Blonde gave me another prompt (eye of the storm) which I started writing about and then went off course. But the theme's in there somewhere, promise.
For someone who sends cards all year round for no particular reason, I'm surprised by the amount of effort it takes to buy, write and post them for Christmas.
But this year the effort seems necessary, because this was the year things changed.
It was the year that my friends and I grew up, just a little bit, with a wink: made lifelong commitments, created human beings, chucked it all in and went abroad; broke down, broke up, and realised as a few things crashed that right: so this is how life's going to go now.
So this year, there'll be cards: and it starts with me, in bed on a Saturday morning, making a list of names.
The list surprises me, and so it should: because throughout my childhood and teens, friendships were stormy things. Never calm for long, always a battle to maintain.
They were precarious, and worrying: something that could, and often would, be messed up at any moment (usually, it seemed, by me).
Almost no one on the list comes from my school days, which at one point might have seemed odd.
But now, it seems obvious: if you go to five different schools, you'll be constantly interrupting, re-jigging; trying to squeeze between friendships and groups that were, in that classic, cliquey, school-like way, already formed.
I wish someone had told me back then, in the middle of one of the storms, that I'd make the best of my friends at university, and at parties, and at work, into my late twenties and beyond.
That when people ask how we know each other, there'll be furrowed brows and longwinded explanations, of friends-of-friends and introductions here and there.
That when they arrive, the friendships won't end up fitting a defined shape, or group, or neat number at all.
That one day I'd make friends to get really, stupidly drunk with, who'll drive me home the next morning while I'm being sick into a plastic bag, and laugh when I say "see, this is how I know you're good mates, because I'm not even ashamed".
That I'll have friends that are strong minded and friends who speak up, and friends who I can honestly say "mate, you're being a complete nightmare"; and instead of it causing a storm (and I'll never quite shake the fear that it will) they'll say "I am, I am. And that's why I love you, because you'll always let me know".
That I'll make friends whose priorities will change from nights out to nappies, and whose lives might take a different direction to mine, but one day I'll sit on my bed and write a list with their names on and feel happy.
Because my main worry when it comes to friendships now, is remembering to post their cards.
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Tuesday, 22 December 2015
Friday, 2 October 2015
Love hurts
Preamble: The other day I listened to this series of podcast episiodes called Love Hurts in full. And then I decided to write to the woman who made it. My email ended up saying a lot of what I've wanted to say for a while, about being single, looking for love, not finding it, and how other people react to singleness - so here is a (heavily edited) part blog post / part email version here. A little disjointed as a result, but there you go.
I rarely feel compelled enough to write to people whose podcasts I've listened to, but I just stumbled upon the Love Hurts series Lea Thau did on the Strangers podcast, and it sucked me in.
It was uncomfortable and comfortable listening all at once.
She interviews past dates to find out why it didn't work out, talks to relationship experts, and exes, and discusses the question of dating and sex, and delves into her own past to try and answer to the question of why she's been single for so long, and the big one: Is It Me?
She interviews past dates to find out why it didn't work out, talks to relationship experts, and exes, and discusses the question of dating and sex, and delves into her own past to try and answer to the question of why she's been single for so long, and the big one: Is It Me?
What struck me most was the relief of hearing someone say out loud how embarrassing being single is, when so much time is spent pretending not to be ashamed about it - to couples, and other singles, to yourself.
It's something I wouldn't ever have admitted, and have never heard voiced by someone else - and yet I found myself thinking "yes, embarrassment. That's exactly how it feels."
It's something I wouldn't ever have admitted, and have never heard voiced by someone else - and yet I found myself thinking "yes, embarrassment. That's exactly how it feels."
If you've read this blog for any length of time, you might know I've been single for four years. You might have read what happened, and the ups and downs that followed; sparse as the posting has become.
Perhaps you've been supportive, perhaps you've longed for me to find The One each time I mentioned a date. Perhaps you've left a helpful comment saying I should be over my last relationship by now, that it's time to move on.
Whichever group you fall into, you'll know that I haven't really spent the last four years looking for love, exactly; more getting over the last one, being alright by myself, and trying to find what fits now.
And you might have gathered along the way that I'd rather be single than with someone for the sake of it. That I don't think there's much point in settling, or continuing to date someone who you know wants different things, or going on indiscriminate online dates, when there's a bigger world out there to explore.
But none of that changes the fact that I'd love to be in a relationship, and that often, admitting as much is a difficult thing to do.
Aside from anything else, we can all probably admit that the grass isn't greener over there in coupledom; but at 31, it's just a different, more socially acceptable field to be in.
Aside from anything else, we can all probably admit that the grass isn't greener over there in coupledom; but at 31, it's just a different, more socially acceptable field to be in.
Because yes, it can be brilliant being single, but it's also a mess of contradictions.
It's something your equally single friends want to maintain (at least, until they find someone themselves), and your coupled friends want to change.
It's something your equally single friends want to maintain (at least, until they find someone themselves), and your coupled friends want to change.
It means talking about how you feel, whether you're happy or not, and, of course, replying to the ever persistent questions about the men in your life and whether you're dating.
It means handling the lull in conversation, the flash of a concerned look, the reassuring noises, and the empty feeling that follows if the answer is "there's no one, and I'm not".
Being single means subjecting your life to analysis, and noting in comparison that people in relationships are rarely also asked at the dinner table "so, how are things with you two? Are you really happy?", when they're the ones, we're often told, who are not.
We are told that no relationship is perfect, yet they don't need to refer to the hard work involved and never have to admit what they would change, or what they perhaps miss - to be point where I assume it's just something that cannot, or should not be said.
It means handling the lull in conversation, the flash of a concerned look, the reassuring noises, and the empty feeling that follows if the answer is "there's no one, and I'm not".
Being single means subjecting your life to analysis, and noting in comparison that people in relationships are rarely also asked at the dinner table "so, how are things with you two? Are you really happy?", when they're the ones, we're often told, who are not.
We are told that no relationship is perfect, yet they don't need to refer to the hard work involved and never have to admit what they would change, or what they perhaps miss - to be point where I assume it's just something that cannot, or should not be said.
The fact remains: in January I will have been single for five years, and I will continue to feel embarrassed when saying the number out loud.
No matter how comfortable you are with being single, it gets harder and harder to reconcile yourself with it when everyone around you is so focused on finding someone, or marrying, or committing in some way.
No matter how comfortable you are with being single, it gets harder and harder to reconcile yourself with it when everyone around you is so focused on finding someone, or marrying, or committing in some way.
And this is in London: a city full of people like me. I live with two of them; we travel, we busy ourselves, we date, we have lots of friends.
But it feels increasingly like we're all treading water, waiting for someone to come along and change this status which isn't quite acceptable - long term, anyway - without that well known aside being whispered behind you.
Every situation has its ups and downs, and I was in the middle of a down period when I listened to this podcast last week. But instead of making me feel low, and more embarrassed, I felt reassured and absolutely ok.
But it feels increasingly like we're all treading water, waiting for someone to come along and change this status which isn't quite acceptable - long term, anyway - without that well known aside being whispered behind you.
Every situation has its ups and downs, and I was in the middle of a down period when I listened to this podcast last week. But instead of making me feel low, and more embarrassed, I felt reassured and absolutely ok.
I don't know many other people who've been single for 4+ years, so it just helped to hear someone else who has speak with so much honesty, and frankness, and bravery on the subject, in a way that I have never heard anyone else be.
Tuesday, 17 March 2015
Waking up
One day you just wake up and feel a bit better.
Not totally alright, but less like the world's already gone to pot before you've even opened your eyes.
Realising you don't feel as resolutely awful as you have been for the past few weeks - or even months - is like that morning when the sun rises before you do at the end of winter.
That little bit of light making lines on your bedroom wall means you've made it through the bleakest bit of the year.
Instead of shifting awake and having to lie there, trying to guess what time it is, and how long it'll be until your alarm goes off - is it 4am or 7am? - now you know it's daylight outside, and that means it's time to get up.
As the mornings get lighter (in every sense), so does your perspective on the situation.
It begins to feel less like a failure and more like another thing you'll look back on and see more and more holes in, either when the next one comes along, or before.
And more importantly, you know there probably will be a next one - that's something to look forward to now, too.
Either way, after months of your brain working overtime, you've made a decision to stop questioning yourself so much.
Just let stuff happen. Say yes, and see where it takes you.
Stop analysing, comparing, wondering what if this, or what if that - instead, just wake up each day, feel a bit better.
You'll work it out.
Not totally alright, but less like the world's already gone to pot before you've even opened your eyes.
