Lesson Learned

Lesson: Nothing that good ever comes that easy.

So we were into day 3 and still nothing from SH. Opinion was split roughly 60/40 between “just text him, you’ve nothing to lose” vs “hang in there, chill out, he’ll be in touch”.

Unfortunately, as mentioned, I was working to a pretty tricky timescale and every day that he didn’t text meant that my life would become more of a logistical nightmare if/when (WHEN) he did. So, even though it went against the advice of every dating self-help book I’ve ever read, not to mention my own high maintenance sensibilities, I went ahead and texted him.

Just in case you thought I entered into this lightly: oh no… I took me 5 hours of driving 2 of my friends (one male, one female) nuts over chat to come up with this text-to-end-all-texts. I rejected dozens of suggestions. And, frankly, nearly lost 2 friends! Even I could see that this was getting way out of hand: “It’s only a text!”. Only a text it may be, but screw it up and you’re in Land Of No Recovery. And what was so annoying was that I had no inclination that SH was the-guy-to-end-all-guys. He was just some drunken superhot guy. But one that I wanted to see again to see if only to determine whether he really was as hot as i remembered though a fug of tequila.

So anyway, after a staggeringly unproductive day at the office, I sent this at around 3:30pm:
So, I got your text from Saturday – is there a sequel?! Let me know if you still want that drink. If not, I’ll assume you’ve developed a sudden phobia of plaits

A masterpiece, right? Probably not worthy of 5 hours of my time, but still. And i threw the plaits thing in there so that if he was struggling to remember who I was, this would give him a pointer – I mean, how many bavarian hobags could he possibly have encountered.

So off that plucky text travelled, all the way from my outbox onto the international telecommunications network. And I waited. And waited. And waited. And still NOTHING. A full 14 seconds had passed – what the hell was going on?? Realising the very real danger that temporary insanity posed, I went and left my phone with a friend on my floor at work (one of 2 long-sufferers who’d been supporting me through the day) just so that I could get something done. She said I couldn’t get it back until 5pm. Fine with me. Now, where did I leave the tiny remnants of my career…?

As it turned out, she cracked at 4:43 and said my phone had beeped. I lasted about 14 seconds then sprinted round to her desk – attracting some confused looks from around the floor.

So here it was, all my girlish hopes pinned on it. My girlish hopes are somewhat dashed at the realisation that SH and punctuation are not friends:
Hey there, a sequel hey, hope all’s well with you! How was the rest of your Saturday night then?? What’s ‘plaits’ by the way?

What’s plaits??? You goober. But still, he’s a superhot goober. although I have a creeping realisation that I had feared he was a little nice-but-dim on Saturday, but had put it down to his state of inebriation. A state I myself had been in the grip of that night.

Incredibly, I manage to compose a reply in only 1/10 of the time it took me to compose the original:
Rest of Saturday was uneventful – Tina Turner’s boyfriend gave us a lift home which was a bonus. You? My hair was in plaits. I guess I’m actually relieved you have limited knowledege of ladies’ hairdressing though.

So yeah – I was THE GIRL IN PLAITS who was with TINA TURNER. This will now definitely set me apart from the pack in the unlikely event his memory is a little hazy. Although again, it seems spectacularly unfeasible that he will have forgotten me. I mean, the flirtation spanned HOURS. Anyway, I settle down for another fraught wait.

Here it is:
Ahhh, got ya. Tina Turner hey? Isn’t she a bit old to be out and about in Clapham? Very good night, far too many shandys for me by the end though! I ta*some text missing*

*some text missing*??? stupid phone. What a lame joke re Tina Turner though. hmmmm… He is Superhot though. God I’m shallow. Ooh, message has updated:

…I take it you were at that pub/club in Clapham?

Oh. My. God. He has no idea who I am. HE HAS NO IDEA WHO I AM!!!!!! He. Has. No. Idea. Who. I. Am. In fact, it sounds like he doesn’t even know where he was! Feel slightly sick. How is this possible? I mean, ok, I’m not Kylie but it would appear that any concept of me has been vacuumed out of his brain. Also, why the hell did he bother texting back if he had no idea who I was???

Gutted.

I mail one of my good friends to tell her this shock news, then call her about 30 seconds later so we can chew this over together. Am aghast. Part of me really does see the funny side – I stressed about this for days (I love a stress, me) and might have carried on stressing for the rest of time whilst he carried on with life oblivious to my very existence. And he must now be wondering who this random, plaited, tina turner befriending girl is. But part of me is mortified and more than a little insulted. I didn’t even register as a blip!!! I bet Pretty Hot remembers me… Gah.

Anyway, I decide to retreat with as much grace as I can muster:
Wow. I’d say you definitely had too many shandies if you have to ask! Does this mean you’re not going to make good on your promise to buy me a pony? I feel so betrayed ;o)

Obviously he didn’t offer to buy me a pony, but I think this might make him wonder what the fuck else he did that night. And given the ego-destroying circumstnaces, I think this is a heroic effort.

The last words we’ll ever share are:
Guilty as charged there I think, too many shots for me, whoops! A pony hey? That’ll teach me to drink too much!

Yeah. You idiot. How incredibly annoying. I have this superhot guy’s number in my phone and it is of no use to me whatsoever. Have small hope he asks friends who the girl with the plaits was and they all say “oh my god, she was AMAZING” and he gets total recall. But even the most optimistic part of me knows this is not to be.

Ah well. It was a beautiful dream while it lasted. NEXT!