It’s not me, it’s you
Warning: this post has a lot of swearing in it. It’s probably the most sweary one I’ve ever written.
http://youtu.be/vFXCKQ7K2bs
Earlier this year, I very nearly got involved with someone. He was an older man – recently separated from his wife – who I met through a MeetUp* group. He wasn’t really my type, as he was older than men I usually date (he was in his late 50s), but he had a charming English accent, was a warm and engaging conversationalist, and looked not unlike Richard Gere. He just seemed so damned nice. He kind of snuck up on me, and before I could say “Danger, Will Robinson”, I realised I was attracted to him.
I saw this man for only a few weeks before I called it off. From early on though, and at every turn, my instincts were screaming that something was wrong. I couldn’t put my finger on what exactly, but I knew something was off. Late to breakfast one morning, missing in action on weekends, avoiding certain topics of conversation… that kind of thing. At lunch in the third week I managed to manipulate the conversation into discussing integrity. It was then, over fried pork dumplings, that I told him – in no uncertain terms – to fuck off. He had admitted he was yanking my chain and was seeing a number of other women apart from me. Not cool, dude.
What’s my type?
I’m adding “no complications or excess baggage e.g. psychotic ex-wives, needy parents, crazy friends etc.” to this list. I omitted this stipulation, unfortunately, and got stung. Big time. Last week, I was asked the question in relation to men: “What’s your type?”. It’s a really good question. In fact, it’s a question I have been
Alone, but not lonely
I have been single now for four or five years. Oh, I’ve had a couple of “liaisons”, namely Transition Man when I first broke up with the Italian, and Nonsensical Man about a year ago. And there have been a couple of crushes that were nice to have and didn’t amount to anything, as crushes
How The Italian broke my heart (the final chapter)
For the longest time the princess was miserable. She wanted the prince to be her hero, to fight for her and their future, but he was unable. He was crippled by the twin demons of guilt and obligation that the queen bee had programmed into him. He was not strong enough to fight them. Or
How The Italian broke my heart (part 4)
For a year, the princess and prince continued their relationship, and they fell deeper and deeper in love. They spent as much time together as they could, but something was niggling the princess. They only spent time at her castle. In a year, she had never spent time at his. And while the princess had
How The Italian broke my heart (part 3)
The princess and prince still worked for the same government department, but they worked at different sites, so they did not see each other in passing, ever. But the princess knew that somehow, they would be brought together by work. A month before her 40th birthday, she was invited to the farewell party for a
How The Italian broke my heart (part 2)
The princess wandered around in a daze for weeks after the news that the prince was attached and they couldn’t be together. She couldn’t eat. She couldn’t think. She took time off work. To say she was devastated by the news was an understatement. She was numb from pain. She couldn’t function. But she did
How The Italian broke my heart (part 1)
Ok. You’ve all been reading this blog long enough. You’ve heard about The Italian and you *know* he broke my heart. I owe it to you tell you how. And I think it will work quite well as a fractured fairy tale, so here goes. Once upon a time, in 2001, in a time before