**Having written this, I now urge you to skip it. It’s long, it’s meandering and it does not make me look good. But at least now I’m not turning it over in my head any longer. It’s my blog and I’ll whine if I want to. **
Nope, this isn’t another forum-driven celebrity threesome opportunity. Far from it – and actually, it’s a threesome I’d probably avoid. Between the heroin and the gerbils, it’d get messy. If this were an episode of Friends, it would be The One Where Everyone Thinks I’m Kind Of A Bitch. But I’ll live with that. At times, I AM kind of a bitch. Funnily enough, I took the unprecedented step of sending this to my best friend for a once over as I am a little concerned that I’m going to come over as a massive shitbag. She said says I’m not a bitch and “this is all stuff we’ve heard about Dave before”. In other words, I’m getting repetitive and my close friend are already used to what a bitch I am, so nothing shocks them any longer! In any case, I just want to tie together a few threads of things I’ve realised/learned because they’ve been knocking around in my head for a while and I’ve crystallised them into a few recent conversations. It’s only fair to warn you that the other parties in said conversations have generally looked at me in appalled horror. You may too. Without ruining the punchline, suffice it to say that I’ve realised that during my time with Dave, I plummeted to depths of self-absorption that I previously believed impossible. You can lead an only child to water, but you can’t force them to not pee in it if they’re not thirsty.
So… Once all the dust had cleared and settled, I realised that the sole emotion I retain towards Dave is abject fury. And I mean a searing, laser-hot, cauldron of loathing. I mean to the extent that I genuinely have idle thoughts about beating him around the head repeatedly with an anvil (I may have watched too many cartoons as a child). Then I think about the logistics – could I lift an anvil? Nope, would have to do some training. Where does one get an anvil from? And I think about the expression on his stupid face as the anvil headed his way. Now, he’s in no immediate danger of an impending anvil attack as I’m far too lazy to start actually lifting and wielding anvils, but I continue to wish him harm from the bottom of my (admittedly shallow) heart. I hope with every fibre of my being that he dies alone and in pain. To paraphrase Richard Gere in Pretty Woman “Hello, my name is […], I am very angrywith Dave”. I even get angry when the football team he supports wins – I walk past a desk occasionally where the guy’s screensaver is Dave’s team winning a cup and my blood starts to boil. And I wish subsidiary harm on his girlfriend, which is the most ludicrous thing ever. I swear, I saw something in the paper about some woman in her 30s getting beaten or murdered or something and I thought “Hmmm, I hope that’s Dave’s girlfriend”. Like it’s HER fault that he dumped me. I also do this thing where every girl I pass, I think 1) I’d be gutted if she was Dave’s girlfriend, because she’s much prettier than me or 2) I’d be gutted if she was Dave’s girlfriend, because she’s much uglier than me. The ones that are mid-range I decided whether I’m gutted because they are better or worse dressed than me. I am mental. Really. If I was a dog I’d have had the lethal injection by now. But the anger I feel that we’re not together is only slightly greater than the anger I feel that a) he got another girlfriend so quickly and b) they’re still together. In my head, they still have this super-duper-perfect relationship where he does all the stuff with her that he wouldn’t with me (e.g. make plans, eat food other than potatoes, leave his north-of-london comfort zone occasionally, get a proper haircut) c) I still think that (and listen carefully as I say this) I made him less of a loser than when we first got together, so this will undoubtedly have contributed to him finding another girlfriend more quickly, ergo, I helped him find True Happiness with someone else. Can you hear my teeth grinding? They key here, is that I always thought of him as kind of a loser. Now, it’s already been gently suggested to me that whatever ‘improvements’ I may have made to him merely served to try to make him conform to an image I had in my head of what I wanted my boyfriend to be like and maybe, just maybe, the new girlfriend was attracted to Old Pre-Me Dave. Which I found preposterous.
