About a Boy

so about that boy...

well, not to ruin the climax of this love story... but he's ancient history now I'm afraid.

But joyously enough, he has raised the bar for men and dating etiquette everywhere (like that was difficult given my last few suitors!) but he has raised it high - higher than I can jump high (PS this white girl can jump)

The boy was lovely. I had strict instructions to marry him from several of my friends. His courtship (to use an antiquated but entirely appropriate word) was flawless. Genuinely, beautifully, enjoyably flawless.

But I broke up with him anyway. The magic just wasn't there, and I had trouble articulating that to friends, and dreaded having to try and explain it to him, but as one friend so succinctly put it:

I'm just not that into him.

...and no, I didn't tell him that!

Anyways, in the beginning... he was a guy I met through mysinglefriend.com. Many messages were exchanged, he was attentive and asked questions about what I'd told him about myself, messaged back quickly - used far too many explanation points - but was otherwise lovely. Bit iffy that worked in a computer-related industry, given my past horrible experiences with any IT guys... but hey. Our first date was at a member's bar so trendy it's of the unlabeled-black-door variety. He arrived a bit late and started off a little nervous and flustered, but after our 3rd or so cocktail he calmed down and we had a great night, chatting and drinking until 2:30am that morning. No good night kiss as there were two drivers standing there waiting to take us home. All in all a very posh London outing - and he was kind enough to insist on paying the bill - which after over 8 hours of constant cocktail consumption, would have been horrendous. He seemed chuffed when I said he'd have to let me get it next time - I said it not realising it let him know I wanted to see him again.

I of course assumed he'd want to see me. I'm good like that :)

Second date he planned a nice Sunday lunch at Oxo after his first choice was all booked out. Boy could organise. I'd told my darling-friend-and-flatmate some time ago that if I met a boy who could make a decision I'd marry him. Guess I lied about that. Lunch, wine (he insists on paying again) and then many more cocktails later it was 9:30pm and time to go home - cue a bit of a goodbye kiss at the train station and I just wasn't sure I like-liked him. He was hardly beaten with the ugly stick, but my gut didn't plummet at the sight of him, and I didn't feel the urge to stare at him much. Not fussy much, am I?

So I'd all but made up my mind to ask for his friendship - which, cliches aside, I genuinely wanted, as we got along fantastically well and time seemed to fly past when we were together. But then it was the Friday before Valentine's (on the Saturday) he was away training with the territorial army all weekend, and a dozen long stemmed red roses arrived at my office. The card has nothing but a decadent recipe for a chocolate cocktail. Did I mention his job involves a certain level of marketing? Cute. Very cute.

This was when my friends first started lobbying for our marriage. Much reply-to-all emailing ensued debating the pros and cons of pulling out "the friendship speech" on our third date. Darling-friend-and-flatmate convinced me not to with a clever shoe-shopping analogy - she reasoned that as she'd gone to visit shoes more than three times before deciding whether or not to buy them, I should at least give this guy a few more visits before making a final decision.

genius.

So third date. Dinner at his house. Getting cooked for is one of my favourite things in the world - hence the daydream of a toyboy that can cook - 3 course meal, lovely. Making out on the couch, also lovely. Despite his kindly offer to let me spend the night at his house, I declined and went home feeling deliciously prudish - having been deviously un-prudish enough to let him get as far as discovering that I was wearing holdups under my dress. tee hee hee.

...so I won't enthrall you with a blow by blow (no dirty pun intended) account of our two and a half month relationship... we continued to date, he continued to cook for me, be lovely, and treat me like a Queen. He was neither inattentive nor clingy... even the sex was great (glorious regular sex, how I'd missed thee!)

When I'd chattered on about how I was getting a bit stressed with work and thought I should take myself away for the 4 day break over Easter he tentatively suggested we go away together somewhere. Naturally I freaked out and stuttered then changed the subject, but was calmed down later by darling-friend-and-flatmate acting very nonplussed at this breaking news, and telling me simply that there was no reason we shouldn't go away together.

So it was off to Spain we went.

Never take a British man to the beach. I've learned that much. Having grown up and around (and dated) surfers with tanned toned bodies clad in deliciously loosely slung boardshorts, nothing else will compare. I'm sorry. I'm racist. yes. Don't care. I'll rarely care or make demands on what a boy wears around me, but when he went to walk to the beach in sports shorts and lace up casual leather shoes and socks, I couldn't help but blurt out the classically tactless "you're not wearing that are you?" It wasn't so much the lack of suitable beach attire that was the beginning of the end (not that shallow - give me some credit!) it was his response. He sulked. It wasn't the only time he sulked that weekend. so. not. hot.

I'd gotten away for a chilled out weekend and the boy I was with was not as laid back as I'd assumed. Stressing out over maps of dodgy tourist things when you're in a foreign country, in no rush, with nowhere to be and nothing better to do than get lost just isn't cool.

So I started to doubt we were meant to be. And the doubt began to gnaw at me.

By the time we'd returned from holiday I was coming down with the flu and I was stressed - I'd decided I had to break it off. Wednesday night, after work, somehow. Tuesday night I check my phone after the gym and there's a text from him, asking how I'm feeling, hoping I'm feeling better, and offering to come over to my place and cook me a wholesome dinner.

could the bastard make it any harder to break up with him?

so I suggest we catch up for a coffee after work instead. He messages back
"ooh, coffee, that doesn't bode well!"
I don't know what to say, so I say nothing. The next morning I see how facebook status set to "he couldn't sleep" I feel terrible. Later I receive an email telling me he could tell something wasn't right on holidays and asking me to just tell him what's up. I feel relieved. We hash out the problems with our relationship via email over the course of the morning and I make my pitch for friendship...

it feels a bit wrong to paste his email in here, but I think it's a rather poetic ending - and I think it's glorious that he's still lovely - even when being broken up with:

it turns out that i care for you quite a lot and that what i really think is there's a strong chance that you're making a mistake about us.

And i also think you're awesome and lovely and sweet and smart and you make me laugh and you challenge me! But i don't think we can be friends.