Realising you don't feel as resolutely awful as you have been for the past few weeks - or even months - is like that morning when the sun rises before you do at the end of winter.
That little bit of light making lines on your bedroom wall means you've made it through the bleakest bit of the year.
Instead of shifting awake and having to lie there, trying to guess what time it is, and how long it'll be until your alarm goes off - is it 4am or 7am? - now you know it's daylight outside, and that means it's time to get up.
As the mornings get lighter (in every sense), so does your perspective on the situation.
It begins to feel less like a failure and more like another thing you'll look back on and see more and more holes in, either when the next one comes along, or before.
And more importantly, you know there probably will be a next one - that's something to look forward to now, too.
Either way, after months of your brain working overtime, you've made a decision to stop questioning yourself so much.
Just let stuff happen. Say yes, and see where it takes you.
Stop analysing, comparing, wondering what if this, or what if that - instead, just wake up each day, feel a bit better.
You'll work it out.
Monday, 16 February 2015
"I can't see a way this can work", he said
I cried the next morning when I woke up before my alarm, and then I cried in the shower.
I cried on the bus, looking out of the window.
I cried at my desk, really discreetly, and in the toilets at work.
I cried because I was frustrated, I cried because I felt sad.
I cried with a bit more volume and vigour when I got home that evening and no one was in, then I cried in the shower, put my make up on, did my hair, painted my nails and went out for dinner.
I almost cried in the restaurant, but we changed the subject just in time - and then I ordered another drink.
The next morning, I cried because of the radio silence; because I didn't have someone saying "hey, good morning, how are you?" and that was always quite nice to have until it wasn't there any more.
I cried when I looked in my kitchen cupboard and saw the honey I'd dared myself to buy, because I wanted to believe he'd be back, and he likes it.
I cried when someone was mean to me, and I cried because they didn't know. And I cried because I'd been mean first, and I hadn't meant to be, but when you're upset and tired things come out the wrong way.
Later that afternoon, someone approached my closed bedroom door with a tentative knock.
I cried, shaking my head, when she asked "Have you heard from him?", then I cried on her shoulder when she hopped up onto the bed with me and gave me a hug.
I cried when she said "no, it's not like starting again, because now you know what you want, for next time."
(I cried at the prospect of "next time")
I didn't cry when they made me leave the house and go for a walk, through east London Fields, down to Columbia Road and back, and the sun was shining and the dogs were out.
I realised I hadn't cried yesterday - and then I cried because I still felt exhausted, because I know it will get better and the tears will probably dry up soon.
But until then, I'm going to cry because this is how it goes, and this, in every sense of it, is normal.
I cried on the bus, looking out of the window.
I cried at my desk, really discreetly, and in the toilets at work.
I cried because I was frustrated, I cried because I felt sad.
I cried with a bit more volume and vigour when I got home that evening and no one was in, then I cried in the shower, put my make up on, did my hair, painted my nails and went out for dinner.
I almost cried in the restaurant, but we changed the subject just in time - and then I ordered another drink.
The next morning, I cried because of the radio silence; because I didn't have someone saying "hey, good morning, how are you?" and that was always quite nice to have until it wasn't there any more.
I cried when I looked in my kitchen cupboard and saw the honey I'd dared myself to buy, because I wanted to believe he'd be back, and he likes it.
I cried when someone was mean to me, and I cried because they didn't know. And I cried because I'd been mean first, and I hadn't meant to be, but when you're upset and tired things come out the wrong way.
Later that afternoon, someone approached my closed bedroom door with a tentative knock.
I cried, shaking my head, when she asked "Have you heard from him?", then I cried on her shoulder when she hopped up onto the bed with me and gave me a hug.
I cried when she said "no, it's not like starting again, because now you know what you want, for next time."
(I cried at the prospect of "next time")
I didn't cry when they made me leave the house and go for a walk, through east London Fields, down to Columbia Road and back, and the sun was shining and the dogs were out.
I realised I hadn't cried yesterday - and then I cried because I still felt exhausted, because I know it will get better and the tears will probably dry up soon.
But until then, I'm going to cry because this is how it goes, and this, in every sense of it, is normal.
Thursday, 29 January 2015
Flight mode
I don't know what's going on.
This is a hard thing for me to admit, and write down, and say out loud.
The last time I said it out loud was in a pub last week, and then I cried while my mate looked concerned and her boyfriend hugged me as their baby wiggled on his lap.
For some reason, it's embarrassing to admit when you think something has shifted, when you think something's amiss; not quite right.
It's embarrassing when you're surrounded by sure-footed single people, or friends in committed, straight forward relationships, it's embarrassing to admit you're in one that is uncertain.
It's embarrassing when you don't know, then you do, and actually forget what I said last time - it's all ok.
Or isn't.
Fuck it, you don't know.
Another thing that's hard for me to admit and write down, and say out loud, is that I sent a text the other day and watched my mood drift downwards as I imagined worse case scenarios until the only logical solution was to switch off my phone completely.
It's embarrassing because I used to pride myself on knowing what's going on, what I want - and now my sense of self-worth and the course of my day regularly hangs on someone else.
On this occasion, my mind whirled until precisely 4:35pm.
Take that, I thought, putting the phone into flight mode. You cannot get me here.
And when I think about it flight mode is an apt term: for it is in these moments - when everything I've known for the last four years is up in the air - that I want to flee.
When everything's uncertain, and I want to say "sod it" and shut it down, and go back to it being just me.
When the phone is off and I'm running in the opposite direction and doing my own thing again, it's almost a relief.
Imagine if I just knew I was single, I'd know what to do.
Flight mode is the safe one; it stays until I've managed to put myself into a better mood on my own.
And then I switch the phone back on, and the message arrives immediately, and then although I still don't know much - at least I do know I'll be ok.
This is a hard thing for me to admit, and write down, and say out loud.
The last time I said it out loud was in a pub last week, and then I cried while my mate looked concerned and her boyfriend hugged me as their baby wiggled on his lap.
For some reason, it's embarrassing to admit when you think something has shifted, when you think something's amiss; not quite right.
It's embarrassing when you're surrounded by sure-footed single people, or friends in committed, straight forward relationships, it's embarrassing to admit you're in one that is uncertain.
It's embarrassing when you don't know, then you do, and actually forget what I said last time - it's all ok.
Or isn't.
Fuck it, you don't know.
Another thing that's hard for me to admit and write down, and say out loud, is that I sent a text the other day and watched my mood drift downwards as I imagined worse case scenarios until the only logical solution was to switch off my phone completely.
It's embarrassing because I used to pride myself on knowing what's going on, what I want - and now my sense of self-worth and the course of my day regularly hangs on someone else.
On this occasion, my mind whirled until precisely 4:35pm.
Take that, I thought, putting the phone into flight mode. You cannot get me here.
And when I think about it flight mode is an apt term: for it is in these moments - when everything I've known for the last four years is up in the air - that I want to flee.
When everything's uncertain, and I want to say "sod it" and shut it down, and go back to it being just me.
When the phone is off and I'm running in the opposite direction and doing my own thing again, it's almost a relief.
Imagine if I just knew I was single, I'd know what to do.
Flight mode is the safe one; it stays until I've managed to put myself into a better mood on my own.
And then I switch the phone back on, and the message arrives immediately, and then although I still don't know much - at least I do know I'll be ok.
Monday, 15 December 2014
Middle of the bed
I've spent a lot of time over the last few years getting used to being ok by myself.
And by this, I don't mean tolerating singledom until the next bloke comes along - I mean actually, genuinely thinking "if it ended up being just me, that would be ok".
Some people get a bit weird hearing that; you can tell because nearly all of them see it as a cue to reassure me that this won't be the case, as if the single alternative to life would be a bad thing, or breakups never happen.
But if becoming ok on my own was difficult and took time, then blimey, learning to be with someone else again is another task entirely.
Over the last almost-four-years, I've honed the art of being self-sufficient, relying on myself and a brilliant group of friends for most things.
And now, little by little, I'm having to adjust to trusting someone else.
When will this end? I think to myself on a near weekly basis, when the text reply is a little late in coming and my mind jumps to the worst case scenario: he's lost interest, he's found someone else, he would rather not see me, he's going to cancel, he's going to let me down.
At times like that, there's no reassurance you can give me, because this is how it goes.
Or rather: it's how it's gone before. It's happened. And it's happened after one month, two, six, 18, it's happened after years with someone, it's happened after five dates or eight.
