So… how about that Man Who Stole My Heart And Eventually Turned Down My Proposal? The One Who Kept Stringing Me Along For Years And Got Away With It? What a man he must have been, right? The stunning looks of George Clooney, the gentle nature of Colin Firth, the athletic abilities of David Beckham, the wit of Sasha Baron Cohen… Well, you’d be wrong.
This is what was outside that box outside of which I decided to venture.
He was a workaholic. He had absolutely no identity outside his work. Almost a shame he wasn’t Japanese- they could have really used someone like him…
He was a budding alcoholic. Now, I’m no stranger to football-related-binge drinking myself and I do enjoy a nice Pinot. Or Gewürtztraminer. Or Viognier. And so did he. As long as it came in a 3 litre box.
He was commitment-phobic. He didn’t want to marry, ever, he said. Yet… he had proposed to two of his ex-girlfriends?? Hell, the night we met he was supposed to be in Reunion on a honeymoon!!!
He was balding. As in, there was an actual, sizeable bald patch on the top of his head. Too bad he didn’t find the thought of converting into Judaism tempting- yarmulke would have covered the spot so nicely…
What little was left of his hair was grey. And not in a distinguished “a grey streak here, another one there”- sort of way. But grey. In parts, white even.
He was nowhere near that magical 6 ft mark. And as a result of thorough scientific research I’ve established that I need a tall man. And I mean TALL. 11 ft would be ideal. See, the bigger the man, the more petit and feminine I (= my bum) look.
On the other hand: what he lacked in vertical dimensions he more than made up in the horizontal ones. He himself confessed he was classified as “morbidly obese”. Yet, he felt compelled to tell me I needed to lose weight. Ah, the delusional complex thing that is the male ego... No matter what they look like or how old they are , they all think they can walk into any bar and be flooded with leggy supermodel-lookalikes just throwing themselves at them. Could we please have somebody bottle that infinite impertinence on time for the bikini season, please?
This is minor, but I’m really getting into mood now. He had hairy toes. And virtually no social skills. And he snored. Louder than jet engines (I should know, I checked) . And…brace yourselves: He supported Manchester City Manchester . Having worked for Manchester United. I know. There. Are. No. Words.
But here’s the real kicker: He was older. By 19 years. Yes, you got your numbers right: that would make him 52. So, even in the case of happily ever after it would have only lasted a good…20 years? Out of which the last 10 would have been plagued by the holy trinity of impotence, incontinence and incompetence? Who would have changed his nappies, I ask you? Who??? And yet HE had the audacity not to want to be with me????
Oh c’mon! Everybody knows that had we married and made that commitment for “the rest of our lives”, it would have been for “what ever is left of the rest of his life”! After that I would have collected my inheritance and (still surprisingly firm) bum and moved to Florida in search of that right, Jewish husband!
What really bugs me is that when, eventually, inshallah we hit our respective dating scenes, which one do you think will be considered the catch? Me, a bright 30-something with the future ahead of her (a.k.a. bitter, unemployed spinster clearly desperate to settle) or him (wordly, wealthy, sophisticated, mature single gentleman)?
When we met I could think of a hundred reasons why we shouldn’t date. I’d never been attracted to anyone like him before. And now, even as I stare at this list…I can’t think of anyone else I’d want. He might be all those things but he's also sweet, generous, hard-working, loyal to his friends, good with his hands ( I mean DIY! DIY!!! Or so I'm telling you...) , funny, smart, handsome, circumcised, well-read, great cook and has the softest, silkiest skin in the world. And a three-story villa in Spain. To which I still have the keys...
In the persistence stakes my love for him seems to rival even the cockroaches in the nuclear destruction. Oh, bugger. This is really going to a while, isn’t it?
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