Life’s Lectures - Part One

The dread on my face walking into work that Tuesday morning after my romantic venture, (not). They were going to ask; not because they were typical nosy office types (give or take the desperate fish-wives), and more so intrigued, enthusiastic. I felt like I had been appointed as some sort of courageous role model in my search for love, when I was just another fool. The days of the brokers with Sam were behind me and my new place had not only promoted me, but gifted me genuine warm people who had looked after me through my darkest hour: when move in day of my hideaway was me, a sleeping bag and no electricity staring at luminous snowfall through the night. These people felt some sort of responsibility towards me which I never had to ask for. I really didn’t want to be more of a burden, bringing more tales of woe to add to my collection (Ffs!). I had exceeded my annual dosage of sympathy – and it was only February.

So I waltzed in – embodying Mariah Carey’s blasé attitude every time she has a track fuck-up during a live performance – and made casual chit-chat-shit-chat. Then, they asked; some winking and nudging me in that “someone got some dick this weekend…” way. Yeah I got a whole lot of dick without actually being exposed to a bare flesh penis, (the word PUSSY came to mind). My response was some what of “Yeah, so… he stood me up… How was your weekend!?” [Insert shrug/smile], as jaws dropped. No one said “told you so!”, they were shocked, like really fucking shocked. I threw some jokes in the mix for good showmanship.

After taking refuge back at my brothers that night, confusion flooded my thoughts until I came to conclusion around 3am that I had made it all up. I clearly misread the signs, because, well, women do that – don’t we? We’re all crazy and make shit up for no apparent reason other than to cry and bitch about it to our friends. We romanticize situations, embellishing the truth because we’re women and over-emotional.

Shut-the-fuck-up.

Sam told me he loved me, on several occasions I can account for, when I never returned the declaration. He’d been telling me we’d live on the cusp of Essex, in a box flat with a baby boy we’d name Ollie; and we’d take turns of doing the night shift. So, it wasn’t quite champagne over concertos in Vienna, but it was real, achievable. It was ludicrous to consider that I would all of a sudden lose a chunk of my intelligence to accurately assess subject Sam, after intensive research, in spite of my findings being inconclusive. I wasn’t stupid, the subject matter just changed course due to an unidentified factor. Okay, so this is why a lot of women within grasp of relationships have shamelessly embraced the invention of the text screenshot and distributed. As ironic as it seems, we’re not daft dysfunctional beings in doing so – we’re strategically compiling evidence against the men (and women) that do us wrong when they call us a ‘crazy fucking bitch’ to others. It’s a reference tool for when our own sanity is in question #rantover.

The combination of disappointment and rage, accented with colourful expressions of the word “CUNT” were included in the much more fitting reactions of work pals, as opposed to my own. It was appreciated and somewhat hilarious. But, when I returned home that night I obsessed over Sam’s intentions – at the weekend, and at present – I remained blocked from contact. I had been holding on to false hope that he would text me admitting HE fucked everything up between us. I rehearsed in my head what my reaction would be: angry and stern, but forgiving in the end.

My phone radically recovered from the series of text hiccups it had over the last few weeks, in spite of me clutching it in my sleep, (warning – this is a fire hazard!). I however, resorted to safe mode, defragmenting sentiments and deleting cookies. I needed a plan to move forward, but resorted to back-up instead. Twenty minutes later I had drafted the message and hit send.

Aidan replied.