That's my experience, and as much as you always have to take people at face value, not let the past make you paranoid about what's coming up, and definitely not trot out that tired "I've been hurt before" line (everyone has by now, we're not 20 any more) - experience is what you tend to go on.
I expect to be let down by him in the same way that I expect phone calls or texts saying "Call me when you can" from my mother to bring bad, sometimes devestating news: because at one point, it seemed like they always did.
(The fact that she usually just wants someone to look after the dogs at the weekend is neither here nor there. I'm still like. "So, just the dogs? No one's died?" while relief settles across my chest.)
And I reassure myself with "whatever happens, you'll be alright anyway, you idiot", then he's at my door, or there at the station, or the reply comes and it's asking when he can see me again - and then all the panic goes away and I tell myself not to be a dick next time - and besides, I sort of knew all along that he would be there; there's a little hope I can't let myself assume to be fact quite yet, but I just need to see it for myself.
I'm having to get used to the fact that even something as simple as a bad night's sleep at my house doesn't mean he won't want to come back.
"I didn't sleep too well last time I was at yours" he said, "you like to get in the middle of the bed."
"That's because I'm not used to sharing it," I reply, "I'm sure I'll adapt..."
Like everything else, it'll probably just take a bit of time.
And by this, I don't mean tolerating singledom until the next bloke comes along - I mean actually, genuinely thinking "if it ended up being just me, that would be ok".
Some people get a bit weird hearing that; you can tell because nearly all of them see it as a cue to reassure me that this won't be the case, as if the single alternative to life would be a bad thing, or breakups never happen.
But if becoming ok on my own was difficult and took time, then blimey, learning to be with someone else again is another task entirely.
Over the last almost-four-years, I've honed the art of being self-sufficient, relying on myself and a brilliant group of friends for most things.
And now, little by little, I'm having to adjust to trusting someone else.
When will this end? I think to myself on a near weekly basis, when the text reply is a little late in coming and my mind jumps to the worst case scenario: he's lost interest, he's found someone else, he would rather not see me, he's going to cancel, he's going to let me down.
At times like that, there's no reassurance you can give me, because this is how it goes.
Or rather: it's how it's gone before. It's happened. And it's happened after one month, two, six, 18, it's happened after years with someone, it's happened after five dates or eight.
That's my experience, and as much as you always have to take people at face value, not let the past make you paranoid about what's coming up, and definitely not trot out that tired "I've been hurt before" line (everyone has by now, we're not 20 any more) - experience is what you tend to go on.
I expect to be let down by him in the same way that I expect phone calls or texts saying "Call me when you can" from my mother to bring bad, sometimes devestating news: because at one point, it seemed like they always did.
(The fact that she usually just wants someone to look after the dogs at the weekend is neither here nor there. I'm still like. "So, just the dogs? No one's died?" while relief settles across my chest.)
And I reassure myself with "whatever happens, you'll be alright anyway, you idiot", then he's at my door, or there at the station, or the reply comes and it's asking when he can see me again - and then all the panic goes away and I tell myself not to be a dick next time - and besides, I sort of knew all along that he would be there; there's a little hope I can't let myself assume to be fact quite yet, but I just need to see it for myself.
I'm having to get used to the fact that even something as simple as a bad night's sleep at my house doesn't mean he won't want to come back.
"I didn't sleep too well last time I was at yours" he said, "you like to get in the middle of the bed."
"That's because I'm not used to sharing it," I reply, "I'm sure I'll adapt..."
Like everything else, it'll probably just take a bit of time.
Thursday, 6 November 2014
A small little shift
The covers move beside me.
My eyes are shut - I'm only half awake but I'm listening. Unused to sharing my sleeping space, I wake up at every slight turn (although I pretend not to).
I'm facing the other way, identifying the sounds as they happen: he gets up, t-shirt goes on, picks something up. The door clicks. He walks out.
He pads to the kitchen, there's the faint sound of water running, then he's back.
There's a couple of gulps, then a gentle tap; glass on wood. He settles back, and I go to sleep.
It's a couple of hours later when I wake up, thirsty, squinting at my bedside table.
Then I'm so surprised that I sit up, and stare at the glass for what seems like a minute, but is probably less. I look at the sleeping form next to me, the half full glass on his side, then back to the previously empty glass on mine.
Huh.
It's a few hours later when we're both awake, and I'm wondering if, perhaps, I'd imagined it.
"Did you fill up my glass of water?" I say.
"Yep." he replies.
"Oh." I marvel, like he's just written a book and dedicated it to me, "Thank you."
And he won't know it, but in doing this small, unremarkable thing, there's just been a tiny shift in my brain.
I look at him differently now; this person who woke up thirsty, got himself a drink, and thought I might want one, too.
Some people might remember the day they got given flowers, or a piece of jewellery, received some grand gesture, or a kiss - but as that small, tiny, considerate act sticks with me even weeks later, I think, I will remember this.
My eyes are shut - I'm only half awake but I'm listening. Unused to sharing my sleeping space, I wake up at every slight turn (although I pretend not to).
I'm facing the other way, identifying the sounds as they happen: he gets up, t-shirt goes on, picks something up. The door clicks. He walks out.
He pads to the kitchen, there's the faint sound of water running, then he's back.
There's a couple of gulps, then a gentle tap; glass on wood. He settles back, and I go to sleep.
It's a couple of hours later when I wake up, thirsty, squinting at my bedside table.
Then I'm so surprised that I sit up, and stare at the glass for what seems like a minute, but is probably less. I look at the sleeping form next to me, the half full glass on his side, then back to the previously empty glass on mine.
Huh.
It's a few hours later when we're both awake, and I'm wondering if, perhaps, I'd imagined it.
"Did you fill up my glass of water?" I say.
"Yep." he replies.
"Oh." I marvel, like he's just written a book and dedicated it to me, "Thank you."
And he won't know it, but in doing this small, unremarkable thing, there's just been a tiny shift in my brain.
I look at him differently now; this person who woke up thirsty, got himself a drink, and thought I might want one, too.
Some people might remember the day they got given flowers, or a piece of jewellery, received some grand gesture, or a kiss - but as that small, tiny, considerate act sticks with me even weeks later, I think, I will remember this.
Monday, 22 September 2014
All the little places
I was 16 when I fell in an approximation of love for the first time.
At that age, I had no idea that there would be others after him. It was just all completely new, that rush of lovely reciprocated feelings, and because I didn't yet realise that boys who said they loved you might one day just... not, there were only good things ahead.
You fell in love once, and he had huge brown eyes, and we were going to be together forever, and that was that.
He was two years older than me - a frightening age gap in my mother's opinion - and she was suspicious, she later told me, because those huge brown eyes never met hers. But she had the good sense to let me find out for myself.
And then three weeks later when he ended it, my mum perched on the bed where I'd been laying in the dark silently crying for the past couple of hours, and comforted me. Then she said, "You didn't sleep with him, did you?" and quietly "Thank god." when I shook my head no.
This wasn't just my first initiaition into heartbreak, but the first time I realised it wasn't just people you had to get over, but places too. My bedroom used to be my bedroom, but now it was where me and him first stood there hugging and then slowly, tentatively, kissed.
The bench in the park where we'd walked my dog - the one with my initials and his scratched into the wood - no longer belonged to a London Borough Council, it was ours. And then, because it hurt to look at it, it was to be avoided at all costs.
The park is still there, the bench is too. Reclaimed by the council, the love for that brown eyed boy long gone and replaced ten times over.
But if I'm passing, I'll sometimes sit there and run my fingers along the seat trying to find a trace of the letters I carved with my house keys 14 years ago, feeling nothing except glad that although it hurt, it happened, and I learnt from it, and occasionally I'll wonder what he's doing now.
And sometimes, all that seems to have changed is my age, the men, and the locations: the more people I meet and get attached to, the more invisible flags get planted and fade all over London - some quicker than others.
Some places have a sort of magnetism about them; your eyes are automatically drawn to a doorway or corner, or a flat, a bus stop, and the conversations you had there pop into your mind, word for word.
The other day I crossed over to the side of a road that took me past a front door.
Not because I hoped to see him come out of it (although I armed myself by inwardly rehearsing our conversation just in case) but more because I'd been unconsciously refusing to go near it.
I'd been avoiding an entire side of a busy road I used most days, and now, I decided, I wanted it back.
Doing so triggered a little memory, and made my chest hurt for a second or two. I glanced at the door and no one came out of it, and then I carried on walking home.
But everything fades, and nowadays I know that soon I'll walk past that door and feel nothing but a vague curiosity; wondering a little bit about what he's up to, and what little flags will get planted next.