Because here’s the thing. The reason for all the rage is because I am stupefied that a loser like Dave would dump somebody like me. I told you you wouldn ‘t like me very much. But for over 18 months now, I’ve had a pretty constant mantra of “I can’t BELIEVE someone like HIM would dump someone like ME”. Now, for the first year or so of having these thoughts, I was utterly focused on my own pain and loss that ensued. Then, as the mantra continued (as these things are wont to do), I listened to it a little more closely. And realised that the whole time we were together I did think of him as “someone like HIM”. Even when we first got together (oh, first flush of romance) I got into the whole thing pretty cynically, thinking, “yeah, he’s ok, everyone seems to think it’s a good idea, I am DEFINITELY ready for someone to fall totally in love with me and this dude hasn’t got an awful lot else going on for himself, so he’s bound to do the honours”. But (as we know) ’twas not to be. So I’ve spent between a year and eighteen months (let’s not forget Project Reconciliation) gnashing my teeth because, unlike the A-Team, my plan didn’t come together. Which is pretty poor. Even in the first throes of The Mighty Dumping Part II, I remember having conversations about how-we-simply-had-to-get-back-together-dontcha-know and my friends and family would enquire as to why I had decided that Dave was the be-all-and-end-all of my girlish hopes and dreams. And I would whimper/sob “Because it was all so CONVENIENT!”. Yep. Convenience. You remember convenience? All the great lovers have set massive store by convenience: Helen and Paris, Romeo and Juliet, Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning. Tales of their enduring love are PACKED with convenience. And in any case, Dave’s rep for convenience was based on incredibly shaky foundations:
1) Right age
2) Right height
3) His parents would definitely babysit our kids a lot when the time came (genuine factor in his favour, clutching at straws anyone?)
4) Said parents also have a house in Spain. I ALWAYS wanted a boyfriend whose parents had a house abroad.
5) had never been a drug addict or had kids
6) he was solid and a bit dull, and dull will never cheat on you or leave you and break your heart (try not to be overwhelmed by the warm and fuzzy feeling that has no doubt enveloped you as you read this touching list)
That was about it. Convenient. And on this, I pinned everything, for some obscure reason. All I know is that I definitely wanted someone to propose to me and if I was going to be married and bored shitless, then Dave was the guy to do it with. I know. I’m shaking my head with you. This was actually already kinda reinforced to me a year or so ago, when some friends and I played the to-become-legendary game of “What’s Dave Good At?”. We were on a beach in Spain and, apropos of nothing, one of my friends asked me if Dave ever used to lift me up. Now, Dave was just over 6ft and weighed about 15 stone. I’m 5ft 4 and my weight fluctuates anywhere between 9 1/2 to 10 1/2st (I’m 90% boobs, remember). If the topic of picking me up ever arose, Dave would look absolutely horrified. It was not flattering. So I revealed this and we all laughed a lot. Then the questions started:
“could he fix things”
“no – his parents fix everything for him”
“was he outdoorsy and rugged?”
“not so much”
“was he good at sport?”
“he played, but even he said he was rubbish. He used to get really frustrated about it”
“did he read and stuff?”
“no”
“was he funny”
“not really” [I still remember the funniest thing Dave ever said, we were talking about about Barnsley chops and I couldn’t remember what they were called. Dave proffered: “chop-chop?”. I’m not kidding, this was the funniest joke he ever told. Which is why I remember it. A few times, he even tried to pass off remarks that I’d just made to him as his own jokes in front of a group of people. Really. And I’d call him out on it. Every time. Hahaha! No wonder he dumped me. But really. So no, Dave laughed easily, but was definitely NOT funny. Bless him]
“could he cook?”
“no, and he was a fussy eater”
And on and on it went, as we laughed and laughed.
“What WAS he good at?”
“Ummmm… *thought hard for 30 seconds* He knew a lot about cricket.”
“Do you LIKE cricket?”
“No”
And I don’t tell you this to underline Dave’s flaws, just to demonstrate the sheer ludicrousness of the whole thing. I was (and still am) tearing my insides out over this guy when – in my eyes – he had no redeeming features, beyond the convenience of his non-drug-addicted, house-in-spain situation.
To reinforce, these are the things that bugged the shit out of me about him on a daily basis (daily is bad enough, but honestly, some of these were hourly…):
1) Hair. He had a really rubbish haircut AND was receding. I used to look at him and wonder how bald he’d be in 10 years’ time and if I could bear it. Ahhh, true love…
2) Teeth
3) Eyebrows
4) Weak chin
5) Lack of drive
6) Stupid simpering expression he used to get on his face sometimes
7) His mum still came round to do his ironing/clean his flat. One time, he was going away with his parents (which he did 4 times in the couple of years we were together, each time paid for by them) for a fortnight. I was spending the night at his before he left and we went into his flat which was freezing because his parents had already been round to turn off the heating, put the lights on a timer and empty the fridge. So we were cold and hungry. Awesome. Plus I had to face the fact that my boyfriend was a giant Mummy’s boy. Nothing’s hotter than that.
8) After the first pangs of lust, we were not that well matched in the bedroom – each of us thought the other was a bit weird. We were probably both right. Even the stuff he said during the lovin’ made me cringe. This was never to be a successful union.
