So here we are. Another new year, and what has changed? Not much for me. Still in the same job, still no progress on that book I’ve been planning to start for…oh, 10 years or so, and of course I’m still a fully signed up member of the singles club. This Spring, it’ll be 6 long years since I could legitimately be called someone’s girlfriend . Does that mean I get some kind of reward for my loyalty to the cause soon? A commemorative spoon or shiny plaque maybe? That’d be nice. I could hang it above my bed to mark the spot where all the trouble starts.
Ironically, at the turn of the last new year, my friends and I rather optimistically christened 2010 – the year of men. And in all honesty, there have been quite a few in these past twelve months but their roles have been more walk-on cameos than leading men. Maybe we should have been more specific with our expectations – it could have been the year of nice men who are not emotionally retarded, preferably over 5’ 11”, who don’t live with their parents, have decent jobs, and still believe in old-fashioned chivalry. Or to get right down to basics, men who want to date me rather than simply bed me. I’m beginning to think they may not even exist. If they do, they’re certainly not hammering down my door. Of course there’s one lingering thought that I’ve been trying to ignore but can’t quite seem to shake, maybe it’s not the men that are getting it wrong, maybe it’s me…
I definitely got things wrong with Chris. Any sane person would know that a man who states from the outset that he does not want a relationship and only gets in touch late at night when he’s feeling ‘fidgety’ is only looking for one thing – simple, no strings-attached sex. Yet I somehow manage to convince myself that our physical connection means much, much more and that if he just spends enough time with me, he’ll realise this too. Well guess what...that didn’t happen. And last month, I finally accepted that it won’t ever happen, calling the whole thing off and asking him not to contact me again. New year’s resolution number one: no more sex with Chris.
But that got me to thinking. Sex is what seems to get me in trouble. We all know that most women are incapable of separating sex from emotions so why do I continue to pretend that I’m any different? Maybe rather than sleeping with someone then developing misplaced feelings for them, I should figure out my feelings for them first – and more importantly, their feelings for me – before heading to the bedroom. Maybe that way I’ll be able to figure out the men from the boys, the rogues from the good’ uns. And maybe that way, by the end of 2011, I might not find myself here again – single, frustrated, disillusioned.
Of course knowing how my emotions tend to run away from me, I appreciate that it’s going to be hard to identify any real feelings from my more impulsive (horny) ones. As far as I can see, there’s only one way to be sure, which brings me back to that resolution. What I propose is a revision of the ‘no more sex with Chris’ plan. Perhaps it’s time to try extreme measures - to take sex off the table altogether. New year’s resolution number one (revised): No More Sex.
Bit of a grand statement, you might think. She’s got no chance, I hear you mutter. But that is precisely why I’m writing it down here for you all to see. I genuinely want to stick to this plan – and I figure declaring it publicly gives me more motivation to see it through than keeping it to myself. So here goes: I will not have sex in 2011.
And while I’m making grand statements, here’s resolution number 2. This is the year I will write that book I’ve been threatening you all with since I started this column. I figure if I aim to average out at a page a day, I could be churning out a chapter every month. And if, for one reason or another, life gets in the way and I don’t write a word one week, I’ll just write twice as much the following week. If I can keep it up, by next new year, I could have something approaching a first draft.
After all, if I’m not going to be having sex all year, I’m going to have much more time on my hands.
Showing posts with label deleting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label deleting. Show all posts
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
Saturday, 4 December 2010
A Man’s Perspective
I’ve just been given some pretty controversial man advice, and I’m not quite sure how to process it. According to my new love guru, Sam (more on him later), all the rules I’ve been religiously following for years are a load of old codswallop! Can this really be true? Lets see what you think. The conundrum was thus: Girl meets boy, girl falls for boy, boy seems to like girl but ‘doesn’t want to be in a relationship’, girl tries the casual thing but still wants more, boy stands his ground. What to do?
The strategy I’d opted for – on the advice of pretty much every woman I know and every dating guide ever published – was to play hard to get. I’d called a halt to the booty calls and vowed only to see him if he should man up and take me on a date. A fairly obvious and effective approach, you might think. But it didn’t seem to be getting me very far.