At that age, I had no idea that there would be others after him. It was just all completely new, that rush of lovely reciprocated feelings, and because I didn't yet realise that boys who said they loved you might one day just... not, there were only good things ahead.
You fell in love once, and he had huge brown eyes, and we were going to be together forever, and that was that.
He was two years older than me - a frightening age gap in my mother's opinion - and she was suspicious, she later told me, because those huge brown eyes never met hers. But she had the good sense to let me find out for myself.
And then three weeks later when he ended it, my mum perched on the bed where I'd been laying in the dark silently crying for the past couple of hours, and comforted me. Then she said, "You didn't sleep with him, did you?" and quietly "Thank god." when I shook my head no.
This wasn't just my first initiaition into heartbreak, but the first time I realised it wasn't just people you had to get over, but places too. My bedroom used to be my bedroom, but now it was where me and him first stood there hugging and then slowly, tentatively, kissed.
The bench in the park where we'd walked my dog - the one with my initials and his scratched into the wood - no longer belonged to a London Borough Council, it was ours. And then, because it hurt to look at it, it was to be avoided at all costs.
The park is still there, the bench is too. Reclaimed by the council, the love for that brown eyed boy long gone and replaced ten times over.
But if I'm passing, I'll sometimes sit there and run my fingers along the seat trying to find a trace of the letters I carved with my house keys 14 years ago, feeling nothing except glad that although it hurt, it happened, and I learnt from it, and occasionally I'll wonder what he's doing now.
And sometimes, all that seems to have changed is my age, the men, and the locations: the more people I meet and get attached to, the more invisible flags get planted and fade all over London - some quicker than others.
Some places have a sort of magnetism about them; your eyes are automatically drawn to a doorway or corner, or a flat, a bus stop, and the conversations you had there pop into your mind, word for word.
The other day I crossed over to the side of a road that took me past a front door.
Not because I hoped to see him come out of it (although I armed myself by inwardly rehearsing our conversation just in case) but more because I'd been unconsciously refusing to go near it.
I'd been avoiding an entire side of a busy road I used most days, and now, I decided, I wanted it back.
Doing so triggered a little memory, and made my chest hurt for a second or two. I glanced at the door and no one came out of it, and then I carried on walking home.
But everything fades, and nowadays I know that soon I'll walk past that door and feel nothing but a vague curiosity; wondering a little bit about what he's up to, and what little flags will get planted next.
Monday, 25 August 2014
Are we friends yet?
For the second time in as many weeks, my body reacted like it'd been given bad news.
My phone lit up on the desk at work, his name on the screen again, and my stomach dropped an inch or two. For gods sake, what now?
The rejection had dissipated slightly in the two weeks since his original message, the one that mowed down every cliché in the field: not looking for a relationship, would be amazing to still be friends, carry on hanging out more, etc, etc, etc. The next day, my reply had been calm and honest (fuelled only slightly by gin), explaining why friends couldn't happen: because I was hurt.
So now, knowing that my day was about to be disrupted by whatever he had to say, I carried on with what I was doing. Left it there unchecked for a while until I was ready: my day will not stop for you.
Eventually I looked at the message, and stared at it, all four words and a kiss.
Are we friends yet? X
It was just a thread, nothing more. And when you hang on to threads, you get dangled - and that wasn't about to happen again.
That didn't stop replies lining up in my mind for the best part of a week, covering every emotion from sarcastic, honest, angry, witty, to mildly humourous, none of which would ever be sent.
Then one week later at the tail end of a house party, the bit when you sit on the kitchen counter and chat about the world, a friend and I talked about me being single.
"I suspect it's the sort of bloke I'm attracted to", I said, "here's a good example."
Then I showed him the text messages, trying to explain this person I really liked and his sudden departure from my life, "...and then I got this."
My friend held my phone and looked at the final message, his eyebrows furrowed. "Who even does that?" he said, seemingly angry on my behalf.
Then, before I could do anything, he'd tapped twice on the keyboard and pressed send.
When I grabbed it back and looked down, there it was; the answer I'd never have sent.
The lines of communication officially closed and all threads cut with a simple word:
no
My phone lit up on the desk at work, his name on the screen again, and my stomach dropped an inch or two. For gods sake, what now?
The rejection had dissipated slightly in the two weeks since his original message, the one that mowed down every cliché in the field: not looking for a relationship, would be amazing to still be friends, carry on hanging out more, etc, etc, etc. The next day, my reply had been calm and honest (fuelled only slightly by gin), explaining why friends couldn't happen: because I was hurt.
So now, knowing that my day was about to be disrupted by whatever he had to say, I carried on with what I was doing. Left it there unchecked for a while until I was ready: my day will not stop for you.
Eventually I looked at the message, and stared at it, all four words and a kiss.
Are we friends yet? X
It was just a thread, nothing more. And when you hang on to threads, you get dangled - and that wasn't about to happen again.
That didn't stop replies lining up in my mind for the best part of a week, covering every emotion from sarcastic, honest, angry, witty, to mildly humourous, none of which would ever be sent.
Then one week later at the tail end of a house party, the bit when you sit on the kitchen counter and chat about the world, a friend and I talked about me being single.
"I suspect it's the sort of bloke I'm attracted to", I said, "here's a good example."
Then I showed him the text messages, trying to explain this person I really liked and his sudden departure from my life, "...and then I got this."
My friend held my phone and looked at the final message, his eyebrows furrowed. "Who even does that?" he said, seemingly angry on my behalf.
Then, before I could do anything, he'd tapped twice on the keyboard and pressed send.
When I grabbed it back and looked down, there it was; the answer I'd never have sent.
The lines of communication officially closed and all threads cut with a simple word:
no
Monday, 14 July 2014
This is all I know at the moment
If there was ever a way to press pause on a moment and bottle it, now would be the perfect time.
This is what's going through my head as I lie there fully clothed, the thumping hangover slowly worsening or abating, I can't tell which.
Hip hop plays low in the background. An arm slips around me, the other hand finds mine, and I bury my head in his neck.
"Bloody hell, I'm dying" I say, because the night before ended at 6am when daylight crept into the party, and only then was it time to go home.
This is what's going through my head as I lie there fully clothed, the thumping hangover slowly worsening or abating, I can't tell which.
Hip hop plays low in the background. An arm slips around me, the other hand finds mine, and I bury my head in his neck.
"Bloody hell, I'm dying" I say, because the night before ended at 6am when daylight crept into the party, and only then was it time to go home.
It was when I woke up later that morning that the text was there, asking if I wanted to come round that night.
"I can't do tonight, but do you fancy just being a hungover mess with me this afternoon?" I replied, because he'd had a big one too, and misery loves nothing more than company when it's only a short, slightly ropey, too-hot-for-this-hangover bus journey down the road.
I told no one where I was going; there was no one to tell anyway, but it felt nice to just disappear to his flat in the middle of the afternoon, pull down the blinds and forget about the outside world for a while.
In fact, I tell no one about any of it, save a few close people who know me well enough not to ask too much, and not to share the details they hear.
Because this is how dating seems to go; it's uncertain, it's fun, and it's mostly closing your eyes and storing this moment because you're not sure how it will turn out later.
And all I know is what experience tells me: that this - whatever it is - isn't ready to be labelled yet, won't be for a while, and doesn't need to be prodded in the way my friends would if they knew.
What would I say if the questions came? That it's not as terrifying as it was at the start, certainly; that he's 30% familiar, and 70% an unknown mystery, but we're working on that with every date.
Well, sort of.
"You're going to a desert island and can only have one soft drink and one alcoholic drink forever", he says, 'what you having?"
"Ribena. And a gin and tonic" I reply, "you?"
"Strawberry milkshake and a White Russian." he returns.
"Interesting. A milky choice there."
Then I turn around and he curls behind me, and all I know is that even with a hangover, this is a good place to be at the moment.
So with the important questions covered, for now, we nap.
Sunday, 22 June 2014
Changing states of mind
"If you like someone, you don't mind getting two texts in a row from them."
"Either do it now, or do it tomorrow."
"I think just do it now. No games. You want to see him, so just ask."
"God, I haven't seen you like this before."
My mind was in a state of flux.
It had been that way since the minute I'd woken up and brushed the button to light up my phone, ostensibly to see the time, but also to see whether there had been any deliveries overnight. And there hadn't.
Panic had set in.
"So he wanted to see you last night..."
"Yes. But it was late and too far so I suggested this afternoon and now nothing. Nothing. All day."
The feeling of all rational thought taking leave was an alien one. It was unsettling to seemingly have so much time, so much energy to devote to just one thing, one person, one bloody phone screen.
