On Sunday the 18th of September, the sun came out. I met an amazing girl - smart, funny, cute - the kind of girl you only meet a couple of times in your lifetime. And, even more amazingly, I was actually able to talk to her, and she seemed to like me.
We danced around each other for a couple of weeks, and I found myself falling for her, harder and faster than I've ever fallen for anyone in the past. I determined that I would have to find a way to ask her out. This is a cue for me to get all tongue-tied and awkward around girls I like (If I ever write my autobiography, I'll title each chapter with the name of the girl I couldn't find the courage to ask out).
But, she asked me out first!
I was stunned and amazed. There then followed three weeks of absolute bliss. I was so happy I walked around in a cloud. Things were (and are) tough at work, but I didn't care. Life was so good.
The date went amazingly well, that being part of the three weeks. The next few days were good...
and then I got the "it's not you, it's me" speech.
I didn't take it at all well. Firstly, I said we could be friends. That's what you're supposed to say, isn't it? Unfortunately, like a child picking at a scab, I then said something foolish and offensive to her. But that was just about survivable.
We're both involved quite heavily in role-playing games, and therefore I saw her on both Saturday and Sunday evenings. I found both occasions very difficult, almost intolerable. (In fact, on Sunday night I staggered home and literally threw up. Fortunately, it turns out I've caught a nasty chill, and am not at all well. So, I'm not a total obsessive loser :-))
There are a great many reasons why I find this situation so hard:
Firstly, in a situation like this, I would seek out one of a short list of people to commiserate with me. Sadly, Richard knows nothing of the situation, and anyway is in Scotland. Martin is on the other side of the world. The only person down here that I'm actually close enough to talk to about something like this is... her.
When past romances have gone bad, I've been able to point to a cause. Either we've just run our course, or one of us has made an irredeemable mistake (usually me). It hurts, but it's understandable. But here, there's no obvious reason I can see. I don't think I did anything drastically wrong. I really like her, and I know she likes me, and the chemistry was actually right for a change.
(Her LiveJournal was rather instructive on this point, although also very confusing. It seems she was concerned that she didn't want to be thought of as anyone's conquest. That's a fair concern, but not really applicable. Anyone who knows me would probably have a fairly good laugh about that. She also seems to have concluded that it was all too easy, and that that was a problem. I really don't understand that, but never mind.)
But the real bastard, the thing that kills me, is that I have to be right about every damn little thing. This is something that is true of all the males in my family, but with me it seems it's literally true. What am I talking about?
Many years ago, I concluded that I was going to end up alone. I resigned myself to this, and although I wasn't happy with it, I could deal. Stupidly, I allowed myself to hope that I might be wrong. I thought perhaps a decade of prayer was being answered. And now, in the back of my head there's a little voice reminding me that it told me so.
The smart thing to do at this stage would be for me to get over it, and go out with someone else. Personally, I think I'll just get over it. Really, who needs hope anyway?
