Dumped

Good morning!

Well here I am!  Washed and brushed; shiny of coat, lustrous of pelt, and wearing a lovely smile that I tattooed onto my face last night with a rusty nail.

I had a blip.  A wobble.  Last night I chewed my pillow, howled at the universe and wrote some sixth-form cobblers that David Geffen could’ve put a Seattle grunge dirge behind and minted himself another million.  All this after just one and a bit dates.  Johnny Fucking Christ.

Yes.  I was dumped.  Like a teenage twat with his hands in his pockets standing outside his girlfriend’s house; his torn-up love letter falling like confetti around his scuffed shoes.

umm.  are we still on for tomorrow?
umm … are we still on for tomorrow?

It’s a horrible experience becoming a cliché for a few hours.  Ask Stella, she knows. This dumped guy was straight from central casting.  An utter trope.

First there was the premonition.  The pause in correspondence which YOU KNEW was being used to finely tune that final note.

Its arrival.  And funnily enough it didn’t seem to hurt.  Like people in traumatic incidents who look down and notice they’ve lost a leg.

“Oh”, they think.

So I dropped back an immediate, rather jolly reply.  Oh that’s fine, I say.  Yeah, it wasn’t quite right, was it?  Whatever.  Good luck.  See you around.  And I hit the send button.

And then there was the silence.  The feel of something very nice melting away, and pattering onto the floor.  The clock ticked, and my face morphed like a sad clown.  Don’t go.

That’s the thing about dating over social media.  You become conditioned to expect a reply.  You work out your correspondent’s rhythms.  Like two tennis players warming up.  Batting entertainment and attention to each other to keep out the cold.

Knocking the ball to no one and watching it sail off into the car park is not something you’ve become used to.

This is exactly when the trope walks in and asks you to leave.  He’ll take it from here, thank you.

THE STANDARD PROCEDURE

This can’t just stop.  I was enjoying it.

Step One: send another message.  This will read something like, “we should definitely stay in touch, though.  I mean our correspondence was great”.  Your digital voice is increasing in pitch.  Subtext: “Oh Shit”.

Score: 0:1

Step Two: send another message, naturally.  I mean the last two have been such a success; why stop?  This one will be the last wobbling stand of your dignity, and will usually start with the word ‘Look’.  Something like “Look.  I’m not letting this one get away … etc.”.  Subtext:  “This one’s getting away, isn’t it?”.

Score: 0:2

we should probably send her another message.
“we should probably send her another message.”

Step Three: gently place your self-respect in a bucket, leave it at her door.  Ring the bell, present yourself on a plate, and serve.  This final note will haunt you for days.  It is essentially a carte-blanche menu of yourself, no charge.  Please use me.  Muck me about if you want.  Squeeze me in between shags.  Keep me in the kitchen cupboard, and drag me out in needy emergencies.  Subtext: none.  There it is, in all it’s glory.

Score: Game, Set and Match.

This happens to all of us.  It’s the flipside of the laughs and the joy found in meeting new people.  You’ve got to put a bit of yourself in.  Take a risk.  Even if you know it might hurt.  This hassle is part of being ALIVE.  The alternatives to being alive are not promising.  Believe me, I’ve checked out the options.

And try to consider the positives.  I got so caught up with this that I didn’t eat for a week.  A few more romantic disappointments and I’ll have reached my target weight in no time.

I don’t mind losing the odd game.  Especially as I’ve only just walked onto the court after a long lay-off.

Not playing at all – now that’s a proper tragedy.

Who’s for a game?

x

Advice for ladies on their Guardian Soulmates profile …

Okay, so this is a random collection of inappropriate tittle-tattle based on a great deal of surfing the popular online self-harming festival that is Guardian Soulmates.  It is for ladies over the age of about thirty, as I tend to avoid women younger than that.  I’m sorry, but you’re often frighteningly well-adjusted.  And that won’t do.

There are many things to consider when constructing your profile.  I mean, this is going to go out there and represent you.  You want people to laugh when you’re being funny, and to furrow their brow when you are channelling your inner Keats.  Not the other way round.

Firstly, it’s important to get the basics right.  You are a WOMAN looking for a MAN, or whatever.  Just pause for a second, and make sure you’ve got that bit right.  You would be surprised how many punters actually get that bit wrong.  AlphaWolf77 often shows up in my suggestions, talking about his love of weight training and his impressive way with the ladies.  And I’ve got a beard.

Then there’s the photo.  A few ground rules.  Crop EVERYBODY else out.  Especially if there’s a *slight chance* that they’re prettier than you.  You don’t want his first reaction to be “who’s your mate”.

The same goes for other guys.  I don’t care if he’s gay, or your brother.  Or even your gay brother.  From this angle it looks like he could probably beat me up.  And he’s almost certainly better equipped than I am.

Don’t pose.  Don’t recline, or do that thing where you put your finger to your mouth in that “who? lil ol’ me?” fashion.  It’s just odd.  A really good smile is great, or if you look like you might laugh at my jokes.  That’ll work.

Don't do this.
Don’t do this.

Oh, and despite preconceptions, you don’t have to show any, you know, décolletage, or anything.  I mean, it’s nice that you have some, but no two guys like the same thing.  And we’re honestly not that straightforward.

And there’s a good deal of guff going around that we don’t read profiles.  Cobblers.  Of course we do, if only to see if you absolutely require us to be ‘financially savvy’.  Because that counts most of us out.

And, do you want to know a secret?  of course you do.  One of the ones I really fell for, she didn’t have a picture.  Sure, there were a couple in her gallery.  But no upfront glossy.  Just a lovely profile.  What can I tell you?  Good writers are hot.

hot.
hot.

Talking of profiles, you really don’t have to declare your love for adventure, or that you’re equally as happy practising your capoeira in the park as you are climbing the campaniles on a windy day.  Or that you like to round it off by throwing some shapes on the dance floor.  I’m in my forties, and that sounds fucking exhausting.  I’m happy to watch ‘Game of Thrones’ and have a good snog.

Basically, think of your ideal guy, give him a name, imagine what he’s into, and write it for him.  Don’t be afraid of frightening anyone, or being intimidating.  Go niche.  Because that’s entirely what you deserve.  And he’s probably out there.  Somewhere.  Having the same torrid time as you.

If you follow some of these rules, I’m not sure if you’ll be successful, but you might find me knocking on your door.  Which if you’ve read anything else on this blog, you may find blisteringly terrifying.

Finally, if at any point you suspect that the guy that you’re talking to does not feel any of the above, steer well clear.  He’s only talking to you because the twenty-something he’s been grooming has finally laughed in his stupid shiny face.