The highs and lows were disrupting the nice, level minded constant I'd put time and effort into building up. It was disconcerting. I was going nuts.
Right. What would you advise someone else in this situation?
This was the question I'd asked myself earlier on the bus, as I'd stared out of the window and envisaged a future that contained both the perfect and worst case scenarios in quick, altering succession.
I'd say you can't assume to know the motives or thoughts of someone you've known for just a week. I'd say it's hormones. I'd say what do you really know about this person? I'd say not everyone treats their phone like the messiah.
But really, I needed rational advice. I needed the real talk, the science, not the irritating "how exciting! No, but this is exciting!" exclamations of those who have been in relationships too long to remember the fear, the terror, the crippling insecurity of having feelings for someone you've known for only a week.
I needed Google.
How to stop yourself feeling completely crazy when...
When what? When you've known someone a week? When you've had a spectacularly good first date?
...you're on Facebook
...you're on your period
...you're falling in love
Google's last autocomplete threw me, and I stared at the results warily before clicking onto what I considered to be the most reputable. And then I read.
"Yeah, it's horrible." they agreed, "Bloody awful, liking someone. The worst."
"I know, it's so much easier when you don't care."
"Urgh, I feel for you."
Finally, I thought. People who understand.
After a while and a beer I realised that while you can't know someone else, you can know yourself. You can know how to allay your own fears - even the most startling irrational ones - or at least set them on the road to recovery.
Knowing that I'd taken the adult route, the direct route, would mean that even in the event of a Non Reply, I would feel better for trying.
I typed.
"[Full name]. Are you still free on Monday?"
It sent. It delivered. It sat there, under my last message, making my screen into a field of green.
You've known him a week. You'll get over it. Plus if he loses interest this quickly there's clearly something else going on and you do not need a problem child. Nope.
And the weird thing was, I started to feel better.
An hour passed, then two, and the strange feeling in my chest was returning to normal.
"I don't think I'll hear from him again. I think that's it", I said, as my housemate and I walked home from the park, ready for a night in.
We were mid way through unpacking a bag of shopping when my phone, discarded and in disgrace on the kitchen counter, lit up with a message.
"For you? Yes. X"
And then I fell into a state of relief.
"Either do it now, or do it tomorrow."
"I think just do it now. No games. You want to see him, so just ask."
"God, I haven't seen you like this before."
My mind was in a state of flux.
It had been that way since the minute I'd woken up and brushed the button to light up my phone, ostensibly to see the time, but also to see whether there had been any deliveries overnight. And there hadn't.
Panic had set in.
"So he wanted to see you last night..."
"Yes. But it was late and too far so I suggested this afternoon and now nothing. Nothing. All day."
The feeling of all rational thought taking leave was an alien one. It was unsettling to seemingly have so much time, so much energy to devote to just one thing, one person, one bloody phone screen.
The highs and lows were disrupting the nice, level minded constant I'd put time and effort into building up. It was disconcerting. I was going nuts.
Right. What would you advise someone else in this situation?
This was the question I'd asked myself earlier on the bus, as I'd stared out of the window and envisaged a future that contained both the perfect and worst case scenarios in quick, altering succession.
I'd say you can't assume to know the motives or thoughts of someone you've known for just a week. I'd say it's hormones. I'd say what do you really know about this person? I'd say not everyone treats their phone like the messiah.
But really, I needed rational advice. I needed the real talk, the science, not the irritating "how exciting! No, but this is exciting!" exclamations of those who have been in relationships too long to remember the fear, the terror, the crippling insecurity of having feelings for someone you've known for only a week.
I needed Google.
How to stop yourself feeling completely crazy when...
When what? When you've known someone a week? When you've had a spectacularly good first date?
...you're on Facebook
...you're on your period
...you're falling in love
Google's last autocomplete threw me, and I stared at the results warily before clicking onto what I considered to be the most reputable. And then I read.
"You are under the influence of your hormones that are making you feel, all at once, euphoric, endangered, and exhausted. You are adding a dating relationship to your normal, busy routine. This can make you more anxious than normal. This process can be threatening and make you feel unsafe."Science out of the way, I needed the reassurance from my perennially single, tell it like it is friends. I needed two gay mates and a housemate.
"Yeah, it's horrible." they agreed, "Bloody awful, liking someone. The worst."
"I know, it's so much easier when you don't care."
"Urgh, I feel for you."
Finally, I thought. People who understand.
After a while and a beer I realised that while you can't know someone else, you can know yourself. You can know how to allay your own fears - even the most startling irrational ones - or at least set them on the road to recovery.
Knowing that I'd taken the adult route, the direct route, would mean that even in the event of a Non Reply, I would feel better for trying.
I typed.
"[Full name]. Are you still free on Monday?"
It sent. It delivered. It sat there, under my last message, making my screen into a field of green.
You've known him a week. You'll get over it. Plus if he loses interest this quickly there's clearly something else going on and you do not need a problem child. Nope.
And the weird thing was, I started to feel better.
An hour passed, then two, and the strange feeling in my chest was returning to normal.
"I don't think I'll hear from him again. I think that's it", I said, as my housemate and I walked home from the park, ready for a night in.
We were mid way through unpacking a bag of shopping when my phone, discarded and in disgrace on the kitchen counter, lit up with a message.
"For you? Yes. X"
And then I fell into a state of relief.
Saturday, 29 March 2014
I don't know where to put you
I'd been wanting to see them live since first hearing the album back in 2010.
They'd been the accompaniment to my final months of travelling; me, my now Ex, and our ever present soundtrack of the same songs, in the same order, wherever we went.
Now the gig had finished, and our sentences were glazed with that post-live music wonderment - you know, when the encore's done, the lights go up and you walk out, down the stairs, onto the street and all you can say is oh, I loved that, that was so good.
"How did you hear about them?" my friend asked, and I told her how he'd been all over this stuff, we constantly listened to music, stayed up til 6am dancing to it - this was what we did.
"Not for ages," I replied, "Not since he was walking outside my old flat last year and I saw him, then completely forgot my housemate's name."
"But it's weird." I continued, as we walked among the throng of people heading to the nearest station, "usually I'll wonder how he is, and then he'll cycle past me at the bus stop or something."
"Alright, so you know he's still got legs. That's cool." and we laughed and I said, "Ha, yeah. I've been thinking about him a lot lately, just hoping he's ok. But I suppose you always do, don't you."
We got to the station and split up, her to go underground and me over. It was five minutes later when I was faced with a closed line, forced to retrace my steps back over the road and take a different route - such is the reliability of the London transport system.
As I placed my Oyster card on the reader and stepped through the barrier, at that precise moment and time at the overly busy station, some hair caught my eye, then trainers, then my brain pieced together all the different characteristics of this person in front of me.
And even though he hadn't turned around yet, I called his name because it was definitely him.
"Hello," I said, and I can't remember if we hugged.
"Hello" he replied, "how are you?"
"This is weird, that you're here", and of course he'd been to the same gig.
Then we walked down the escalator, onto the same tube, where we placed ourselves by the doors on one side of the carriage and his friends on the other, sometimes glancing our way.
There we stood as the tube rattled from one side of London to the other, catching up, carefully skirting topics, asking after people and family and jobs and travels; vaguely referencing a time we can't talk about here, like this; occasional silences where we looked at each other, smiled a bit and didn't know what to say next.
We reached the barriers at the other side and he hung back, waiting for his friends so they could get food.
We hugged. A goodbye, a good to see you, a quick, distant utterance of I'll text you or something and a Yeah, do thrown over my shoulder in case I'd misheard, or hadn't, and then I walked up towards the concourse at Liverpool Street Station.
--------------
Days later, the chance meeting sticks in my mind.
He's back there in my head, of course, because he always is anyway. It's fate, or chance, or I could bump into him at any time or place and it would seem as though I'd always just thought of him that moment.
With this one, there's no box to put him in. I don't know where he's meant to go. Everything fits, and nothing does at all.
He's just there, and, as long as we live in the same city, on the same road, and listen to the same music, I suppose he always will be.
Thursday, 21 November 2013
On the defensive
It rankles every time.
"I can just see you being so happy with someone."
The same phrase, always delivered with a note of longing in the voice, as if true happiness could not be achieved any other way.
This time, the call for my coupled happiness comes from a person wearing a ring of intent on one hand and holding the keys to a new, jointly owned flat in the other.
I let them finish, taking a moment before replying.
I sip my beer.
Normally this call for my coupled happiness would be positively bashed away, because being single is brilliant for a lot of reasons, but mostly for all the reasons being in a relationship is not.
