This is ourselves

I try to be honest when I write. But I’m also very conscious of people I write about or reference. Although I can count the people who read this without needing my toes, I’m careful not to make people obviously identifiable; while my “inner circle” might know who they are, the casual reader wouldn’t. I also attempt to be balanced and acknowledge that my feelings and views aren’t the only possible perspective and be sensitive to other peoples’ feelings and situations.

I’ve been particularly aware of that recently as, although I haven’t seen or heard from the boy (or “the fuckwit” as he’s now known to my friends) since our final meet, I know he’s active on Twitter (it was “our space” for a brief period) and still follows me. This blog is linked to my Twitter account so it’s possible he may read it.

He also blogs. Mainly poetry or political prose and I’ve consciously not looked at it since we ended things. However I was tipped off that there was a new post that I might want to read. I wish I hadn’t. It’s a recounting of a night out with a friend. From the headline that’s all good. Time with friends is precious and can be a much needed restorative.

Bearing in mind we parted ways because, although he allegedly cared deeply about me, he felt he needed to give his 25-year relationship one last attempt at resuscitation, even though it had apparently been dead in the water for over a decade. Imagine therefore my joy at reading about his evening of chatting up various barmaids and handing out his contact details. Yep. You got it. He clearly doesn’t have the same ethics or cares about his potential readership as I do. More fool me.

From deluded idealist to complete player in one fell swoop. I definitely got played and I’m an idiot for believing anything he said. And blokes wonder why women have trust issues! There must be one decent single bloke out there, surely. Someone prove me right, please.

It’s my party

So this week has been “interesting” as they say, with some highs and real lows both personally and professionally. However it’s now Saturday and I’ve been looking forward to tonight for weeks. Off to the Woo to spend time celebrating me with some of my closest friends. I can’t wait to be with people who genuinely care about me.

True, lasting friendship is one of life’s real joys. As soon as you work out those who are just around out of habit, only there for their own benefit, or while times are good, you can really start to identify the folk who are always there when you need them; tenacious supporters (& piss-takers at times) who always have your back and are in your corner. Clearly they must do yoga in their spare time to be that limber…

Anyway I’m seeing a lot of them tonight and so, for today at least, all is good. Love you guys.

Moving on

To give the boy his due, we did actually meet up and have a conversation about his “Dear John” text.  His suggestion.  I wasn’t entirely sure how things would go, but we met up in town and had a few drinks.  The conversation wasn’t too awkward, and it turns out it was him and not me.  Ha!  I’ve referred to him as a fuckwit and as going through some kind of midlife crisis and I’m not taking that back, but we left our evening amicably and as friends still, I think.

On the way home I booked tickets for a music festival in Paris as commiseration, and am also in the process of booking two weeks away in the Outer Hebrides, so there is good stuff happening.  Also had a few sneaky doughnuts (oops) but as I’ve just bought the Tom Kerridge healthy eating cookbooks, those are off the menu again now.  I refuse to wallow!

So back being single again.  Oh well.  Onwards and upwards – and I’m looking around all the corners.

Reserving judgments and infinite hope

They say you should never meet your heroes.  That should probably also extend to cover dating  your crushes.   I’ve recently had a few dates with someone I first met two decades ago and who has carried a little torch for me ever since.

I am sure that with every interaction the image he’s built up of me over the last twenty years is slowly but surely being eroded, and the pedestal I was unwittingly on is being chipped away.  That’s not necessarily a bad thing; from my perspective anyway.

I’m a fiercely independent, healthily quizzical (some might say cynical…) realist with an established sense of self.  I am also not the same person I was in my late 20s when we originally met and I suspect this may be something of a revelation.  Who could live up to the pressure of an idealised version of themselves though?  Indeed, to quote F Scott Fitzgerald, There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams — not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion.

But perhaps I’m being unfair.  I’m not used to being the object of someone’s affection in this way; never before been someone’s muse and I think this makes me extra sensitive to reactions and responses; not the best combination with my already over-analytical brain.  I know that usually I am a bit of an acquired taste, and am well aware of my own feet of clay, so I struggle with someone just liking me regardless.

Within my friendship group there are some very healthy relationships with couples finding the path to bring out the best in each other – the whole definitely being more than the sum of the parts.  That’s the synergy I hope to find for myself in my next serious relationship.   Perhaps I am also guilty of pedestalling  (I’d hesitate to label it as self-sabotaging) and comparing each of my relationships to an ideal that no-one will be able to match.

I’m not one for making New Year resolutions, but I probably need to be a bit more open minded this year in my romantic escapades to prevent repeating previous mistakes or unfair judgments.  While thinking about this piece I have had the last paragraph of The Great Gatsby buzzing around my head so will finish with that.   With Jay Gatsby’s long-nurtured, obsessive love for Daisy Buchanan being pivotal to the plot, it’s not entirely unrelated. 

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter – tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further… And one fine morning —–

And so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

F Scott Fitzgerald – The Great Gatsby