The Boy – Chris, if we must give him a name – initially seemed to respond well, agreeing that it was ridiculous that he’d only seen me fully dressed once and that he should indeed take me for a drink next time we arranged to meet up. But that ‘next time’ seemed to get further and further away. ‘How about Wednesday?’ I suggested. ‘I’m in Scotland,’ he responded, offering no alternative date. Okay so he’s just not into me then, I decided, promising myself that was the last time I’d get in touch with him and deleting his number (for the umpteenth time).
But then on Wednesday, the texts started. First, it was a friendly ‘I think I like Glasgow.’ Innocent enough so I sent a similarly innocuous reply and went to bed. But Chris wasn’t for letting me sleep. Every 15 minutes for the next two hours, he sent me increasing amounts of nonsense: ‘I miss you’. Oh really? ‘Are you still up? I want to talk.’ No. ‘I wish you were here.’ Yes, that’s because you’re hammered. ‘This hotel room’s not as nice as being in your bed.’ No, I’m sure it isn’t. Of course I didn’t actually send any of these replies – I did as any dating guru would advise, I ignored him.
Now, if roles were reversed and Chris woke up to a series of drunken texts from me, I can safely assume that I would be deemed a psycho and relegated to the ex-file. But in this case, what did I do? Woke up, hugged my phone, and skipped off to work, gleeful with the proof that he really did like me. And what did Chris do? Acted like it hadn’t happened and went back to being just as slippery as he was before. Of course he did.
That’s where my love guru stepped in. Sam’s a PR I met on a press trip a few months back, when Chris was initially causing a stir in my life. At the time, I was a little more optimistic about the situation but when Sam and I met up again, things between Chris and I were far from hopeful. I’d reached my limit (again), deleted his number (again), and vowed it was over (again). As I explained the whole situation, I fully expected him to say what everyone else was saying – you’re wasting your time, you deserve better, walk away then he’ll realise what he’s missed. Instead, Sam sighed, shook his head, and with a wry smile told me I was getting it all SO wrong: “You’re playing it WAY too cool! What you don’t realise is that men like girls to be a little needy,” he announced. Eh, come again?!
“You have to stop deleting him. Text him – or call him even – whenever you want to. Tell him how you actually feel. And don’t wait for him to take you out. He clearly likes you and is just scared of the idea of a ‘date’. Keep pushing for that and he will run. Just go round to his place one night. From the sounds of things, he always comes to you. Why can’t you go to him? Why does it all have to be on his terms? You should behave however you want to behave, stop worrying about looking needy, breaking the ‘rules’, or some ill-conceived notion of ‘having the power’. Be soft. Be yourself. And stop taking advice from other single women. Evidently, they’re getting it all wrong too!” (Good point.)
“Just try it my way for a while,” pleaded Sam. “What harm can it do?”
Hmmm, what harm could it do? Lets give it a go and see…
The strategy I’d opted for – on the advice of pretty much every woman I know and every dating guide ever published – was to play hard to get. I’d called a halt to the booty calls and vowed only to see him if he should man up and take me on a date. A fairly obvious and effective approach, you might think. But it didn’t seem to be getting me very far.
The Boy – Chris, if we must give him a name – initially seemed to respond well, agreeing that it was ridiculous that he’d only seen me fully dressed once and that he should indeed take me for a drink next time we arranged to meet up. But that ‘next time’ seemed to get further and further away. ‘How about Wednesday?’ I suggested. ‘I’m in Scotland,’ he responded, offering no alternative date. Okay so he’s just not into me then, I decided, promising myself that was the last time I’d get in touch with him and deleting his number (for the umpteenth time).
But then on Wednesday, the texts started. First, it was a friendly ‘I think I like Glasgow.’ Innocent enough so I sent a similarly innocuous reply and went to bed. But Chris wasn’t for letting me sleep. Every 15 minutes for the next two hours, he sent me increasing amounts of nonsense: ‘I miss you’. Oh really? ‘Are you still up? I want to talk.’ No. ‘I wish you were here.’ Yes, that’s because you’re hammered. ‘This hotel room’s not as nice as being in your bed.’ No, I’m sure it isn’t. Of course I didn’t actually send any of these replies – I did as any dating guru would advise, I ignored him.