Allowing anyone to think otherwise quickly results in a pitying look and the words, "don't worry, you'll find someone soon. It always happens when you least expect it. Let's see, who do we know?"
(Not, "Well, maybe you'll feel better about it tomorrow.")
But this time the call for my coupled happiness comes during a week when I haven't been very happy at all; a week when its felt like life would, if nothing else, just be a bit bloody easier if it was shared with someone else.
"But I am happy," I finally respond, lying through my defensive teeth. "It's just a different sort of happy. I've been extremely happy in relationships, and I've been extremely happy single. I know what's possible either way."
And, I stop myself from adding, this isn't a choice.
The next day, clicking through page after page of potential places to call home, the adverts, the bare and furnished rooms, I think back to the call for my coupled happiness, and run the situation through in reverse.
"I can just see you being so happy on your own" I'd say, delivering the words with my head tilted to one side, a note of concern in my voice.
Perhaps the words would be received the morning after a huge argument, when the air's still thick with shared, temporary resentment.
Perhaps they'd push away any possibility that I might be right, that happiness is just a breakup away.
Perhaps they'd get defensive too.
"I can just see you being so happy with someone."
The same phrase, always delivered with a note of longing in the voice, as if true happiness could not be achieved any other way.
This time, the call for my coupled happiness comes from a person wearing a ring of intent on one hand and holding the keys to a new, jointly owned flat in the other.
I let them finish, taking a moment before replying.
I sip my beer.
Normally this call for my coupled happiness would be positively bashed away, because being single is brilliant for a lot of reasons, but mostly for all the reasons being in a relationship is not.
Allowing anyone to think otherwise quickly results in a pitying look and the words, "don't worry, you'll find someone soon. It always happens when you least expect it. Let's see, who do we know?"
(Not, "Well, maybe you'll feel better about it tomorrow.")
But this time the call for my coupled happiness comes during a week when I haven't been very happy at all; a week when its felt like life would, if nothing else, just be a bit bloody easier if it was shared with someone else.
"But I am happy," I finally respond, lying through my defensive teeth. "It's just a different sort of happy. I've been extremely happy in relationships, and I've been extremely happy single. I know what's possible either way."
And, I stop myself from adding, this isn't a choice.
The next day, clicking through page after page of potential places to call home, the adverts, the bare and furnished rooms, I think back to the call for my coupled happiness, and run the situation through in reverse.
"I can just see you being so happy on your own" I'd say, delivering the words with my head tilted to one side, a note of concern in my voice.
Perhaps the words would be received the morning after a huge argument, when the air's still thick with shared, temporary resentment.
Perhaps they'd push away any possibility that I might be right, that happiness is just a breakup away.
Perhaps they'd get defensive too.
Monday, 7 October 2013
Things in common
Feet cross, uncross and cross again under the table. Fingers repeatedly trace the sides of a cold glass, and words spill from my mouth in an unfamiliar, slightly awkward way.
It transpires - as it has done on previous occasions - that we have a lot in common. Alcohol precludes the memory of what exactly those things are, and it seems rude to ask for the details again.
But where there's a will, there's a way.
"Oh, so what did you do when you worked on Oxford Street? Same thing?"
"Yep. Still engineering, just for a different company."
Aha, you think, engineer.
The similarities are ticked off as they emerge, and I'm pleasantly surprised: grew up in the same area, agree with the same principles, watch the same TV series, like the same films.
He drops in the name of a book he's just finished reading, and it's by the same author whose work lies half read on my own bedroom floor.
I wait for the stars to align, for the dopamine, the serotonin and the hormones to fire across my brain.
Instead, another thought crosses my mind: did he see the book there on Saturday? Was there time between the kiss and him leaving to glance at the detritus of my room and store the name?
It's the sort of thing I'd do, and after all, we do have a lot in common.
And ah, Saturday: when a cab home after a big group outing had seemed better than the bus. When alcohol, politeness, things in common, the flattery of attention and a recent decision to give good people a chance had concluded in him sitting next to me on the sofa with a glass of fizzy water.
I'm nothing if not a good host.
(In truth, I'd expected the cab to drive on with him in it - but no matter. He's here now.)
Then as the sun had threatened to rise after 5am, an unnecessary apology seemed necessary.
"I'm sorry" I'd said, after we'd kissed because he was in my room and probably expecting to stay there, and he liked me and I said I'd try these things more, and we had a lot in common. "But I think I want to sleep on my own tonight. Is that ok? Perhaps we could go for a drink or something though?"
And he'd said "Yes, absolutely, no problem, I'd really like that" and left with the promise of a date and my phone number.
So then here we are on a Thursday in a West End pub: me, him and our common ground illuminated in the full glare of the rising house lights.
He walks me to the bus stop and we wait for our respective numbers to arrive.
He's nice, I think, as the bus pulls away after a kiss - on the cheek this time. And we have a lot in common.
But when you think back and consider the sparks, mutual attraction and excitement, and the alternative - being happily single with the world to play for - things in common, no matter how hard you try, just never seems enough.
It transpires - as it has done on previous occasions - that we have a lot in common. Alcohol precludes the memory of what exactly those things are, and it seems rude to ask for the details again.
But where there's a will, there's a way.
"Oh, so what did you do when you worked on Oxford Street? Same thing?"
"Yep. Still engineering, just for a different company."
Aha, you think, engineer.
The similarities are ticked off as they emerge, and I'm pleasantly surprised: grew up in the same area, agree with the same principles, watch the same TV series, like the same films.
He drops in the name of a book he's just finished reading, and it's by the same author whose work lies half read on my own bedroom floor.
I wait for the stars to align, for the dopamine, the serotonin and the hormones to fire across my brain.
Instead, another thought crosses my mind: did he see the book there on Saturday? Was there time between the kiss and him leaving to glance at the detritus of my room and store the name?
It's the sort of thing I'd do, and after all, we do have a lot in common.
And ah, Saturday: when a cab home after a big group outing had seemed better than the bus. When alcohol, politeness, things in common, the flattery of attention and a recent decision to give good people a chance had concluded in him sitting next to me on the sofa with a glass of fizzy water.
I'm nothing if not a good host.
(In truth, I'd expected the cab to drive on with him in it - but no matter. He's here now.)
Then as the sun had threatened to rise after 5am, an unnecessary apology seemed necessary.
"I'm sorry" I'd said, after we'd kissed because he was in my room and probably expecting to stay there, and he liked me and I said I'd try these things more, and we had a lot in common. "But I think I want to sleep on my own tonight. Is that ok? Perhaps we could go for a drink or something though?"
And he'd said "Yes, absolutely, no problem, I'd really like that" and left with the promise of a date and my phone number.
So then here we are on a Thursday in a West End pub: me, him and our common ground illuminated in the full glare of the rising house lights.
He walks me to the bus stop and we wait for our respective numbers to arrive.
He's nice, I think, as the bus pulls away after a kiss - on the cheek this time. And we have a lot in common.
But when you think back and consider the sparks, mutual attraction and excitement, and the alternative - being happily single with the world to play for - things in common, no matter how hard you try, just never seems enough.
Sunday, 18 August 2013
Keeping it simple
The text messages had sparked up again, his intent still anything but clear - an attempt to be friends, an appeal for advice (why mine?), the proposing of a date or merely gaging my interest? My patience was up.
Again.
Simplicity seemed elusive in my own dating life and in those of my friends. But still, on a rooftop bar one Sunday evening, the questions continued.
"Maybe things are different now" I ventured, aware that the last people willing to call themselves my boyfriend slunk away in 2008 and 2011; the carefree days of my early to mid twenties. Who could say what issues beset the relationship landscape two years on?
Not me.
The Shard winked at us from across the city, and we winced at the sunshine and the prices next to each drink on the menu.
"I don't know." I continued. "Maybe once you get to your late 20s, 30s and beyond, things just aren't as straight forward any more."
It was a conclusion that had come while recounting my own confusion and listening to the stories of others: tales where ambiguity, intense feelings, and a very apparent fear of commitment seemed to be recurring themes.
But through it all, a thought remained: if things aren't still as simple as two people wanting to be with each other now, end of - when you're childless, mortgage-less and haven't got ceremonies and certificates binding you together - when will they be? Is that too idealistic, or do we really need to be giving these problem-boys a chance?
These days it seems like we're stuck on conundrums that weren't there before: do we waste time working at something, or accept the signs and move on? Or in real terms, if a thirty year old man still communicates in riddles and emoticons now, is it worth sticking around and hoping he'll grow out of it?
