I have a little story to tell. It’s kind of hilarious and a teeny bit tragic and as predictable as the slugs that eat my marygolds.
It started on my birthday. My daughter and I day drinking. Spoons pints of cider at £2.25 a go for me and large glasses of Rose for her. We were pretty mashed and ended up in one of Keighley’s even less salubrious drinking establishments. It was ‘love at first eye contact’, apparently. Unsurprisingly I could barely see so make of that what you will.
The next day I had very little recollection of what he looked like but I remembered we had laughed quite a bit. The calls and messages were regular and persuasive but I was in two minds about any of it. I’m content and happy and my time is not given up easily. Did I really want to get involved with a man again after 5 years? I ignored quite a few of the texts and calls and then one night after plenty of wine I gave in and agreed to see him. Here was a man that had been married for 13 years and in his last relationship for 25. He seemed a good guy so why not.
So the following day I frantically ordered all the products required to shave, exfoliate, smooth, trim and moisturise a normally happy in it’s own skin body. I thought I should make some effort for my own pride. I ordered a few pairs of sexy knickers. Asda granny pants were not going to cut it. I bought a travel toothbrush and prepared my handbag for impromptu overnight stays at his, oh and the obligatory tube of Canesten for emergencies. You ladies will know what I mean. I blitzed my little bungalow, dusting for the first time in weeks, tidied my art supplies out of the way and put a nice new usb plug at his side of the bed for his phone. After 5 changes of clothes I was all set. Well nearly.
Anyone that has ever had a bowel operation will know the fret of ‘The Last Minute Poo’ and he turned up half an hour early. Just great.
He arrived with flowers and bottles of wine and Irish whiskey. I could hardly fault the man. An hour later though I was secretly rolling my eyes, though I didn’t really have to be secret about it. He wouldn’t have noticed. It was all about him. Him again. A bit more about him. Cutting short my sentences to talk completely about something else but also about him. He also took up too much room on my sofa. Manspreading (‘ I’ve got lots of jeans me, wranglers, Levis, others that I can’t remember, blah blah’) with his supposed Benidorm tan in December and his big man watch. Trying to be overtly sexual. Like he was some sort of prize.
So a little reality check is needed here…
Thing is I struggle to look at grey haired old men my age anymore and fancy them. They are pale and washed out, bland and tired looking. I don’t expect men to fancy me either. It’s not about sex anymore we are in a part of our lives that is about other things. Mine is more peaceful and reflective yet rich with feelings. I have my daughter and my dogs and walks and my art and my online businesses. I can go to bed at 6pm and watch weird indie films with small dog cuddles on either side. It’s about playing Soundgarden on full blast with headphones one night and Miley the next and no judgement. I can stay up till 3am as I write this drinking whiskey and chocolate milk. I can eat massive plates of homemade toad in the hole and gravy or have a tin of chicken soup with bread dropped in whilst I watch episodes of The Neighbour From Hell on Youtube. I can have long hot baths reading and no one asking me what I’m thinking, what I’m doing, what my plans are. It’s being able to get my easel out that takes up so much room. It’s about wearing comfy big knickers. I talk to women my age who are married and I know several who envy my freedom. What I have is precious to me.
A little example: he rang one day to check if I was ok because I hadn’t been online for 20 hours. I seriously don’t know how to even write about that without stating the obvious.
So anyway this man thing was invading my space. I thought for fucks sake I’m going to have to get drunk. So I did.
A bit later he says ‘I’m going to bed now’. Seriously? You are telling me in my house that you are going to bed now? Priceless. I just said ok then you do that and went and sat at my pc and put my headphones on. A little while later, after he’s had a wank in my bed ( I found the wad of tissue the next day) he appears in the living room to inform me that he’s going home now. Oh ok, bye then.
I quickly battened down the hatches and took my doggies to bed. Come 7am he’s knocking on my door again. Wisely he didn’t drink and drive, I will give him that much and had slept in his car. He was eager to come in and ‘talk’. Yeh right. I’d already seen the two ‘unsent messages’ he’d written last night and hastily deleted this morning when his boner took precedence. I told him to go home and we’d talk later then I blocked him on my phone.
Ah well I thought we live and learn and sent all the new underwear back unopened.
Fast forward four days and I’m on messenger and notice his profile pic has changed so I have a little nosy. He’s only suddenly ‘In A Relationship’. From the day after he left mine in fact. What is this? ‘How to get your own back’ circa Jackie Magazine Dec 1975 issue? Young girls sharing a fag behind the sports block and earnestly urging their bestie on saying ‘yeh that’ll teach him’.
I’m embarrassed for him. I’m embarrassed for myself. On the night he was round at mine he told me in all sincerity how he had to tell me something. That in fact he had been seeing someone and that he’d been around to see them and told them he couldn’t anymore because he was seeing me. Because that’s the kind of guy he was. Oh bless him. What a nice guy.
So this other woman where did she come from? Lots of congrats on their facebook pages hoping they will be very happy together. The poor cow. How many more has he got in tow?
How did I fall for the banter and the spiel? Because for a little while it does our egos good. It’s a nice feeling to be told that you’re really liked as it kicks off the feel good hormones. I felt a little bit special for a few days. But really it’s all a smokescreen. A form of manipulation that drips from men’s mouths as thick and viscous as heated molasses. Warm and unctuous and predatory and as old as the hills. A ways to a means.