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…

Ch-ch-ch-changes

I’ve never been all that comfortable with change. The comfort of the familiar is much more thrilling to me than being in a state of flux. Which possibly explains why I’ve stayed in a job I don’t really want for the past four years despite always knowing it wasn’t where I was supposed to be.

So when the news came that our company was selling the mag to a new publisher, based outside London, I wasn’t quite so upset as some of the others on the team. This could spell redundancy – and as I’ve been told over and over again by those who’ve been lucky enough to be paid off from similarly mediocre jobs, that could be the best thing that ever happened to me.

Keen to make the most of the situation, I immediately started firing off emails to various contacts I’d made on other magazines asking about freelance work. I scoured the job alerts everyday on specialist recruitment sites, and finally found the time to dedicate to doing the applications. I dragged out my portfolio from the dusty abyss under my bed and set about filling it with glossy pages of my best work. Having been at the magazine for over three years, I’d have a few months money to play with when they made me redundant but I wasn’t about to rest on my laurels. This change was the rocket up my ass I’d been desperately in need of.

Then finally, I got an interview – the first one I’ve had in 4 years and bizarrely, it was with the magazine right next to us in the open-plan office. It was going to be a pretty heavy day though. At 11am I had my interview, then at 1pm, the new buyers were starting individual consultations with each member of the team regarding their future. With any luck, I could be offered redundancy and a new job in the same day.

Of course, that’s not how things worked out in the end. Instead, after 8 weeks of leading us to believe that the magazine would be based in Colchester (a 120 mile round trip for me) and that those who couldn’t commute would be offered redundancy, they suddenly changed the goal posts. We were staying in London – at a new office yes, but not at a distance from my house that could be considered an unreasonable commute and thus redundancy was no longer on the table.

So where does that leave me? With two choices – go with it, stay at this bridal mag, and possibly stagnate there for another four years or walk away with nothing but the hope that better things are just round the corner. Play it safe or take a massive risk? I have no idea which way to go and funnily enough, I’m facing the same quandary in my love life.

On the one side, there’s Chris. A difficult, elusive, and totally frustrating man I find completely irresistible, and who is predictably playing the old ‘I’m not ready for a relationship’ card. And on the other, there’s lovely Mark – a blast from the past who’s recently reappeared and started making himself something of a fixture.

There might not exactly be fireworks between Mark and I but I could get used to the cosy nights in where he whips up a feast for me and we cuddle up in front of a DVD. And he doesn’t seem to mind that I’m not exactly tearing his clothes off. It’s just nice spending time with him. And maybe nice is enough?

Or maybe it would be if I wasn’t spending every minute I’m with Mark wishing he was someone else. I don’t know what it is about Chris but he’s managed to get right under my skin. I’ve seen him a handful of times and every one has ended the same way – I won’t go into details (I had a telling off from my dad recently after he read this and got a bit of a shock – sorry pops!) but I will say that it’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. And I’m not just talking about in the bedroom – we get on so well that when we’re together, we’re both a little stunned by it. When he’s here, he never wants to leave but as soon as he’s out the door, he starts to freak out about it all getting too heavy and how he’s just not ‘in that place’ right now. I’ve been telling myself that maybe if I just play the game for a while, the barriers will come down but I’m also aware how naïve that sounds. Am I wasting my time? Possibly.

I just don’t know what to do - settle for something that’s comfortable and familiar, but not quite right, or pursue something that could lead to nothing but disappointment and heartbreak. It’s a tough choice and I don’t think I’m ready to make it in either my professional or personal life. So for now, I’m going to do nothing and hope a little time brings some answers.

Well I did tell you I’m no good at change.

Here begineth the lesson

Given how well my first official date with Mr Stripe went, it was completely puzzling to me when he suddenly went quiet. He’d been in touch every day since we met, he texted me after the date to say how much he’s enjoyed it, and he’d promised to sit down with Matt that weekend and ask for his blessing for Date No.2. And now – silence.