Now, if roles were reversed and Chris woke up to a series of drunken texts from me, I can safely assume that I would be deemed a psycho and relegated to the ex-file. But in this case, what did I do? Woke up, hugged my phone, and skipped off to work, gleeful with the proof that he really did like me. And what did Chris do? Acted like it hadn’t happened and went back to being just as slippery as he was before. Of course he did.
That’s where my love guru stepped in. Sam’s a PR I met on a press trip a few months back, when Chris was initially causing a stir in my life. At the time, I was a little more optimistic about the situation but when Sam and I met up again, things between Chris and I were far from hopeful. I’d reached my limit (again), deleted his number (again), and vowed it was over (again). As I explained the whole situation, I fully expected him to say what everyone else was saying – you’re wasting your time, you deserve better, walk away then he’ll realise what he’s missed. Instead, Sam sighed, shook his head, and with a wry smile told me I was getting it all SO wrong: “You’re playing it WAY too cool! What you don’t realise is that men like girls to be a little needy,” he announced. Eh, come again?!
“You have to stop deleting him. Text him – or call him even – whenever you want to. Tell him how you actually feel. And don’t wait for him to take you out. He clearly likes you and is just scared of the idea of a ‘date’. Keep pushing for that and he will run. Just go round to his place one night. From the sounds of things, he always comes to you. Why can’t you go to him? Why does it all have to be on his terms? You should behave however you want to behave, stop worrying about looking needy, breaking the ‘rules’, or some ill-conceived notion of ‘having the power’. Be soft. Be yourself. And stop taking advice from other single women. Evidently, they’re getting it all wrong too!” (Good point.)
“Just try it my way for a while,” pleaded Sam. “What harm can it do?”
Hmmm, what harm could it do? Lets give it a go and see…
Tuesday, 26 January 2010
Festive frustrations
After the drama of the last few months, I had idyllic fantasies of my Christmas with the folks in France. I had visions of myself coming over all zen, realising that there were more important things in life than pesky boys; that I was perfectly at ease with my own company; and frankly way too good for either of them. Of course, that’s not exactly what happened.
What did happen was a catalogue of disasters, beginning with getting so ill on the plane that I spent the first three days of my trip in bed. This unanticipated period of convalescence gave me way too much time to think, resulting in my mooning over the whole thing with John way more than the dalliance deserved and sinking into a heavy fug I just couldn’t seem to lift.
Thankfully come Christmas morning I made a miraculous recovery and was just preparing our annual Champagne breakfast when the mood was ruined by an unwelcome text. As soon as I saw his name on my phone (yes, HIM – as in John, as in the man who wimped out of our relationship weeks before, and whom I’d not heard a dicky bird from since), I lost it, hurling the phone and several expletives across the living room as my bemused parents looked on. “I’m sorry but he doesn’t get to do that! He doesn’t get to remove himself from my life then pop back into it on bloody Christmas day! And he certainly doesn’t get to call me by a nickname, and ask how ‘Damo’ and the family are – what’s he playing at?”
“Er, think I’ll go and set the table,” mumbled Dad, shuffling off while I looked demandingly at Mum, as if she’d have the answer. “Maybe he was just thinking about you, sweetheart…” she suggested. “Well he doesn’t get to,” I huffed, sulking off to the shower. “And he needn’t think I’m responding!” *Door slams*
Of course, I did respond. And by the time, dinner was done and Dad was forcing me to watch the Michael MacIntrye DVD, we’d exchanged several chatty texts and I was feeling pretty perky about the whole thing. Sadly, a family fallout over breakfast the next morning (my mum had overcooked the eggs – an error which somehow escalated into talk of divorce) put an end to my short-lived positivity and any hopes I’ve had of cosy family bonding. Instead, I passed the hours surfing the net – a seemingly harmless pastime, which inevitably ended in disaster.
Perusing my emails, I realised I’d overlooked the latest newsletter from Meddlers of Honour – the monthly dating night where J and I first met. Laura had tried desperately to get me to attend the December event but given the whole mess it had gotten me into last time, I’d refused. Still no reason not to check out if any potential hotties had attended, I thought, clicking on the link to the photogallery. And it was then that my heart literally plummeted into my stomach.
