Not Counting My Chickens
November 9, 2011 § 17 Comments
Thanks to everyone for your enormously optimistic and supportive comments re yesterday’s post about Smidgen but I hasten to say I don’t think my date with him next week, though something I am much looking forward to, signals the death of this blog quite yet!
It was really about my shifting perspective from what I have always thought I was after, to what I could be after anew. There is still a certain amount of shifting to be done in as much as habits of a life-time (ie. fancying edgy, talented charmers) do not disintegrate overnight.
I might have told you this story before but I can’t quite remember and it’s relevant here. Years ago, I had a friend who went out with someone called Nat who was not a writer but was a man of some repute in the literary world. He was charming and brilliant and handsome and a heroine addict. She was insanely in love with him but he was a shit of sewage proportions. They were together for five or six years then broke up. She was beside herself but in time started going out with an intelligent, down-to-earth, dependable fellow in film. She took me to meet him in a cafe off the All Saints Road. Afterwards we talked about him. I asked her if she was in love with him.
“He doesn’t make me feel sick,” she replied wistfully. “Nat used to make me feel sick.”
I suppose that that is a yardstick which many a headstrong woman has craved in her twenties. (Can someone crave a yardstick? Don’t see why not). I knew what she meant and could identify with it completely, but I do remember it struck me even at the time as a misplaced yearning and not the root to enduring happiness.
A woman in her forties – a plankton – still harbours the vestiges of such cravings, but they are overlaid by prosaic pragmatism and common sense, which are dull but necessary at our age. The cravings also give way to the rather more romantic budging of priorities and definite delight in all things non-nausea-inducing; a deepening respect for and joy in those qualities which, during the callow years, one dismissed, with characteristic disdain, as staid.
Smidgen doesn’t make me feel sick.
But thank God for that. The stomach didn’t go flip in the early meetings and there were mixed-message set-backs which didn’t help the cause back then, but I have been meeting up with him for a year or two now, and we have been getting to know each other. And seeing and thinking about him this past couple of weeks or so, I have definitely experienced the odd twang inside me, like someone pulling an elastic band taut, then letting it go. These sensations have come upon me gradually and are unexpected to say the least.
But it is still early days. I am in a process, and who knows what might or might not happen? I love the fact that some of you are counting my chickens for me, but I am afraid Long Shot and unknown possibilities still linger menacingly in the recesses of the coop. I am sure, though, in time I will have the courage and wit to wring their metaphorical necks.
Let’s just see how it goes next week, eh?
For all I know, I might have got it so wrong that Smidgen would rather truss himself up with string and roast himself before having anything further to do with me?