A Banal Thought That’s Been Thought Many Times Before But Is Now Being Thought By Me
June 7, 2013 § 307 Comments
Sometimes I wish I could get into a man’s head, or be a man for a few days, just to try to get to the bottom of them, as it were. Banal and unoriginal thought for the day: if women could understand men and men women, there’d be a whole let less heartache and shit going down.
I suppose it could be said that the SYT has graduated from a mere twinkle, but only with a 3rd class degree, alas. Although he’s deigned to sleep with me more than once, he’s kind of a twinkle still because I never know when he’s next going to be deigning, which is demeaning, but entirely my own fault. You get your Chinese torture Brazilian and you think is this worth the candle (ha! Wax! Geddit?)? £40 fucking quid down the fucking drain (eyelash tint and half-leg wax into the mix), and for mine and mine (rather snooty) waxer’s eyes only. Fucking waste or WHAT? Would have been better spent on a year’s supply of blinking baked beans for the resident teenage vacuums! But I live in doormat-y hope of a dint of deigning. Am spending a night out with him, just us, in a day or two, and I got the bloody Brazilian this morning (is that dignified at my age or too fricking weird and unmentionable for words? Does anyone under the age of 35 know of the existence of pubic hair? The planktons’ dilemma. Actually, let’s not go there). But I haven’t got an effing clue how things are going to pan out: either, get your clothes off or thanks but no thanks. Guess that’s what comes of cavorting with the Younger.
Still, though I am not a believer in “right vibes” (so elusive and nebulous and dispiriting for those of us who spend most our lives apparently putting out the wrong kind), there must be something going on in the immediate space around me for today, age-appropriate (Mid-fifties I’m guessing) Gary – whose last girlfriend, he recently told me to the toneless background noise of barcode beeping, had run off with another woman – asked me out. Gary works at the checkout of my local supermarket. He is a honey. Always friendly and chatty over the conveyor belt and the journeying strawberry milk and sausages. He grapples with his weight, which must be around the 24 stone mark, he billows over his chair but is always smiling and cheerful about his battle with buns. His teeth are something of a challenge, those of them which remain in his twinkly head. Some of them are gold, which isn’t such a good look on teeth, but they match his heart, something which a great many more people could do with (hearts at all, let alone gold ones).
I knew it took him some courage to ask me out and I hope I turned down his kind offer with a grace that did not challenge his dignity or hurt him. I said I was so flattered and the offer was much appreciated but that the man in my life (oh yeah? Who he?) might think it was a little inappropriate for me to be having coffee with someone else. I wish. Anyway, Gary smiled and understood and said with no trace of bitterness that he had imagined as much.
The other day, a very rich man who lives in Belgravia whom I met at a party also asked me out (dinner and a night in his spare room, ho hum). But I turned him down too. Again, at no cost to his dignity I trust. I said that he might have been given a false impression by a mutual friend of ours that I was single, but that I wasn’t exactly so (white lie: I manifestly am), and therefore it might be misleading and inappropriate if I were to accept his kind invitation but that I was so happy to have been asked, and thank you. He said that should my circumstances change in the future… Blushes spared all round. You never hear about the askings out and turnings down that happen elegantly and kindly. Hardly headline stuff, but one of the quiet, modest, occasional nuggets about human nature. On both occasions, even though Gary and Belgravia Bloke were not for me, it was nice (feeble word, but in this case spot on; no more, no less) to be asked.
If only I had the courage to ask what precisely is going on in the Younger’s (formerly known as SYT) head? Of course I do know. Doophur (doofer?) or what? He’s Just That Not Into Me.
So, Mrs Daniels, what attracted you to millionaire Paul? So, Mr Younger, why the occasional dick-driven deigning?
I like the guy. But fuck him.