There was John - who, just to recap, didn’t want to be in relationship with “anyone” and was too busy “getting over a long-standing virus” to be physically able to maintain anything casual – caught on camera, with one hand grasping a bottle of beer and the other draped languidly around the waist of some blonde (yes, I know I’m blonde but that’s no reason not to use it in an accusatory tone towards other blondes – besides, mine’s real). I was livid.
The anger threatened to spill out of my eyeballs but I managed to transform the tears into rage. “Lying little fucker,” I yelled. Mum was at my side in a second: “What’s he done now?” I pointed at the screen, waiting for a similarly outraged reaction to mine, but it didn’t come.
Instead, she turned traitor on me. “But Carrie, that doesn’t mean he lied to you. It means he was never there looking for a relationship in the first place. And didn’t you tell me he texted you a couple of weeks ago to say he’d been forced into a kiss with a girl and that all it had done was make him miss you?”
“Er, yeah.” (Okay so we had been in touch that one time).
“Well there’s your girl.”
It was plausible, but I still couldn’t let it go…hence the irrational text: {So I just saw the pics from meddlers. Hope you had more luck this time round than you did the last time.}
I knew I was provoking an argument but wasn’t it about time? I’d been pretending I was okay about everything all along, but why should I? He hurt me and all I’d done was reassure him, and tell him it was okay to treat me that way. Well screw that, it wasn’t okay.
Of course, his explanation pretty much exactly mirrored my mum’s theory – with the additional fact that he’d been dragged there against his will, and a question: “Why can’t you understand that it’s because I like you so much that I wish circumstances could be different?”
“Because that’s bullshit’ seemed an unreasonable response so instead I typed the following: {All I understand is that things were great until you decided you’d rather be miserable and alone than have anything more. And the only ‘circumstances’ there are, are in your head.}
His answer: {I know this}.
And thus we finally reached stalemate. There was nothing left to say so I deleted his number and every text he’d ever sent me, and I did what I always do in times of need these days – I called Rob…
Me: I’m back in town tomorrow – fancy meeting up for a drink?
Rob: Er, yeah, but, well…I can’t tomorrow. I’ve sort of got plans. Actually I’ve met someone…
Me: *silence*
Rob: Carrie, you still there?
Shiiiiiiiiiiiit……………
What did happen was a catalogue of disasters, beginning with getting so ill on the plane that I spent the first three days of my trip in bed. This unanticipated period of convalescence gave me way too much time to think, resulting in my mooning over the whole thing with John way more than the dalliance deserved and sinking into a heavy fug I just couldn’t seem to lift.
Thankfully come Christmas morning I made a miraculous recovery and was just preparing our annual Champagne breakfast when the mood was ruined by an unwelcome text. As soon as I saw his name on my phone (yes, HIM – as in John, as in the man who wimped out of our relationship weeks before, and whom I’d not heard a dicky bird from since), I lost it, hurling the phone and several expletives across the living room as my bemused parents looked on. “I’m sorry but he doesn’t get to do that! He doesn’t get to remove himself from my life then pop back into it on bloody Christmas day! And he certainly doesn’t get to call me by a nickname, and ask how ‘Damo’ and the family are – what’s he playing at?”
“Er, think I’ll go and set the table,” mumbled Dad, shuffling off while I looked demandingly at Mum, as if she’d have the answer. “Maybe he was just thinking about you, sweetheart…” she suggested. “Well he doesn’t get to,” I huffed, sulking off to the shower. “And he needn’t think I’m responding!” *Door slams*
Of course, I did respond. And by the time, dinner was done and Dad was forcing me to watch the Michael MacIntrye DVD, we’d exchanged several chatty texts and I was feeling pretty perky about the whole thing. Sadly, a family fallout over breakfast the next morning (my mum had overcooked the eggs – an error which somehow escalated into talk of divorce) put an end to my short-lived positivity and any hopes I’ve had of cosy family bonding. Instead, I passed the hours surfing the net – a seemingly harmless pastime, which inevitably ended in disaster.