The cocktails arrived and we took a sip each. A beautiful girl opposite was crying into her Mojito, and our own drinks sweated onto the glass table while London stretched out around us.
"Well, part of me doesn't want to give up on the relationship, because we clearly have something. And part of me doesn't want to waste any more time if it's not going anywhere." my friend said with a sigh.
"I get that, but still think it should be an easy choice to make - whether you want to be with someone or not - at least to begin with. Anyway, I'm hardly one to talk. Maybe this is just how it is."
We sat in contemplative silence and she slipped off to the toilet. I flicked through my own puzzle of text messages, yep - still confused, and then checked my email inbox.
One message received, it read. An old colleague continuing a brief, lighthearted conversation from a day or two before.
Well anyway, when you get back from holiday - would you like to go for a drink?
Or perhaps, I thought, sending a response in the affirmative along with my phone number, there's a chance things could still be simple after all.
Tuesday, 23 July 2013
The perilous truth about being dangled
We have this thing, a little signal.
Thumb touching the middle and forefingers, hand held up, fingers pointing down doing a side-to-side motion for a couple of seconds.
"You're dangling him" I said, doing the sign. "He really likes you, and you don't feel the same. So you're dangling."
"But I like him and want to be his friend."
"Then don't sleep with him."
"Fair point."
It was the kind of honest conversation we're used to having; the sort that cuts through the bullshit. And this, my friends, was the sort of bullshit I'd come to know well.
It's a fact that dangling in any situation is dangerous (cliffs, windowsills, by feet - anywhere), but never more so than when it's done with someone's heart.
Because dangling is neither here nor there. It's perhaps, maybe and I don't know what I want, but in the meantime, I'll have you.
It's occasionally, when it suits - and then it's good, so you hang on a little bit longer. But then it's back to not right now, but yeah, stay around while I decide and texts - so many texts - most enthusiastically sent post 10pm, when alcohol has a bigger part to play than anything else.
Above all, being dangled is tough on the resolve, and it wears you down.
Excuses come thick and fast. Well, he must like you because... But in truth, you're a snap of attention when they need it, the one who'll definitely respond, and you'd recognise it happening to anyone else but yourself.
PIB did the signal to me two months before the realisation finally struck: that you can only be treated a certain way when you allow it to happen.
Being dangled is a choice.
"He's dangling you," she said, not for the first time, as we walked through the back roads of Old Street a couple of weeks back. "For whatever reason, and I'm sure he's a nice chap - but he's not being fair."
And the penny dropped - again, not for the first time - but on this occasion the resolve not to be a half measure stuck.
One text went unanswered. Two, three, four.
And then, finally, silence - save for a little, disappointed sigh.
Thumb touching the middle and forefingers, hand held up, fingers pointing down doing a side-to-side motion for a couple of seconds.
"You're dangling him" I said, doing the sign. "He really likes you, and you don't feel the same. So you're dangling."
"But I like him and want to be his friend."
"Then don't sleep with him."
"Fair point."
It was the kind of honest conversation we're used to having; the sort that cuts through the bullshit. And this, my friends, was the sort of bullshit I'd come to know well.
It's a fact that dangling in any situation is dangerous (cliffs, windowsills, by feet - anywhere), but never more so than when it's done with someone's heart.
Because dangling is neither here nor there. It's perhaps, maybe and I don't know what I want, but in the meantime, I'll have you.
It's occasionally, when it suits - and then it's good, so you hang on a little bit longer. But then it's back to not right now, but yeah, stay around while I decide and texts - so many texts - most enthusiastically sent post 10pm, when alcohol has a bigger part to play than anything else.
Above all, being dangled is tough on the resolve, and it wears you down.
Excuses come thick and fast. Well, he must like you because... But in truth, you're a snap of attention when they need it, the one who'll definitely respond, and you'd recognise it happening to anyone else but yourself.
PIB did the signal to me two months before the realisation finally struck: that you can only be treated a certain way when you allow it to happen.
Being dangled is a choice.
"He's dangling you," she said, not for the first time, as we walked through the back roads of Old Street a couple of weeks back. "For whatever reason, and I'm sure he's a nice chap - but he's not being fair."
And the penny dropped - again, not for the first time - but on this occasion the resolve not to be a half measure stuck.
One text went unanswered. Two, three, four.
And then, finally, silence - save for a little, disappointed sigh.
Wednesday, 20 March 2013
Writing as incentive
The ability to write can get you a lot of things.
It can earn you money, gain you confidence, give you friends, put things in perspective and, well, it's a far more affordable option than therapy.
Armed with a pen or a keyboard, a bad day takes on an amusing slant instead of a painful edge, amazing experiences once articulated are never forgotten, and break-ups change from being the end of a story, to the beginning of one.
But more than all that, writing can be the push you need to do something you otherwise wouldn't.
In fact, it's amazing what can be achieved when you apply the logic "well, if it all goes tits up, at least I can write about it anyway".
Which is sort of the reason that when the fourth date* had yet to be arranged and my ridiculous girl-brain was doing somersaults - on which note, it's always those already in relationships who tell you how exciting dating is, only the rest of us know the terrifying truth - that I decided to stop waiting, and ask the question myself.
And because the path of dating never did run smooth, and the response or lack of it would have to go in writing either way and because, ultimately, everything is copy, I wrote:
...and pressed send.
So that's how today's story ended, with a fourth date arranged and some lessons learnt:
1) When in doubt, do it anyway, 2) Never underestimate the power of words, and 3) where possible, always use the word "boobs".
*Yeah, I skipped a few. Sorry.
It can earn you money, gain you confidence, give you friends, put things in perspective and, well, it's a far more affordable option than therapy.
Armed with a pen or a keyboard, a bad day takes on an amusing slant instead of a painful edge, amazing experiences once articulated are never forgotten, and break-ups change from being the end of a story, to the beginning of one.
But more than all that, writing can be the push you need to do something you otherwise wouldn't.
In fact, it's amazing what can be achieved when you apply the logic "well, if it all goes tits up, at least I can write about it anyway".
Which is sort of the reason that when the fourth date* had yet to be arranged and my ridiculous girl-brain was doing somersaults - on which note, it's always those already in relationships who tell you how exciting dating is, only the rest of us know the terrifying truth - that I decided to stop waiting, and ask the question myself.
And because the path of dating never did run smooth, and the response or lack of it would have to go in writing either way and because, ultimately, everything is copy, I wrote:
So am I ever going to see you again, or is that it now you've seen my boobs?
...and pressed send.
So that's how today's story ended, with a fourth date arranged and some lessons learnt:
1) When in doubt, do it anyway, 2) Never underestimate the power of words, and 3) where possible, always use the word "boobs".
*Yeah, I skipped a few. Sorry.
Monday, 4 March 2013
First Date(s)
Try a thing you haven’t done three times. Once, to get over the fear of doing it. Twice, to learn how to do it. And a third time to figure out whether you like it or not.
- Virgil Thomson
When you've been single for a while, you inevitably forget things.
You forget associations you once held; with places, activities and routines, you forget the spoken nuances that were once familiar: words, phrases, nicknames and in-jokes. Then finally, after what feels like far too bloody long, joy of joys - you forget why you were even with someone in the first place.
(That last bit's well good.)
Other things get forgotten too if you allow yourself enough time: what a heart flutter feels like, the nervous expectation of a text message, or the simple comfort of being physically and emotionally concerned with someone else.
And if you've spent your singleness occasionally arranging and then cancelling dates because something just doesn't feel right, or experiencing flashes of attraction that fade into nothing when the sun comes up, you're also likely to forget something else: the unmitigated terror of going on a first date.
You forget the process of choosing what to wear, and the nerves of picking the right place to meet; of getting it just right (not too busy, not too quiet, not too expensive, not too cheap, not too weird, no strippers, and a fire exit out the back - just in case).
You forget how you're meant to greet a person for the first time when there's the pretense of maybe, perhaps, something more happening between you than friendship, and the appropriate way to say goodbye when the end of the night comes and you suspect that might be the case - hug? Kiss on one cheek? Two? Lips? Handshake?
Then, after the event - you'll wonder how you still managed to get it wrong even after all that thought.
The texts once you're both home - well, you've probably forgotten how they're supposed to start and end too, and you forget how to infer "I like you, let's arrange another" without putting yourself out on a limb and saying exactly that.
Above all, after too long spent panicking about the prospect of dates and all they mean, you forget how nice it feels to be excited about seeing someone again.
