I cycled home, tired and a bit grumpy and as puffed my way up a hill, I noticed a gang of hooded youths on the corner. I had to go past them to get home.
“Great”, I thought “Now I’ll get some rude remarks just to make my day”.
But instead, one of them pronounced, very loudly “That woman there, on the bike, has a great arse”.
Stunned, I puffed “thanks” and carried on homewards.
Notes to self:
Relationships are always a tricky balance of compromise and one of the more thorny subjects for me is social independence. Whilst of course it’s essential that you can go out and have fun as a couple and with your friends, I also think it’s crucial to have some social life outside the relationship.
The French Ex would have been delighted if we never saw anyone but each other ever again. I felt suffocated by this endless togetherness and missed my friends and my independence.
About once a month (after protracted painful negotiations) I was allowed out with the girls and I felt liberated. We talked rot, drank wine and laughed. The flip side was that he felt vulnerable and threatened by me doing so. All the reassurance in the world couldn’t convince him that a) I was faithful and b) there are few things less attractive to men than a group of loud, pissed women telling raucous stories. Inevitably, my desire for independence won and we split up.
English Ex was the opposite - to my great delight he was not only happy for me to continue seeing my friends, but encouraged it. He too had lots of friends, parties and things to do. We pursued our (mostly independent) social lives with single-minded singleton vigour, and though we lived together, we only saw each other at a party over the weekend and then on Monday or Tuesday evenings, both tired and slightly grumpy. Inevitably (isn’t hindsight a wonderful thing? It didn’t seem inevitable at the time), we lost our way. An excess of independence took over from our sense of inter-dependence, of being a team, of being together.
Perhaps my striving for independence is related to my unintentional commitment-phobia and my dislike of feeling vulnerable and exposed. Maybe.
Tall Tom and I are trying to strike a careful balance. He works so hard during the week that social life is out and at weekends also wants to see his friends. Part of me thinks it’ll be easier when we get to the stage of being able to mix seeing friends with seeing each other, but then I remember that that’s the mistake I made with English Ex. Dedicated time together is essential. So diary management, unromantic as it sounds, seems like the way forward at the moment. Oh, and a lot of cycling - he lives on the far side of London to me.
Tall Tom is a star. He’s kind, interesting, intelligent and fun. We chat about everything and nothing for hours on end and beyond the contentment, there’s a very definite spark of mutual attraction.
I want to grin at him the entire time but have to resist for fear of seeming an utter nutter. I look across at him and my stomach does little jigs.
*LG is off to do a little jig round the room at the thought*
Tall Tom is due to come to my flat for supper tomorrow for the first time since our first date. Inevitably, this evening has been mostly spent folding, tidying, baking and other general domesticity (I realise this probably counts as false advertising but hey).
So having wasted lots of time on all this stuff he probably won’t notice (he is a bloke, after all), I now have left myself not much time for the thing he will notice. The outfit. Or the cleavage thereof.
Rats.
I’m off to throw my clothes over the floor and try to find the perfect solution. This is when I need Cat to live round the corner as my wardrobe advisor.
I love friends. They are marvellous, marvellous, things.
I arrived at the pub in a foul mood. Full of ranting grumpiness about office politics, ridiculous objectives and frankly impossible people. The girls laughed good-naturedly and cheered me out of my sulk.
So it wasn’t long before we returned to our normal Rowdy Girl good humour (and sans the usual bulk quantities of white wine too - wonders will never cease). As an aside, I was (inevitably) quizzed about Tall Tom and I gushed a little, but didn’t want to tempt fate by outlining in great detail all his wondrous qualities.
Anyway, full of beans, I sang all the way home on my bike. Folk in my part of London are now no doubt telling their families about a nutter they just heard belting out dodgy pop songs, slightly out of tune and out of breath.
I cycle, lots. And fair distances (50-100 miles a week). Cycling that far leads to kit:Cycling shorts, helmet, gloves, neon stripes, clippy/cloppy shoes etc. None of which is attractive, sadly (show me a woman who looks hot in cycling shorts and I’ll show you someone I hate).
