After I broke up from the fiancé, I started, for the first time ever, to go out. And date. Man, I dated like Samantha Jones on speed. And for the first time I noticed that men were actually into me. So I figured it must be all the weight I'd lost- not the fact that the man I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with was some kind of a freak. And the more I lost weight, the more attention I seemed to get. No man I ever went out with said I was too thin. My friends did though.
The dating was fun though. There was the investment banker I'd thought I'd killed and whom I ended on a blind date with. There was a man that really swept me off my feet who then moved to Korea (I'd like to think he actually did as opposed to coming up with it just to get rid of me the way Chandler did with Janice on Friends. On the other hand, Korea seems equally bizarre choice as Yemen...). There was the man who took me to the opera on a limousine, always bringing roses so that by Valentine's Day my flat stocked more variety than Interflora. There was a guy who, after we went our separate ways kept calling once a year just to see if I'd be ready marry him. And then along came the Frenchman.
He was a friend of a friend who came over for a holiday. I promised to show him around and that I did. Mostly around my flat. I thought it might be a holiday romance but after the initial couple of weeks we'd fallen for each other and embarked on a long-distance relationship.
For 2,5 years we dated in five different countries. And broke up in every single one of them. We moved to London together. For about two months. I once moved to Ireland for him, apparently with the intention of dropping out of university. The population of that small town : 700. 600 of them horses. Major attraction: the village abattoir. I suppose it was a passionate relationship. And so were the break-ups.
After the final one I found myself drunk-dialling when my friends' babysitting rota for my phone had failed at a party. And he told me "he'd moved on." And, clearly thinking he was talking to retard, went onto elaborate it. "I mean I've had sex with someone else". And as if this hadn't been enough to sober me he finished: "and the someone else was a man". But the strangest thing about all this must have been my gay friends' reaction. There was an awkward silence, awkward glances and then, an awkward confession: "but we thought you knew"...
Sweet. So, my judgment in dating wasn't clearly much to have faith on. I'd gone from frigid to feygele. Now what?
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