But, you think, as you check your phone again and allow your mind to wonder a bit, like most forgotten things, you'll probably pick it all up again fairly quickly - given the chance.
Monday, 18 February 2013
Alright, not bad, good, better, best mate
I was mid-whisk, giving my kitchen, face and clothes a liberal coating of pancake batter when she ran over and broke the news.
"New York is happening!"
"NOOOOO"
"Well, hopefully."
"NOOOOOOOOOOO. NOOOOOOO. No you may not."
PiB is, of course, used to my protestations about her long term travel plans. Having warned her off Australia ("God no. You don't want to go there. The spiders are HUGE"), Singapore ("Forget it. You'd drop litter when you're drunk and get arrested") and Dubai ("Love, they're very strict about nudity"), this time she seems more determined than ever to move Stateside ("No! Freezing in the winter, boiling in the summer. No good for the work ethic.")
The problem, of course, is not that she wouldn't cope admirably faced with any of the above. No, no - the girl can turn up late to a flight and still get upgraded to First Class.
Really, it's all down to the fact that I'd have to cope without her.
The "best mate" thing always seemed like a bit of a myth when I was growing up; a term placed upon any number of fleeting presences over the years. At one point, I'd have said I had a few - but, placed against the perilous landscape of my mid to late twenties - I now I realise they were merely "good", not best.
You know when you've got a best mate when, after a bit of pleading, they change their mind about accompanying you to a party - even though they're hungover to the point of dying and can think of nothing worse. "Oh, go on then. I'll come", they'll call you back and say, "But you better have some bacon for breakfast."
Best mates can count on each other to be plus ones to weddings, saving them from sitting next to an empty chair at a fully coupled table. "This is my lady-date!" she'll declare, and won't even blink when she later walks into the hotel room to find you lying in your underwear with a large bag of Pick 'n' Mix balanced on your stomach, absolutely hammered, laughing at the TV.
"What?!" you'll say, mouth full of jelly beans.
"Nothing. I'm going to have a bath" she'll reply.
"Well, don't lock the door in case you bloody fall asleep."
(A best mate knows that she always falls asleep.)
A best mate will pick you up off the floor whether it's alcohol, high heels or heartbreak that put you there. She'll take you to shops you can't afford, hand you a glass of champagne procured from a sales assistant, and then march you up to the make-up counter issuing instructions such as "she needs Dandelion. NOW."
In fact, she'll always drop everything (or at least bring him along) when the call comes. Even if that call comes on a second date across the other side of London, because "no, you're not OK".
You know you've got a best mate when you can predict the nature of their problem by the time of the phone call (9-11am = job / boy woes. 12-2pm = a catch up. 10pm-9am = drunk and teary).
What's more, a proper best mate knows the good blokes are few and far between, and the bad ones are to be prevented from causing more hurt, preferably by declaring "well, you can't sleep with the little bastard tonight, motherfucker. Because I'm going to pass out in your bed" (yes, she thanked me the next day).
"Look," I said later, picking pancake out of my hair last week, "It sounds amazing. And of course I'll support you wherever you go..."
"Aw, thanks."
"...But I will be doing my utmost in the meantime to make sure you don't."
"Oh. Thanks."
A best mate is always welcome.
"New York is happening!"
"NOOOOO"
"Well, hopefully."
"NOOOOOOOOOOO. NOOOOOOO. No you may not."
PiB is, of course, used to my protestations about her long term travel plans. Having warned her off Australia ("God no. You don't want to go there. The spiders are HUGE"), Singapore ("Forget it. You'd drop litter when you're drunk and get arrested") and Dubai ("Love, they're very strict about nudity"), this time she seems more determined than ever to move Stateside ("No! Freezing in the winter, boiling in the summer. No good for the work ethic.")
The problem, of course, is not that she wouldn't cope admirably faced with any of the above. No, no - the girl can turn up late to a flight and still get upgraded to First Class.
Really, it's all down to the fact that I'd have to cope without her.
The "best mate" thing always seemed like a bit of a myth when I was growing up; a term placed upon any number of fleeting presences over the years. At one point, I'd have said I had a few - but, placed against the perilous landscape of my mid to late twenties - I now I realise they were merely "good", not best.
You know when you've got a best mate when, after a bit of pleading, they change their mind about accompanying you to a party - even though they're hungover to the point of dying and can think of nothing worse. "Oh, go on then. I'll come", they'll call you back and say, "But you better have some bacon for breakfast."
Best mates can count on each other to be plus ones to weddings, saving them from sitting next to an empty chair at a fully coupled table. "This is my lady-date!" she'll declare, and won't even blink when she later walks into the hotel room to find you lying in your underwear with a large bag of Pick 'n' Mix balanced on your stomach, absolutely hammered, laughing at the TV.
"What?!" you'll say, mouth full of jelly beans.
"Nothing. I'm going to have a bath" she'll reply.
"Well, don't lock the door in case you bloody fall asleep."
(A best mate knows that she always falls asleep.)
A best mate will pick you up off the floor whether it's alcohol, high heels or heartbreak that put you there. She'll take you to shops you can't afford, hand you a glass of champagne procured from a sales assistant, and then march you up to the make-up counter issuing instructions such as "she needs Dandelion. NOW."
In fact, she'll always drop everything (or at least bring him along) when the call comes. Even if that call comes on a second date across the other side of London, because "no, you're not OK".
You know you've got a best mate when you can predict the nature of their problem by the time of the phone call (9-11am = job / boy woes. 12-2pm = a catch up. 10pm-9am = drunk and teary).
What's more, a proper best mate knows the good blokes are few and far between, and the bad ones are to be prevented from causing more hurt, preferably by declaring "well, you can't sleep with the little bastard tonight, motherfucker. Because I'm going to pass out in your bed" (yes, she thanked me the next day).
"Look," I said later, picking pancake out of my hair last week, "It sounds amazing. And of course I'll support you wherever you go..."
"Aw, thanks."
"...But I will be doing my utmost in the meantime to make sure you don't."
"Oh. Thanks."
A best mate is always welcome.
Monday, 17 December 2012
No, how are you?
When we bump into each other every Sunday and you say we must meet up, are you actually meaning it, or are you just being polite?
The text message left my phone and marked itself as delivered. His response pinged back a few minutes later.
I do mean it, I've just been busy and I wasn't sure if you wanted to see me any more. How are you anyway?
And so eventually the day came when our diaries converged; three months after silence last descended. We sat opposite each other in a cafe between our two houses late one Saturday morning. My food arrived and as I lifted the fork to my lips, and chewed, nausea rose in my stomach.
"Urgh. I'm struggling a bit this morning. Do you want it?" I pushed my food to him.
"Yeah alright. Late night?"
"Early morning." I conceded.
It's then I pinpointed what I missed; the ease of it all. The ability to be so hungover you nearly vomit the next day and he just rolls his eyes and reminds you of the last time he held your hair back after a particularly heavy night in Vegas.
We laugh.We get on. We always have.
We talk and walk, taking in our local area. We catch up, we talk about how he's doing; his new exercise regime which is keeping the demons away. We don't touch on where he went for those months, why he went quiet. We hug and leave each other hours later; him with a promise of meeting again soon, me with a glimmer of hope.
I'm more surprised than I probably should be when my text message a couple of days later goes unanswered.
***
He's still lurking in my mind two weeks on, when myself and PIB are seated in a restaurant eating lunch.
Talk turns to ex-boyfriends, and the cycle of getting over someone. The protracted, long, drawn out process which is made infinitely harder when you still get on with them, when you often bump into them in the street each weekend and when, despite your efforts, you still can't let the barriers down for anyone else.
"Have you ever told him what he's done to you?" she asked, placing her fork to one side. "That he basically completely shattered your trust in everyone? Yes, he had a breakdown. Yes, he had depression. But what about you? You'll always protect him, because that's what we do. We protect boys like him because we don't want to hurt them. We mother them, tell them these huge things they did don't matter. But they do matter, and he's selfish, and he doesn't know how you are, which..." she paused and I felt tears fill my eyes, "...isn't too good, at the moment."
Which is strange, I thought, because that's exactly what my instinct said after three minutes in his company that day, a flash of innate knowledge that was later clouded by familiarity and hope.
The omission of a single question.
No. This isn't going to work because he hasn't asked how I am yet.
He'll never ask how I am, except to be polite. He doesn't want to know. And that's probably why he goes off the radar. He's protecting himself, and he always will do.
"Besides" the PIB said, resuming her lunch. "Regardless of anything that happens, I'd still kick him in the balls."
And sometimes, in a world where people are often just being polite, I think that's probably the best course of action.
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