New and improved

I’ve never really bought it when my thirty-something friends claim their thirties to be so much better than their twenties. Gaining a few wrinkles and a whole load more responsibility doesn’t sound like that much fun to me. Particularly when you haven’t found someone to share those responsibilities with or tell you your wrinkles are cute. Funny thing is, it’s only been a month since my 30th birthday and already, I think I know what they mean.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been so desperate for everyone else’s approval that I’ve not really thought about how I feel about myself. But somehow, in the last few weeks, I’ve become a lot more comfortable in my own skin. And as it turns out, now I’ve finally learned to accept myself, it really doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.

Take that date I mentioned last month. I’d known the guy for a good few months, in fact I met Sam at the very same singles night I met John, but due to circumstances (ie. me kissing John, and Sam kissing my flatmate) I didn’t think there was anything on the cards for Sam and I. That would be breaking the rules, I know. Saying that, when six months down the line, Sam was still getting in touch and suggesting he and I met for a drink, I thought, well why the hell not? Liv wasn’t interested in him. John was long gone. And if truth be told, I’d quite fancied him that first night we met. So when he asked me out for a third time, I finally accepted.

“I’m going to be good though,” I told Rob, when I broke the exciting news that I had a date. “I’m staying off the wine, I’m not going to get drunk, and I fully intend to be home – alone – by midnight. It’s the new me.”

“Yeah, right,” was his response. “I think I know you better than that.” And I sort of feared he was right – particularly when I found myself shaving my legs, slipping into my best undies, and having a super-huge pre-date gin and tonic.

As soon as I arrived at the pub and sat down with Sam, I knew I wasn’t into him. He was nice enough and not bad looking but he had no zing about him, not even an ounce of throwdown, and when he told me he had dreams of being a DJ and liked ‘really filthy electro’, the final nail was in the coffin. Despite all this, I have to admit that the twenty-something me would have decided that the best way to get through the evening was to get plastered. I would have accepted when he invited me back to his for a cup of tea, woken up in his bed the next morning hating myself, yet still agreed to see him again – then spent the next few months trying to get myself out of it. All because I was flattered that he liked me.

The new improved thirty-year-old version of me took a different tack entirely. I was pleasant enough, stayed for a few hours, had three or four drinks (politely declining the offer to make them doubles), then made my excuses, gave him a peck on the cheek and sent myself home with this subtle brush-off: “It’s been really nice catching up. I hope everything goes really well with your budding career. See you around sometime maybe.” And why did I do this? Because finally I realized I didn’t need some random guy to make me feel good about myself. Frankly, I’d be much happier on my own.

Of course, that doesn’t mean I can’t have fun sometimes. When I met a very funny, very charming, very tall Texan the following weekend- I didn’t think twice when he invited me back to his. He was a sweetheart and we had a great time together but he wasn’t really my type so the next morning, when he took the liberty of saving his own number in my phone, I never made any promises to call, I didn’t give him my number, and I didn’t feel bad at all knowing that I’d never get in touch with him. What’s the point in pretending?

And perhaps most impressively, when John got in touch out of the blue a few weeks ago, I didn’t freak out, throw my phone across any rooms, or start wondering ‘what it all meant.’ I just replied – I was friendly, he was friendly, it was all very grown-up. Of course then Laura had to ruin it all by giving him a right grilling when she bumped into him at another of those singles nights. “Weren’t you the guy that was dating my friend Carrie? Didn’t you say you didn’t want a girlfriend? So what you doing back here then, eh? Eh?”

“Er, having a night out with the boys…” he responded. “Just because I’m out, doesn’t mean I’m looking for a relationship. We’re just having fun.”

And you know what? Finally, I think I get what he means.

Older...and wiser?

It’s official people – I’m thirty and single. How the hell did that happen? A couple of months ago, it looked like I might actually meet the milestone with a man at my side (and wouldn’t that have been a novelty?). Even when things with John started to go wrong, there was always Rob…wasn’t there? Well, no actually, as it turned out, I was wrong about that too.

It seems five months of being my beck and call guy was about as much as Rob could take. And who can blame him? He might have pretended he was fine with the whole ‘friendship’ thing but what we had was never really a friendship. He thought if he hung around for long enough and made himself indispensable to me, I’d eventually fall in love with him. And part of me hoped he was right about that but the other part of me – the selfish part – just loved having someone around I could depend on.

Every day he was there on email making my working day oh-so-much less dull. At night he was either at the end of a phone, or he was there at my side - in the pub, in the cinema, in a club, in a taxi, on my couch. The days of him making romantic proclamations, trying to hold my hand, going in for a kiss – they were mercifully gone but our relationship probably couldn’t strictly be described as platonic. Was it platonic when I cuddled in beside him on the couch and slept there? Or when I rang him at 4am crying because some other guy had tried to kiss me? Or when he’s spend hours compiling playlists he knew I’d love and we’d both pretend he hadn’t made them specifically for me? Or when he’d scare off every other man that came near me with a proprietorial stare? Er…maybe not.

People talk about friends with benefits, but we were more like boyfriend and girlfriend without benefits. “I’m not going anywhere,” he’d assured me on numerous occasions. And I believed him. Of course, when he met someone else who would hold his hand and didn’t relegate him to the couch, that promise kind of went out the window. It was the daily texts that dwindled first, then the emails became fewer and far between, then I realised a month had passed since I’d seen him. I knew I was in no position to complain. He didn’t owe me anything. He’d done nothing wrong. Yet I felt completely abandoned. And when he sent me an email to say he might not make it to my birthday party, I finally lost it. “You officially suck. Drop me a line when you can fit me into your itinerary” was my very mature and not at all irrational response. Of course from there it descended into an email-nightmare-athon, which reached a crescendo when he called me a brat and said he wouldn’t bother coming at all then. I mean WTF?

Yes, admittedly he couldn’t make it because he was busy shooting a video with his band all weekend and yes, apparently his missus wasn’t even around, she was holidaying in India till the Sunday. But the night of my birthday would make it two months since I’d seen him. TWO MONTHS! Couldn’t he see why I was upset? He’d ditched one of his best friends the moment a girl had come along. That was just rude.

In the end though, after having a rant to my poor mother about the whole thing, I had to admit that I might not have been entirely reasonable. “Well it sounds like you were being a bit of a brat,” were her wise words. “You can’t expect his life to revolve around you when you don’t really want him and someone else does. I’m not surprised he reacted the way he did.” So I swallowed my (already battered) pride and sent another email telling him the cause of my brattish behaviour: “I’m sorry. I just miss you.”

Of course, he didn’t make it to the party, and much as I hate to admit, after having a fabulous night surrounded by the people who love me, I still went home, crawled into bed and called him. We spoke for ages and it was nice – but it was also the last time. That night, I finally realised I had to let him go. Truth be told, I never should have let him get so close in the first place. It wasn’t the healthiest relationship for either of us. Besides, I managed perfectly well on my own before he came along, and I can manage perfectly well on my own now – particularly now I’s all grown up!

And just to prove how strong and independent I am, I’m taking control. In the last few weeks, I’ve asked for a promotion, been commissioned to write a piece for an actual glossy magazine, and begun the process of getting a mortgage on my flat. Who needs a man to get ahead? I have a feeling 30’s going to be a good age for me.

Oh yes, and I have a date on Friday with a very handsome man.

So there.