Chapter One
“Hey. I see your glass is empty. Can I buy you a drink?”
I looked at the guy who sported a pair of glasses and an American accent.
I like bespectacled men, and he met my height-requirements.
“Sure. Why not? Thanks,” I shrugged with a tired smile.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always been capable of buying my own drinks. Up to my mid-twenties I had the strict policy of only accepting beverages from men with whom I actually had at least short-term plans with.
Nevertheless, I had come to the realisation that men who want to buy you a drink always have an agenda.
My new friend presented me with a tall glass.
“I’m Breck. What’s your name?”
Breck? Oh well. I put it down to cruel parents.
“Julia.”
“Where you from?” he asked.
I tried to limit my eye-rolling to a minimum at such heights of conversational skills.
“I’m local. You?”
“Chicago.”
“Nice.”
So we chatted.
It was nice.
He was nice.
Nice in a doormatty way.
Or maybe he was nice, and I was arsy and jaded.
Half the time I wasn’t even listening.
It was just like the other hundreds of times.
He was definitely not like Mickey.
Which should have been a good thing.
Except, it wasn’t.
“London’s great. A pretty girl like you must have quite an exciting life in this city,” Breck said.
Pretty girls. Bah.
I wasn’t a girl.
No female over the age of thirty should refer to themselves as a girl (or sport pigtails), unless, in my opinion, they battled some serious mental issues, in my opinion.
No, no, no. I shouldn’t say that. I know enough decent females between the ages of twelve and ninety-five (and up) who do that. It’s their choice. Fine. I’m just a bit touchy about everything. Cos I’m a miserable cow.
Anyway.
I, for one, am a woman who had recently – well, three years ago - undergone the humiliating experience of having a birthday party thrown for her with the motto “30 is the new 20!”
Was I pretty?
Some guys thought so, some not so much.
According to common consensus; my most redeeming features were my eyes, my hair and my taste in music and perfumes.
I definitely wasn’t one of the dress-wearing, nail-salon regulars.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course.
If I don’t watch what I eat and don’t work out at least three times a week, (okay, maybe twice… fine, once is okay as well, as long as I do it), I balloon.
So far, I haven’t had any plastic surgery, but I decided a few years ago that I will, as soon as someone calls me ‘madam’.
The least I can expect in exchange for all that effort is to be called pretty by a horny, semi-drunk tourist in a dark place, at three in the morning.
“Yep, my life is so exciting that I have to take digitalis-pills on an hourly basis,” I responded.
“I’m kidding,” I added when I saw the slightly worried look in Breck’s eyes.
“You’re funny. I really like you,” he misguidedly said to me.
“Why?” I snapped at him.
“Dunno. You’re nice,” he stammered, taken aback.
“How do you know that? You don’t even know me.”
“I’d like to get to know you.”
Suddenly, red mist had descended upon me.
“No, you don’t. I’m a horrible person. Leave me alone!” I shouted to make sure he could hear me despite the pounding music, and stormed off.
I know; I was a horrible cow then.
I know, it wasn’t his fault, but I’ve had enough of men for a while.
Enough of meaningless chats with strangers.
Enough of one-night-stands.
Enough of promises of serious relationships screeching to a halt in a dead-end as soon as I showed the slightest interest.
I wished I was back home, curled up in my bed.
‘Never again. I’m done’, I promised myself.
Alright, let’s make something clear; being single can be fun and enviable by people stuck in boring marriages.
It can be glamorous.
I’ve done most of the fun things in my life while being single; travelling all over the world (all continents except Australia so far), attending outrageous parties, and of course, sleeping with whomever I fancied having sex with.
Despite all the pros, it was getting harder and harder to ignore the gnawing doubts that reared their ugly heads more and more often.
What did I lack that prevented men proposing to me?
Why was I good enough for a no-strings-attached-relationship, but not for the role of a potential wife?
I found myself comparing myself to married women.
She’s older than me.
She’s fatter than me.
She’s uglier than me.
She’s less educated than me.
I tried to shake those feelings, but it got harder by the day.
I wasn’t alone, but I was lonely.
It started to feel like a sickness.
A clammy disease that exuded the stench of desperation.
Not that I want to be dramatic about it.
Still.
It seemed that whatever I did just wasn’t good enough.
I couldn’t do it anymore.
I got to the point where I vowed to take myself off the shelf.
I could hear my friends asking “How will you ever meet someone if you don’t go out?”
Well, as it seems, I couldn’t do it by putting myself out there.
Oh, and if you think ‘not going out’ meant that I would register for some online dating agencies; you’re so wrong.
I hate the whole concept of dating. I need a bucket as soon as I hear the word ‘dating’.
It was probably invented by a man who wanted an excuse for seeing several women at the same time.
I like to meet guys through my friends, by running into them in a club in the middle of the night, or through my work and hobbies.
If we decide that we like each other, we meet up and then, we can see what happens from there.
If I like him and he likes me; something may develop.
But if I find out that at the same time he’s seeing somebody else…
Well, then that’s not ‘keeping his options open’ or ‘just dating’; it’s good old fashioned cheating or simply down to the fact that he just doesn’t like me enough.
Which of the historical or literal romantic couples had ever considered the option of dating other people? Is falling in love and wanting to be with somebody not a possibility anymore?
I don’t want to be an option. I’m not an item on a fast-food restaurant’s menu.
Don’t even get me started on asking each other whether or not you’re being exclusive.
Does that sound conceited or big-headed?
Oh well, if you haven’t managed to build up a certain amount of self-confidence by the time you’re in your thirties; then, God help you.
My other problem with dating is that it’s like a job interview that takes place in a restaurant for the position of girlfriend. What’s the next step after you make sure that you tick all of each other’s boxes? Shake on it, and try to fall in love?
I’m happy if that works for some people, but it’s definitely not for me.
I tried it once. Never again.
Anyway. I was done with all of it.
There might be someone out there for me, but I was tired of trying to track him down.
I had tried everything.
Nothing had worked so far.
I would rather just stay at home.
As it turned out; for once, I could keep that promise.
