Sunday, July 20, 2008
If she was dead she'd be spinning in her grave at the reference
If you'll forgive the use of an ugly and hackneyed phrase I have always admired people who Put Themselves Out There.
Presumably this is because it's something I just don't do. My motto, such as it exists, being do nothing now to avoid disappointment.
There have been exceptions. Why just a mere eight years ago I asked a boy out for the first (okay, and pretty much last) time. I was in year 11 and he was in year 12. Nursing an embarassingly large crush since we'd worked on the school musical together I was also achingly aware that he was beautiful, very cool and smart while I was, well... smart. Ish. My year 11 ball was coming up and a)being a pussy, and b)sporting coke-bottle-lens spectacles I'd planned to escew the boy thing all together and go with some friends. But somewhere between that plan and the ball I must have had a stroke or something because from absolutely nowhere I plucked up the courage to ask The Object of My Affection (OMA) to come with me. Remembering it now, many years and more boys on, still gives me the chills but at the time it was so simple: I found his number, dialled it and asked him to come to the balll. Fuck knows if he even knew who I was but he said yes. I resisted the temptation to ask him if he was fucking ith me. My most vivid memory of that time is drifting out distractedly to the family kitchen with a shit-eating grin on my face to find dinner: lamb chops. "What's up with you? my brother asked.
I'll spare you the ball and skip right ahead to, by way of comparison, one of the first times I was asked out. Properly asked out, anyway, in a way that was completely unambiguous in an i-would-ultimately-like-to-have-sex-with-you fashion. I was living in London and on my way to my shitty temp job at the time. A man who looked slightly like one of those school teachers in the movies who get done for sleeping with their students was walking the other way. Apropos of apparently nothing he stopped, said hello, sort of apologised and asked if I wanted to get a drink. Flushing, and confused, I said I had to work. He said what about after work? I said I couldn't. He said what about another day? Bright red by now I managed to mumble something like "my boyfriend probably wouldn't be mad keen about it" before an awkward thanks anyway/sorry (me/him). But the net result was that I strolled off down the road feeling pathetically chuffed with what I fancied was my arresting beauty. Of course in reality the stranger was probably either a serial date rapist who, on spotting my puny arms, thought I was unlikely to be able to defend myself, or someone with a freezer full of party parts at home but in my head I was Lauren Bacall.
Why do I bring this all up now? To relieve the jaw-clenching pain of discovering my gloriously hot ball date was actually sort of a pretentious douchebag? To recall exactly what shad of red my face managed to achieve that day in London? Not so much. No, what I've assembled here is evidence, of a sort. A bit of a character reference, if you will, to try to prove that I DO in fact admire a bit of courage when it comes to putting oneself out there so I won't sound like so much of a bitch when I say the next bit.
Because THIS fucking little situation is just about killing me. I no longer CARE what it is or what he wants but I know I don't want anything to do with it. I know, I know: save a seat for me in hell, please - just don't make it two.