Three days in, curiosity got the better of me and I sent a quick text to ask if anything was up. His reply did little to make me feel better: “Sorry. I’ll be in touch in a while to explain. Promise.” What the bloody hell was that supposed to mean? Had Matt kicked off? Had Tom had a sudden change of heart? Or was something more serious afoot? I guess I’d have to wait and see.

A few unsettled hours later, I was at the Topshop press day with Vickie, who was doing her best to distract me with champagne and shoes when he finally got back to me. ‘Sorry for all the mystery. Matt’s Gran died at the weekend and I’ve been busy sorting him out. It’s made me realise how terrible a friend I’m being at the moment. Can we maybe put things on hold for a while until things are back to normal?’

My first reaction was disbelief. “Lying shit – I can’t believe I’ve fallen for another one. Why do they all talk such utter bollocks?” I ranted. Vic wasn’t so sure: “Oh I don’t know. Why would he invent someone dying when he could just say that Matt disapproved. I think you need to give him the benefit of the doubt on this one. Maybe he really does just want to focus on being a good friend for a while.”

Oh. Okay then.

Fast forward three days and I’m out at another press launch (it’s the season for it). This time, it’s my friend’s PR Company who are launching a new male grooming line and I’ve gone along to show my support…nothing to do with the champagne at all but as it’s on offer…

Come 11.30pm, I can’t see straight, never mind think straight, and I decide I miss Tom. “I’ll just send him a little text to say hello, that can’t do any harm, can it?” I ask Liv, fully expecting her to wrestle my phone from my iron grip. But she surprises me: “Do it. What have you got to lose?”

Oh, ok then…

Me: ‘Hi, I know this is against the rules but I just wanted to say hi…. So hi! x’

Tom: ‘Oh hi, I was just thinking about you. Wish you were here. You been out?’

Me: ‘I have been out – think I may have had one too many top ups. You?’

Tom: “Same. Just back from the pub. In bed and feeling lonely. Maybe a little picture would help?’

Me (struggling to contain full force of my wrath): ‘Um Tom, I think you’ve got the wrong idea here. I am not about to send you any kind of picture and can’t believe you’d even ask. We’re hardly at that stage yet. Or likely ever will be now.’

Tom: ‘Shit, I’m sorry. I’m in a weird mood. Had too many pints with Matt earlier and just got a little carried away. Please don’t judge things on tonight. Lets talk tomorrow?’

Me: SILENCE

Convinced Tom had finally shown his true colours and feeling devastated for buying his nice guy act in the first place, I go to bed in tears. Awaking at 7am with the worst headache in the world and half a dozen more apologetic texts, I’m not so convinced. Am I being the prude here? Is this perfectly normal behaviour? Have I totally over-reacted? When I recount the tale to Debs at work the next day, she certainly think so: “Carrie, he clearly likes you. He got a bit drunk and a bit saucy – that’s not a criminal offence. Just loosen up for crying out loud.”

Oh. Ok then.

Half an hour later, I get another message from Tom. A picture message – of a bouquet of flowers with this text attached: ‘It’s difficult for me to send you real flowers right now but know if I could, I would. I’m sorry for being a drunken idiot and I will make it up to you soon. Promise.’

So what do you think happened next? Tom showed up, whisked me off my feet and proved he was a nice guy after all?

Don’t be ridiculous. That was the last time I heard from him. But the whole thing did teach me two very valuable lessons. Number one, I should listen to my gut, not my friends. And number two, men cannot be trusted.

Here endeth the lesson.

The Real Thing?

I’ve heard before that the second you finally stop thinking about someone, they’ll pop back into your life, but when John appeared next to me in the pub the other week, I literally couldn’t have been expecting it less.

“Hey, what you doing here?’ I sing-songed - trying (and failing) to sound nonchalant.

“Well I live practically next door so you know…” Bollocks. There I was being all ‘what you doing on my turf?’ and actually I was on his.

