It’s funny that I should have chosen last week to write a story about a lovely romance that went knockers up.
Funny because about 24 hours after I posted that blog, I found myself in a similar situation. Except this one did not end with me staring at my phone wondering what the hell was wrong with me; it ended with me bumbling along a street in Recoleta smiling like Bridget Jones the morning after she’s been rogered by Daniel Cleaver. (If you don’t know exactly the smile I mean then you cannot ever have seen the film and are therefore weird. That Smile is my man-liking benchmark. If I’m doing That Smile after saying goodbye to him then it is good news. If not; forget it.)
The worst of it is, friends, that I find myself unable to write about it. The reason? I’m afraid it’s that I like him. I don’t think I can spill the beans. This has not happened to me since I commenced this blog although I always wondered what would happen if it did.
Oh dear. Oh arses! I am letting you down in the worst possible way! Forgive me, friends!
To write a dating blog one must rather compromise one’s moral standards, else there would be nothing to write about. Mostly, the men I’ve dated since writing this blog have been so terrible that I felt only a fleeting moment of guilt as I told you about their face-clutching antics, their alternative clothing and the girlfriends that they forgot to mention when they set up the date. Blimey, there’s been criminals, poshos, runts and all manner of weirdos. I’ve changed their names, jobs, places of residence and any other details that might make them recognisable, I’ve said a short prayer asking forgiveness and then, without any further hesitation, I’ve committed their awfulness to a blog.
But I can’t with this one. I just can’t. He arranged for me to have a bubble bath for the first time in four months. He brought me breakfast in bed. He came to check I was safe after I popped home to get a jumper because I was cold. He even tolerated my foul mouth and tendency to belch in public.
And all of those little things aside, he was basically just really awesome.
Anyway after four days he has now left town to go on some insane-sounding mission on a mountain with his work. There is a very high chance that I will never see him again. And yet I find myself really very calm about the whole thing. I’m not tormented by what-ifs or this-is-really-f*cking-unfair or anything of that ilk; I’m just sort of cruising along thinking oh, right, that was nice. Jolly good.
Am I growing up? It’s unlikely. More probable is the fact that I have just accepted that I will never meet anyone. Or that if I do it won’t work out. I’m not here for romance, after all. Maybe my brain sort of knows that.
But if I change my mind, I at least have options: one of my English students told me today that he thinks I have great breasts, so I at least have him to fall back on. Ideal! And a particularly touching compliment from a man who’s got a pretty good pair himself.
Oh and in other news I am going to the South American Bagpipe playing Championship this weekend. Just so you know.