It’s really cold at the moment too, so there are additional comedy accessories - the warm headband. The woolly socks. Yes, yes, I know. You’re getting a really good picture as to why I’m single. But seriously, sporting attire is just that. Sporting. It need never mix with dating. I don’t cycle on dates after all and friends are used to the normal-to-nerd transformation at the end of the night.
But Sod’s Law just HAD to kick in, didn’t it? So tonight, on the way home, I cycled past Pointless. Yep, the very hot man I dated a year ago. Now it’s not that I want him back (he was too hot and too not bothered by me and anyway I have met the lovely Tall Tom) but I would like him to think I am attractive.
Now he’s just thanking his lucky stars for a narrow escape, no doubt.
I’m confused.
We had a great weekend. Some fun, some domesticity and several long chats. All quite grown up behaviour. And I find myself wondering whether it’s too grown up? (And therefore boring?). Certainly sobriety has brought a (previously rarely seen) sensible vein of decision making. Tired? Go to bed. Previously of course the answer would have been another drink and go dancing anyway.
But I digress. I like him. Lots. This part delights me and part scares the crap out of me. I know the theory (hell I’ve dated enough to write a damn thesis on the subject) that you have to just throw yourself into it and hope for the best, but it’s terrifying.
I’m trying to convince myself that if it doesn’t work out that it’s not necessarily a reflection on me, but could just be a compatibility issue (while on the subject of compatibility, am I boring not to see the joys of Drum & Bass?).
I know that I’m less likely to go with the flow than I would have been two years ago, so all the more reason to try to convince myself not to over-analyse him, his behaviour and us.
Tis bloody hard though.
Any tips?
Hi Gorgeous,
Read your profile and I just had to reply.
Please have a look at my photo and tell me if you are
interested.
I am very different and unique, was fostered
by scottish and irish people and was born and bred in
norf london. I am very different to all other men on this
thing as you will read from my profile.A bit about myself to get you going :
Currently working in accounts, central london, got my own
flat in north london where if feel like staying in watch
horror and comedys stuff.
Going out to pubs / clubs. Favourite passion is old skool
hardcore / rave / jungle music from the early 90’s as
well as new drum & bass, bit of DJ as well.
Love freeking out on the floor.Sports, usually badmington or swimming, not into the
football ting.
Eating out, its gotta be the traditional english “chicken
tikka masala with mint sauce” as well as the sunday
roast.I’ve had 4 dates on this thing and they all have been
rubbish, but funny.
The first one had a moustache (did not see the photo b4
meeting up), the second one was a gold digger (champagne,
i want more champagne, please honey). The 3rd one was
asian with a strict family, she wanted to meet in secret
and i was not up for that.
The 4th one, she wanted an asian guy but when she met me
she said i was too light in colour, she wanted someone
darker, i mean how fussy can you get, can you believe it,
i was not paki enough for her, hillarious…..Right, i think thats enough, don’t wanna waffle and put
you to sleep.
If you like what you have read, mail me back on here.
Would you consider coming out with me for a drink ?Cheers
Aran
x
I am feeling faintly foolish, but happy. Tall Tom emailed this afternoon, explaining that he’s been working 18 hour days this week and apologising that this has meant our communication’s been a bit off [LG feels v.guilty at this point for having had such negative thoughts].
Tom then went on to say he’s really looking forward to seeing me tomorrow and asked if I’d like to stay over on Sunday night too to make up for not having caught up this week. [LG grins like a loon at this point at the prospect of so much time with him].
Tom is officially a very good bloke.
LG is officially a panic merchant.
Ooops.
I’m off out with Married Mum tonight - this will be the toughest test yet of my no-booze-in-January resolve.
Reading all the comments on the previous post has made me realise I’m acting like a neurotic madwoman. Sorry. The combined effects of
have made me a not particularly balanced individual. But better I rant to you, though, than to him, right?
Thank you! You are a marvellous lot.
