May 1, 2012 § 194 Comments
From yesterday’s Times:-
It feels like a nail down a blackboard to admit this, but I bloody capitulated, didn’t I, and contacted Surprise Twinkle.
It’s not in the DNA to do such a thing, but I am old, time is short, it’s not a crime, and the breeziness of my tone hardly constituted stalking. I sent the message several days after our afternoon “date” when meeting up again had been happily discussed. After the “date”, I had sent a thank you text because he had paid for the lunch and cinema tickets. It is uncool to say thank you and I should have restrained any natural manners and instead gone for entitled and brazen silence like a successful girl would have done. So, failure at the first fence. He replied, rather damning our afternoon, in my book, with formal politeness and faint praise.
I was laid pathetically low by the fact that his reply hadn’t suggested a next meeting. There was a context – a domestic vacuum and various troubles unrelated to ST – and I didn’t sleep or eat for ten days and went down to 7 stone 10. (Not a good look at my age; stomach like a deflated balloon). Lay about in a teenage heap reading novels and feeling a certain self-conscious, garret-like desolation. If I didn’t compose 100 texts in my mind, I composed 200. Then less than a week after the “date”, I finally ate something more substantial than a cup of coffee and clarity came to me. I thought, Bugger it, and winged off beautiful composition no. 201.
Even an episode of Homeland couldn’t deflect me from the resounding silence which hurled back at me for several hours by way of torturous response. But then the eventual PING! came, so full of promise… and in reality so utterly wanting. Every syllable laid like a perfectly formed turd and imbued with a thanks but no thanks; a don’t call me, I’ll call you; a have a nice life, but not with me anywhere near. Of course, he didn’t put it quite like that – he is cleverer and kind of kinder – but he might as well have done for all the couched transparency of the message. His square inch of text was novel-full of rejection.
In the context – vacuum, other troubles – I was crushed, mortified, wretched, but I know the context is but an excuse. I would have been, even without it, all those things. Friends say press the Delete button in my head. Of course. Nothing else for it. But I cannot help remaining haunted by the mystery. Did a polite thank you and a text really comprise such a Weapon of Mass Destruction? Or was it just me?