So it appears, in the game of dating, I am actually my own worst enemy. Again.
A while ago, a distant acquaintance of mine updated his status with a rather brash statement simply saying ‘Can’t Commit For Shit.’ After I had finished my eye-rolling and general ranting about how ‘typical’ this was of him to display that so proudly for all to see, I actually started thinking about it, it wasn't long before I came to the rather hideous conclusion that and me and him may not be so different after all. Here’s my thinking…
There is a Bob, a lovely Bob with whom my path crossed on an impromptu night out in Angel just before my holiday. There is an impending date, once we’re over my holiday and then his accident at work and then something about some riots going on across London in its entirety! We met weeks ago, impending doesn’t even begin to cover it.
He is so-called Bob, simply, because he is a builder. He’s tall, beardy, very very attractive in a very very Miss Musing kind of way – if Tom Meighan had procreated with Ryan Dunne, he may well have been the outcome. He writes, he has his own house, is quite the entrepreneur and loves music and fashion. In short, without detailing the immense texting between us, he’s a little bit like the male version of me, only with more financial stability, more facial hair and, perhaps, more sense. Plus, he is older and seems to think I’m someone quite special, yes, finally I am fraternising with mature male company (hear that bump? That’s Mummy Musing’s head hitting the ceiling as she jumps for joy)!
So why, oh why, am I already freaking out about it? Why am I sat, mulling over the lists of things I haven’t done yet? Why was I left, drunkenly reeling after another near miss with the Ginger Prince a few weeks back? Why the sudden urge to flirt with every man I see? I enjoy my intense texting sessions with Bob, the little ‘good morning’ messages, the quirky things we have in common, the promises of an ‘amazing’ first date. My friends see this as a potential turning point and, whilst most of me agrees, a part of me niggles over the things I have wanted to do but haven’t yet; I’ve never slipped my phone number into the pocket of a stranger, never been to the cinema on my own, I haven’t nuzzled as many beards as I would have liked, never had the chance to tell Dream Boy how I feel. Too many things to do and now, potentially, no time in which to do it. I can feel myself running away from…well…myself. Every second man I commute with in the mornings jumps out like an extremely attractive surprise package, ‘yes Miss Musing, whilst you’ve been dodging the Kingsland line due to it’s general overcrowding problems and sheer unreliability, this bevy of bearded hotties have been slowly gathering together for your viewing pleasure…go on, take your pick.’ It’s like my version of a Diet Coke Break mirage, on acid.
And, just to add salt to the wound, just when I thought he had left the country, the beautiful Toff-like creature I have been lusting over in St Johns Wood, suddenly walks bang into me one evening and I am left, trying to control my overwhelming urge to kiss his gorgeous face – if only to distract from his awful dress sense. Cut to Friday morning and my BSA reports are out the window, in favour of imagining all sorts of sexy scenarios with my Toff-stranger. So what’s wrong with me? At the end of my phone sits the nicest man with the nicest messages, and yet, I seem to be rebelling against it, not to mention finding excuses to stare at my shop window whilst watching Fit Toff’s arse swagger down the High Street in a pair of ugly tight trousers.
Could it be that I am incapable of being serious when it comes to something potentially worthwhile? Or is it that I have been so long chasing the tails of the emotionally and physically unavailable, that I am simply having trouble adjusting to this new and exciting phase called ‘girl likes boy, boy might not be a twat’? Is the tick-tocking of the ‘settling-down clock’ edging ever closer to my perfectly poised ears? In a perfect world, the relationship and the prospects would be there, and yet I am still a walking juxtaposition of what I want, what I actually need and what I am forever drawn to, all mashed up in a flame-haired, immaculately-presented nightmare. I hate to admit it, but perhaps it is an injection of too much Bradshaw-inspired over-analysis and that, really, I just need to shut the hell up and go with it. I can almost feel Lovemenot’s eyes piercing through me as I type as I am, after all, getting a bit ridiculous. My forehead feels heavy, must be the phallus, that appears to be inextricably growing from it with every year I get older, but by no means wiser. Maybe, just maybe, we all have our barriers and it is down to the right person to want to break through them, therefore, providing the security we need when entering into relationships, with all the trepidation of entering into World War 3. Then again, normal people who fall into the ‘all’ category don’t fall in love with people in less than five minutes, or stare at swaggering arses when they should be re-merching their floors (as unsubtly as me anyway – the waiters and waitresses of Café Rouge are DEFINITELY on to me).
Still, I know I’ve not completely lost it yet, as I managed to see immediate sense in knocking back the advances of the aging ‘band manager’ in the queue at Starbucks earlier today. ‘Really liking your tattoos daaaahhlin’, said he, an oldie playing it ‘cool’ with an Innocent Smoothie and, most likely, a heart condition; probably older than my Stepdad too so, in short, thoroughly disturbing.
‘Thanks,’ thought I, 'only I didn’t really get myself permanently etched just to ensure that I would be leered at by has-beens, actually'. Still, off I trotted, Skinny White Mocha in hand, ‘see you again, yeah?’ Not if I see you first, Gollum.
Well, impending date is almost certainly next weekend now, so we’ll have to wait and see if it delivers or, perhaps more importantly, if I deliver.
In other news…I think I might be in love with Miles Kane. See? There I go again…
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