Old girls, new tricks…

Well, so much for impulse control.

I went on the date with TV Guy on Saturday night. I was filled with ennui about the evening but was quite pleased with my outfit, so I was in relatively good spirits when I arrived at the cocktail bar at 8:00. He ordered a bright red margarita (which, as a friend said, either meant he wanted to get drunk very quickly or was hoping I’d order the same and get drunk very quickly). I had a gin and tonic.

We went through the standard chat about work and east London and the quality of olives.

A couple of drinks in, he asked if I’d eaten dinner. Now, in my mind, when a date starts with drinks at 8pm on a Saturday night, it is implied that dinner has already been consumed. Besides, I’m not a big fan of first date dinner; there’s too much food-on-the-face-related anxiety involved. So I said yes, I’d already eaten.

He looked as though I’d kicked a small dog. Eyes wide with panic and dismay, he nervously explained that he hadn’t eaten dinner but definitely needed to eat something as soon as possible (maybe the margaritas were kicking in? Who knows).

I took him to this American diner around the corner. I was extremely excited when I saw cherry pie on the menu but, unsurprisingly, there was no actual cherry pie to be had. I had to settle for pecan. I did have a flickering notion that this was somehow a microcosm for my entire life but quickly brushed it aside.

So, TV Guy had been fed and watered and I had eaten some substandard pie. It was now 11pm. The problem with Saturday night dates is that there’s no clear end to them; they can kind of stretch out forever.

He showed no signs of stopping so I took him to that favourite shithole bar of mine where he immediately started drinking VERY QUICKLY. I mean, I can drink, but he was going at warp speed.

It’s at this point that I decided to text the Geordie.

“This is dull. What are you up to?”

He explained that he was at home curled up watching old movies and asked me what exactly it was that I was doing that was so boring. I evaded. He asked again. I evaded. He asked AGAIN. I then decide to stop evading.

“I’m on a date, you jackass. Which I’d rather not be on because I quite like you. Jesus.”

“Oh ho! I see. Well, I can’t say I’m not pleased that you’re having a dull time though I do feel for the poor chap.”

(I did all this texting surreptitiously, by the way, so it wasn’t as rude as you might think).

Finally (at 1am) TV Guy was on his way up to the bar again and asked what I wanted. I said I didn’t want another, thanks. He then proceeded to go and get himself another drink regardless. That’s when I decided to call it a night.

“I’ve got to get up really early for a training session tomorrow…”

At last released back into the wild, I texted the Geordie. Again.

“Okay, I’ve bailed. You’re not an idiot so I’m sure you realize that you could have had sex tonight?”

“I certainly do but have been almost childlishly sleepy all day so thought it would be unfair for me to get you all the way round here just to watch me doze…”

Now, for most people, that would be enough insanity for the night. But not for me! Oh, no. I then texted – you guessed it! – B! Because apparently it is May.

“Hey, are you still up or have you gone to bed? I have a question for you.”

“I’m still out. Where are you? What’s your question?”

“Is it just me or did we have the best sex, like, ever? Very sensible for us to stop it, etc, but still. I mean, we’re never going to top that.”

We then made vague overtures at one of us coming to the other that were (rightfully, thankfully) put to rest due to drunken disorganization.

The next day he kindly called me to tell me that I’m crazy (as though that thought hadn’t immediately struck me upon waking up that morning).

“I just don’t know what to say to you anymore,” he said.

“Yeah, no one does.”

It turned out that B was on a date Saturday night, too. This momentarily irritated me because it just drove home the fact that the main reason he never manned up with me was because he just wasn’t that into me, not because he didn’t want anything with anyone (a galling realizating indeed after ten months). Ultimately, though, I couldn’t really work up the energy to care. Hell, I didn’t even want to sleep with him on Saturday night – I just wanted to confirm that we had had insane sex once upon a time.

In the end, it was all about the Geordie.

I wish I could explain what in the name of Christ I was thinking on Saturday night, but I can’t. I don’t want to think that I was intentionally trying to sabotage things with the Geordie but all evidence points to it. Maybe at the end of the day I’m just not ready for anything even remotely serious and so when a great guy comes along I choose to push him directly towards the precipice before he can chuck me off it. As Helen says, “There is no question that an affair adds to the emotional problems of many women; however, the ones who suffer the most are probably the ones who have the most emotional problems to begin with.”

Hmm.

Or maybe it just goes to show that you can’t teach an old girl new methods of self control. Helen makes much of the fact that one of the main joys of being a single woman is the ability to do whatever the hell we want. While our married counterparts have to worry about maintaining an air of domestic bliss, we can go out and shag as many people as we like, cause as much trouble as we like, be as independent as we like… and as a result it would seem I’m just stumbling around drunk off all the freedom.

The Geordie, just to emphasize his general awesomeness and my total assholery, seemed nonplussed by my behavior on Saturday night. He’s still lovely and keen and a bit, well, miraculous. I have now put Best Friend (who described me as “the type of person who happens upon a sleeping bear and thinks ‘Hmm. I think I’ll poke it with this stick’) on sabotage-watch. Because I think with this one, I’d rather see if we get to the precipice on our own volition rather than putting us in a trolley and wheeling us there myself.

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