“Oh of course! Well how are you? You good?”

“Yeah, pretty good. You?”

“Yeah, great. Well apart from my dramatic morning,” I began, launching into a nervously babbled version of the porch swing tragedy.

“Wow, heavy, well it’s nice to see you, I just have to go upstairs and catch my friend up but we’ll talk, yeah?”

“Yeah, cool. Okay.”

And that was that.

“Well that was awkward,” Liv quipped. “You okay?”

“Um, yeah, that was weird.”

“You upset?”

“No not at all,” I answered – and shockingly I meant it. Given that I’d not laid eyes on John since he kissed me goodbye on his doorstep after a particularly frantic quickie, you might think I’d be overcome with passion on coming face to face with him but as it happened, I felt absolutely nothing.

“Talk about an anti-climax,” I laughed, shrugging my shoulders, and following Liv outside to where the rest of our friends were waiting. “Time to find a new man to obsess over!”

Still, something was bothering me. I just couldn’t fathom how for the past few months, I’d somehow convinced myself that John was this massive missed opportunity. There was no spark there, no chemistry, barely even any conversation. And looking back, if I’m honest, I’d known from the beginning he wasn’t right for me – I’d just chosen to ignore the facts and go for the fairytale. The whole relationship had been dreamt up by my over-romantic imagination.

Realising this was liberating but also a little disturbing – mainly because I suddenly saw that this wasn’t the first time I’d done it. Truth be told, there had been many men I’d convinced myself I loved when in actual fact, there was nothing real between us at all.

First there had been Harry. I was 13, he was 17 and I thought he was magnificent. When he dumped me, I cried myself to sleep for months and, true to form, just as I finally started to feel normal again, he knocked on my door and begged me to take him back. It was the moment I’d been dreaming of but suddenly, I realised he wasn’t what I wanted at all. While I’d originally told everyone he was sensitive, deep, and intellectual – in reality, he was just dull. The real reason I’d gone out with him? To impress - a girl in 2nd year bagging a 5th year prefect was unheard of and, against all odds, I’d managed it. But did I actually want to be in a relationship with him? God, no!

After that, there was with Michael– for 2 years, I spent every moment I could with him, tortured my parents for forbidding me to see him during my exams, and shed many a tear at the thought of leaving him behind for university. In the end, I met someone else before I’d even started my degree and unceremoniously dumped him. Truth is Michael and I had nothing in common, spent most of the time we were together watching TV, and barely even fooled around but if I scrunched my eyes up, he looked a little like Noel Gallagher – and back then, that was reason enough for me.

After Michael, I had what I now recognise to be my only two real relationships. Both pretty serious, both long term, and both ending in broken hearts (in one case, his. In one, mine). You might think that after that, I’d have learned the difference between actual love and my imagination – but you’d be wrong.

Next, I spent two years imagining myself to be in a relationship with a boy who had a girlfriend that whole time. We’d sit up till 5am talking, drinking red wine and smoking before tumbling into bed together - then I wouldn’t hear from him for a week. I was convinced he’d wake up one day and realise I was his soulmate. In actual fact, I woke up one day and realised he was a narcissistic twat.

I moved on to Alex – possibly the most obvious mismatch of them all. An uber-trendy tattooed punk who rode a BMX, drank whisky, and played guitar in a metal band. We literally had nothing in common but the moment I slept with him, I decided I loved him. After a few more sleepovers, he disappeared into the ether – probably after noticing that my CD collection wasn’t quite as similar to his as I’d made out.

So what was it that had done it with John? He wasn’t older than me, he looked nothing like Noel Gallagher, and he definitely didn’t have the dark tortured artist thing going on. No, he was just nice to me. And it had been so long since someone had been that I’d decided that was enough.

Sad, huh? Well you’ll be pleased to hear now I’ve realised the error of my ways, I plan to settle for nothing less than the real thing. No more faking it…well not outside the bedroom anyway (come on, sometimes it’s just polite).

(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