9) I wanted (and still want, damn my eyes) someone to adore me utterly and believe I was a creature like no other. Dave did not make me feel this way and I decided that this was because I just wasn’t trying hard enough (I mean obviously… So much ego yet apparently the self-esteem of an underacheiving gnat. What a winning combination…). So the entire time we were together, it felt like an uphill struggle. Backwards. Whilst wearing stilts and balancing a tea-tray on a thimble. And it didn’t matter how many tedious, embittering things I did with or for him, he still didn’t like me any better. Because we just didn’t fit. But I still feel I failed somehow. And I’m angry (angry!) that Dave, who was not nearly as bright as I like to think I am, figured out that it was wiser to just cut his/our losses whilst I was still desperately clinging on. I mean, I was already miserable, what was a lifetime more misery together?!
10) He was sooooooo limited and, by default, limiting. He was one of those I-know-what-I-like-why-try-anything-new types and as I’ve already mentioned, is likely to be sitting in the same pub with the same friends 3 times a week for the next 50 years. At the time and during my mourning, i’d harp on about how comforting it would be to know exactly what you’ll be doing for the next 50 years. Comforting if you’ve had a frontal lobotomy maybe. There’s nothing wrong with being a small-town boy with small-town ideals, but I’m a small-town gal who got out of said small-town FOR A REASON. So I was constantly frustrated by his unwillingness to do anything that tested the boundaries of his (limited) experience, be it spending a weekend away from his friends or eating tomatoes. I wish I was joking about the tomatoes. I remember once, as a determined attempt on his part to show that he was not a total food nightmare, he helped me skin some tomatoes. He said afterwards it made him retch a bit. Remember what I said about not-so-rugged? The whole thing made him really, really boring. He had his heart broken by an ex who dumped him (after 3 years) on the basis that they “never did anything interesting together”. You’d think this would give a person a giant kick in the arse. Instead, he just carried on being boring (and hey, really, if he;’ happy that way it was more my problem than his) and couting on finding girls who were more interested in the fact of having a boyfriend than actually doing anything fun with said boyfriend (I am genuinely horrified to realise I was in that category). It’s also why it was a blow to hear that he’d gone to Edinburgh for NYE with The New GF. That’s literally the most interesting thing he’s done with a girlfriend in about 10 years. Again, I suspect this one’s a keeper (incidentally, whilst I’m getting this all off my chest, I might as well reveal that I think thety will get married, but only after she gets knocked up on purpose. Mark my words…)
11) He was, how to put it…? A bit naff. I can’t believe I just used the word naff. My close encounter with “natch” recently has obviously rebooted my vocabulary back to 1983. But that’s what he was. And I am going to sound like the most godawful bitch here. I’m sorry. Exhibit A for the prosecution: Dave was not that academically gifted. I used to exclaim loudly with bewilderment that his parents had paid through the nose for his schooling and yet he’d emerged fundamentally uneducated (again, my constant exclamations about this may have been a contributory factor in him dumping me. Fair ’nuff). He didn’t knowANYTHING (cricket aside). I remember going with him to the British Museum and having to explain that people and dinosaurs did not co-exist. So he ended up going to a mediocre university – a friend who is even more of an intellectual snob than I claimed never to have heard of it; it is one of the better-known former polys, but is definitely not recognised as an academic powerhouse – to obtain a mediocre result in an utterly meaningless degree. And yet, he had his degree certificate proudly framed in his bedroom (the intellectual snob got me to send her a photo of it, which I’m ashamed to admit that I did. And this was during the honeymoon period!). The only other frame on his bedroom wall contained a framed picture of Ian Botham (Exhibit B, he was 29 when we started going out). And (C) he had a load of stuffed toys that were gifts from former girlfriends proudly displayed around his flat. And (D) a bagful more under the bed. And (E – I’m going to hell) his parents’ cars had consecutive personalised numberplates. You may have read this and now frown upon me for being such a heinous snob. That may be. The fact remains that a heinous snob like me wad always going to struggle to reconcile the concept of Happiness That Lasts A Lifetime with a guy whose greatest intellectual pursuit was completing the medium difficulty Sudoku in the Evening Standard (which he managed about twice a fortnight).
12) His CD collection was my personal musical Room 101. I know I’ve already mentioned that he loved Simply Red. Throw in Phil Collins (and Genesis), James Blunt, Snow Patrol, Katie Melua, approx 10 Boyzone/Westlife CDs, Michael Bolton, Robbie Williams, Razorlight, Dido, David Gray, Stereophonics and I’m going to have to stop typing now before I slit my wrists. In his defence, he shared my love of 80s music. Although more Wham than Kraftwerk.