Perusing my emails, I realised I’d overlooked the latest newsletter from Meddlers of Honour – the monthly dating night where J and I first met. Laura had tried desperately to get me to attend the December event but given the whole mess it had gotten me into last time, I’d refused. Still no reason not to check out if any potential hotties had attended, I thought, clicking on the link to the photogallery. And it was then that my heart literally plummeted into my stomach.
There was John - who, just to recap, didn’t want to be in relationship with “anyone” and was too busy “getting over a long-standing virus” to be physically able to maintain anything casual – caught on camera, with one hand grasping a bottle of beer and the other draped languidly around the waist of some blonde (yes, I know I’m blonde but that’s no reason not to use it in an accusatory tone towards other blondes – besides, mine’s real). I was livid.
The anger threatened to spill out of my eyeballs but I managed to transform the tears into rage. “Lying little fucker,” I yelled. Mum was at my side in a second: “What’s he done now?” I pointed at the screen, waiting for a similarly outraged reaction to mine, but it didn’t come.
Instead, she turned traitor on me. “But Carrie, that doesn’t mean he lied to you. It means he was never there looking for a relationship in the first place. And didn’t you tell me he texted you a couple of weeks ago to say he’d been forced into a kiss with a girl and that all it had done was make him miss you?”
“Er, yeah.” (Okay so we had been in touch that one time).
“Well there’s your girl.”
It was plausible, but I still couldn’t let it go…hence the irrational text: {So I just saw the pics from meddlers. Hope you had more luck this time round than you did the last time.}
I knew I was provoking an argument but wasn’t it about time? I’d been pretending I was okay about everything all along, but why should I? He hurt me and all I’d done was reassure him, and tell him it was okay to treat me that way. Well screw that, it wasn’t okay.
Of course, his explanation pretty much exactly mirrored my mum’s theory – with the additional fact that he’d been dragged there against his will, and a question: “Why can’t you understand that it’s because I like you so much that I wish circumstances could be different?”
“Because that’s bullshit’ seemed an unreasonable response so instead I typed the following: {All I understand is that things were great until you decided you’d rather be miserable and alone than have anything more. And the only ‘circumstances’ there are, are in your head.}
His answer: {I know this}.
And thus we finally reached stalemate. There was nothing left to say so I deleted his number and every text he’d ever sent me, and I did what I always do in times of need these days – I called Rob…
Me: I’m back in town tomorrow – fancy meeting up for a drink?
Rob: Er, yeah, but, well…I can’t tomorrow. I’ve sort of got plans. Actually I’ve met someone…
Me: *silence*
Rob: Carrie, you still there?
Shiiiiiiiiiiiit……………
Sunday, 3 August 2008
(non)-dating and deleting
Why are men so bloody exasperating? Are they given a special class at school that we don’t know about that trains them how to mess with our heads?
I can just imagine it: ‘Yes, boys - that’s it, you tell them one thing, then you do something completely contradictory. You act caring, interested and committed enough to get them into bed, then you leave with a casual ‘yeah so see you soon’. You take them out for dinner, suggest a follow-up date, then go off the radar for weeks. And you never, never answer their text messages anything less than 12 hours after they’ve been sent. Now go pro-create…but use a condom.’ It really would explain a lot.
I’ve been dating (but not really dating) one grade A student from this particular class for going on six months now and I’ve just about reached my limit. Well to be honest, I’ve reached my limit a few times, but it’s like he has a sixth sense that picks up on this so whenever I delete his number and swear I’ll never so much as look at his myspace page again, a text or email will promptly pop into my inbox asking if I fancy a drink sometime.
And that’s another infuriating thing - it’s always ‘lets go for a drink sometime’ not Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, or whatever, just sometime. Any attempts on my part to clarify when this ‘sometime’ might occur, are generally rebuffed or ignored completely. So we rarely ever get to the stage where we actually go for a drink, instead it’s this minefield of random texting and occasional emails that leads exactly nowhere.
What’s the point? It’s not like either of us is getting anything out of it - unless you count the boost to his ego or my recurring headache. And if it’s really getting to me so much, why can’t I just end it?
This Monday morning, I woke up with a renewed determination to opt out of the game - I deleted his number, all his texts, all my sent texts, any calls to him on my call register and every single one of his myspace messages (even the one where he originally gave me his number that I usually fall back on when I delete all trace of him from my phone). I was done - for good.
