my rants about my flaws and not let it become about man-bashing, but recently the men in my life have left me with no other option.

I've just had my darkest, most epic experience of my Three Month Itch. I was so sure that this time it would be different that I revealed my anonymous blogging persona to my now Ex, laughed at it because I was certain the itch would not rear it's familiar head. We laughed together at the concept, and had plans long past my normal expiry date. Then, almost 3 months TO THE DAY, it happened. It was awful. I cannot tell you how foolish I felt, still feel seven weeks later. I don't think I've ever felt this betrayed or heartbroken, and I can do absolutely nothing.

So what is it? Do I suddenly, without realising, start banging on about babies or joint bank accounts? Does my smell change? (Something about pheremones...?) Do I put 3 stone on as a result of my happiness?

Maybe I do, but whatever it is, I'm going to find out. Because it just gets harder every time.

BUT....

I met Michael eight years ago at college. Well, on a plane to New York actually. A group of forty 17-20 year olds going to America on an A-Level Drama trip, which loosely translates to a group of randy 17-20 year olds galavanting around the city shopping and doing the occassional dance class.

It was February, it was snowing, we were in New York - this is the sober equivalent of beer goggles. Michael was tall, dark, hairy (we had matching Bear-like barnets) and carrying about three tyres of beautiful puppy fat around his middle. But he was so funny and had a nice face. I, of course, fancied him immediately. (His better looking friend had already opted for my better looking, blonde, friend)

I remember shamelessly engineering one blissful lap around the ice at the Rockefeller Centre where he held my hand. I made one of my girls snap a quick disposable shot before the moment was lost forever, and as quickly has he had taken it, Michael dropped my hand and slid off into the crowd after our one perfect circuit. Back at college we barely saw eachother, but I became very close to his better looking friend, and for the next eight years we got closer still. In that time I have always asked after Michael, always aware of what he is doing, where he is living - until March this year.

Finally we are both in the same place at the same time - he's single, I'm single, he's lost weight, I haven't. But my face has changed, I carry myself better, have more confidence. But most importantly we are here, in the same city. We spend the next Three Months getting to know eachother, properly this time. Adults sat in a bar comparing stories, comparing tattoos, work, family, loves. I've never felt so at ease with someone so quickly and been so truthful. There is always a certain amount of varnish used in those first crucial dates,

"Of course I love progressive drum and bass, I listen to it all the time...." , "Robin Hood Men In Tights?! No, I hate that film, Mel Brooks? Pah!! Deer Hunter is totally in my top 5...."

It's harmless, there's no shame in it! Little white lies not to conceal the truth but to...boost...yourself, boost the common ground. But none of this with Michael, no no. Real truths. Genuine, open, serious, silly, hilariously witty banter. Flirting.

I know he had not long been single, infact I became single at the same time as he did (another story), but it was so GOOD with Michael it made all the hurt and humiliation from the previous debacle melt away into a distant memory in the midst of this new effervescent conquest. It felt real, it felt like something this time.

Then THWACK, the Hardwood Floor. That old faithful, hitting my backside like a well used spanking paddle. He's not ready. He's not over his Ex. Aaaaah the Ex. "You're awesome, funny, the kind of woman I want to be with BUT..
BUT
BUT
BUT
There's no spark, it's the wrong timing."

Is it me, or is that the generic 'how to end you're relationship' get out ploy? 'It's not you it's me' rearing it's ugly familiar head once more. Now, if you ask me, I would rather be told that I am unfanciable, repulsive even (brutal, but fair..), than have the endles to-ing and fro-ing that is, "You're beautiful...But...", "You're amazing....But....", "You're everything I want...BUT..."

I'd much prefer that he said he couldn't get my Bear barnet circa 2003 out of his head and for this reason WE WILL NEVER WORK. I wish men (yes, I am being very general.) would realise that women aren't psychos out to trap a man, or force them to love us when they have already finished it. When you can't be honest and just draw a line under it with real reasoning, we will hang on for dear life until you TELL US. Properly. With no BUTS.

It's better than the emotional turmoil that comes from hearing, "I love you. But....".

The Diary - my explanation

Apparently, in 2002, I was under the grand illusion that I was Bridget Jones (Who couldn’t relate to her idiotic grasp of life and relationships?). I started writing a diary. Complete with ‘Weight’ and ‘Number of Cigarettes’ heading the pages of my shiny, new, extremely hippy-ish note book.  (Bought on Glastonbury high street no less, that grungy haven I used to escape to as a teenager. I was clearly serious about writing.) My optimistic first entry reads,

“Fab New Year’s Eve spent at an extremely rough pub in Glasto. Met all sorts of random hedgers, didn’t pull, so my wish of getting laid before the year was out was pushed out of the window.”

I think that night marked the beginning of a trend that has been my friend and foe ever since. Constantly confident and hopeful, pinning all my hopes on a brief moment. Only to be disappointed in the end.  It’s almost comforting, I can excuse each epic fail with reassurances of, “Oh I’m used to it, this ALWAYS happens”, “No, I know he thinks I’m awesome/witty/charming, but I totally get it, we are just meant to be friends”. I am now the Managing Director of the ‘Friend Zone’. I’ve earned my life time membership, got my gold star and have the pension scheme. But it also means I have male friends coming out of every orifice, and quite frankly it’s getting tedious. And the Same. Keeps. Happening.

I am an overly optimistic, idealistic kind of gal who builds things up to dizzying proportions, only to either royally fuck it all up myself (quite how I fuck it all up is what I’m trying to figure out) or until the beautiful, new Persian rug that I am so comfortably reclining on is abruptly pulled from beneath me causing me to crash loudly onto my hardwood floor.

This cycle has been churning away for the last ten years. The Dizzying Heights. The Comfortable Recline. The Hardwood Floor.

And generally this cycle takes about three months to churn.