13) So, as well as being dull, kinda annoying and having nothing whatsoever in common with me, he was also deeply moody. More so than the average guy, even. Of course, this may have been to do with the fact that he was stuck with a girlfriend who thought he was dull and annoying and who he had nothing whatsoever in common with.
14) He lived in a suburban suburb in north-of-london, but would always claim to live in London. Whatever… Even if geographical boundaries might support his claim, he didn’t know where anything was and had no concept of how the tube worked or where anything was beyond the 2 changes he had to make to get to work (after making a lengthy journey by train from north-of-london. He always used to say that he didn’t need to know the tube map, all he needed to do was look at the display map when he got to a tube station. Now, I can see that there’s a great deal of logic in this statement, but it used to frustrate the hell out of me that he claimed to have lived “in London” for over 30 years, yet had no idea what tube lines Oxford Street was on. I mean really. Even japanese tourists majnage to figure that one out after 24 hours and they use a totally different alphabet.
So the times that I get all angry about the fact that he’s got someone else and that he’s probably much happier with her, just means that he’s with someone who acknowledges all the above and just doesn’t see them as an issue. And I may require medical help because then I get angrythat he’s got someone in spite of all these flaws that plainly make him utterly impossible to live with. Which, yet again, begs the questions as to why I’m even bothered that we’re not together when I can’t understand how someone else would want to go out with him in the first place. I am one mixed-up kid. And I think The Universe has acknowledged that. People tend to get what they wish for, if it’s what’s right for them. The Universe has, in its time, sent me awesome places to live, at least one great job, incredible friends and countless pairs of shoes. Some people have crappy jobs but incredible husbands/wives because they’re better at being a spouse to that person than they would ever be at any job they did. I’m pretty good at my job (she said, whilst typing this at work – it’s a slow day. plus TC’s on holiday, so I’ve freed up the half-hour a day I usually spend craning my neck to look at him) but right now I’m a toxic witch with a heart full of bile. So it’s probably for the best that I don’t have anyone in my orbit for now. Plus, if we consider TC (ahhh, TC), he is a prime reason why it is not safe for me to be around men right now. Let’s compile evidence. I like and long for him because:
1) He is hot
2) He is clever
3) He probably has bags of cash
4) He’s tall
I shouldn’t like him because:
1) He seems largely humourless
2) He is rude and dismissive of me and others so lacks both charm AND manners
3) He is, fundamentally, a maths geek with a good haircut
4) He’s such an effort – life has to be easier than torturing yourself over some uninterested geek (even if he does have cool glasses)?!
So until I stop investing myself in the wrong kind of person for the wrong kind of reasons (for anyone reading this who’s as shallow as I am, houses in spain and cool glasses are the wrong kinds of reasons) then I think another boyfriend is not for me. Life is great right now, and if I’m honest, I’ve been more miserable than not in my last 2 relationships, mainly due to my ability to pick the wrong guys for the wrong reasons and (even more) to my ability to cling on tenaciously to a disaster even when it’s All Going Wrong, because I can’t cope with the idea that they won’t love and adore me enough to make it All Go Right. I mentioned the part where I’m a mixed-up kid, right?
And the Winehouse fits in because she says it pretty well:
I don’t understand,
Why do I stress a man
When there’s so many better things at hand.
We coulda never had it all.
We had to hit a wall,
So this is inevitable withdrawal.
I shouldn’t play myself again,
I should just be my own best friend,
Not fuck myself in the head with stupid men.
This is the only time in his life that Dave will be compared to Blake Fielder-Civil. Although they do both have shit hair.
So there we have it. My hope is that now I’ve spewed this all out, I can stop thinking about it and get on with getting on. Although several thousand words later, I’m still angry, which is the least productive emotion ever and I feel vastly embarrassed that I’ve bored the collective asses off my friends, endlessly bleating about my misery, when it’s mostly unfounded and virtually entirely self-inflicted. They invested hours of theirs lives into consoling me, when perhaps they should have just given me a hearty slap and reminded me of the fact that he regularly wore polo shirts with the collar up. In my defence, it became pretty obvious post Break Up MkII that the overwhelming majority of my friends had figured out long before that Dave wasn’t exactly my ideal match. So next time, speak up kids! I acknowledge that I make crappy decisions, so I’m leaving it up to you to steer me clear of my future disasters. Unless sad disasters’ parents have a house in Spain. Then I just won’t listen.
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