Only last night, I’m sat explaining this very situation to my friend Alice when my phone rings. And it’s him.
What the fuck? He never calls - NEVER. And he’s supposed to be busy tonight so what the heck does he want anyway? Of course, I can’t actually answer to find out because I’ve just been making Alice swear to hold me to my promise that it’s over. So I just give my phone an intensely dirty look and put it back in my pocket. Strong or what?
Only not really…fast forward three bottles of wine, and Alice and I have decided that it’s not lame boys that are the problem - it’s us. Why can’t we just accept that not all men need to be the latest love of our life? Why can’t we just have no strings fun? Let them take us out, wine us, dine us, and sleep with us then not spend the next 24 hours wondering why they haven’t called? Why can’t we just accept the good stuff for what it is and be satisfied with that?
Why? Because we’re all mental. Every single last one of us, no matter how intelligent, self-sufficient or sane we are in every other area of our lives, can be brought to our knees over some pathetic boy.
So anyway, Alice and I go back to mine, continue drinking and telling ourselves we’re going to transform ourselves into callous sex kittens, then I remember I do have his number - I’d written it down along with all the other numbers in my phone when I changed my mobile a few weeks back. ‘Do it,’ says Alice, and that’s all the encouragement I need. I hit send and the text is
on its way.
And so the game begins again. Seriously
I can just imagine it: ‘Yes, boys - that’s it, you tell them one thing, then you do something completely contradictory. You act caring, interested and committed enough to get them into bed, then you leave with a casual ‘yeah so see you soon’. You take them out for dinner, suggest a follow-up date, then go off the radar for weeks. And you never, never answer their text messages anything less than 12 hours after they’ve been sent. Now go pro-create…but use a condom.’ It really would explain a lot.
I’ve been dating (but not really dating) one grade A student from this particular class for going on six months now and I’ve just about reached my limit. Well to be honest, I’ve reached my limit a few times, but it’s like he has a sixth sense that picks up on this so whenever I delete his number and swear I’ll never so much as look at his myspace page again, a text or email will promptly pop into my inbox asking if I fancy a drink sometime.
And that’s another infuriating thing - it’s always ‘lets go for a drink sometime’ not Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, or whatever, just sometime. Any attempts on my part to clarify when this ‘sometime’ might occur, are generally rebuffed or ignored completely. So we rarely ever get to the stage where we actually go for a drink, instead it’s this minefield of random texting and occasional emails that leads exactly nowhere.
What’s the point? It’s not like either of us is getting anything out of it - unless you count the boost to his ego or my recurring headache. And if it’s really getting to me so much, why can’t I just end it?
This Monday morning, I woke up with a renewed determination to opt out of the game - I deleted his number, all his texts, all my sent texts, any calls to him on my call register and every single one of his myspace messages (even the one where he originally gave me his number that I usually fall back on when I delete all trace of him from my phone). I was done - for good.
Only last night, I’m sat explaining this very situation to my friend Alice when my phone rings. And it’s him.
What the fuck? He never calls - NEVER. And he’s supposed to be busy tonight so what the heck does he want anyway? Of course, I can’t actually answer to find out because I’ve just been making Alice swear to hold me to my promise that it’s over. So I just give my phone an intensely dirty look and put it back in my pocket. Strong or what?
Only not really…fast forward three bottles of wine, and Alice and I have decided that it’s not lame boys that are the problem - it’s us. Why can’t we just accept that not all men need to be the latest love of our life? Why can’t we just have no strings fun? Let them take us out, wine us, dine us, and sleep with us then not spend the next 24 hours wondering why they haven’t called? Why can’t we just accept the good stuff for what it is and be satisfied with that?
Why? Because we’re all mental. Every single last one of us, no matter how intelligent, self-sufficient or sane we are in every other area of our lives, can be brought to our knees over some pathetic boy.
So anyway, Alice and I go back to mine, continue drinking and telling ourselves we’re going to transform ourselves into callous sex kittens, then I remember I do have his number - I’d written it down along with all the other numbers in my phone when I changed my mobile a few weeks back. ‘Do it,’ says Alice, and that’s all the encouragement I need. I hit send and the text is
on its way.
And so the game begins again. Seriously
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