longer.’ I don’twant him to think he can line up a date for three months’ time. Especially since I’d probably say yes. Saying no to this date is hard enough as it is. (See? Dating IS an addiction. Thank betsy I’m detoxing. Every time I say no, it will get easier. Just say no.)
‘That’s, like, pathetic. Some guy must have really done a number on you.’
This riles me. ‘Oh, please. I’m just not dating right now.’
‘Hey! I’m not going to fight with ya about it!’ He stubs out his cigarette and throws two finger guns at me. ‘Your loss.’
He storms back into the bar just as Kate comes back. ‘That was Tray…I’ve gotta go home. What the hell happened there?’
‘Rejection,’ I say happily. ‘My first Dating Sabbatical rejection in action. His response was “YOUR LOSS”.’ I imitate the finger guns, adding a ‘peeyong’ shooting sound for good measure. Kate and I collapse with laughter and head down towards the tube.
Chapter Six
Right. The morning routine. I snooze till a delightful 8.25 am, and then take a long lazy shower with no shampoo or conditioner as I want fresh hair for Mitch’s party tonight and a double-wash makes my hair flop like it’s pre-product-1972, brush teeth, scrub with exfoliating gloves and body wash, shave pits and legs, blah-blah, you know the rest already.
Today Outer Self is channelling Tough Nu Wave Cookie, so I throw on pointy blue shoes, skinny white jeans, a sleeveless black turtleneck and a black blazer. As I pop up the collar of the blazer and roll up my sleeves, I wonder if I look a bit odd and decide not to think about it. I realised a few months ago that I really haven’t changed my fundamental approach to dressing since I was 13. I pick a theme and keep adding things till I get there. (Favourite outfit when I was 13: DMs, black opaque tights, jeans shorts, a black belt with a peace sign buckle, a white T-shirt and a black blazer. Would definitely wear the same outfit now, minus perhaps the peace sign belt.) Brush hair vigorously to make the day-old grease look like shiny newness and throw it into a dishevelled chignon thing. Win the daily Battle Of The Brow. Inner Self is thus ready to face day two of Dating Sabbatical. I grab my lucky yellow clutch and run downstairs.
As I head into the kitchen(ette) to grab a banana and a tin of tuna, I see Anna curled up with her duvet on one of the 60s settees.
‘Morning Anna!’ I call. She moans in reply and I look back around at her. ‘Are you OK?’
She raises her head and I see her eyes. They’re all swollen and pink like a newborn puppy. Yikes.
‘Don and I broke up,’ she says, reaching for a box of tissues hidden somewhere in the duvet.
‘Oh…dear…’ I say, and come over to perch on the side of the settee. His name is Don? No one has been called Don since 1955. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘No, no, I’ll be fine,’ she says, snuffling into a tissue. She looks up at me dramatically. ‘He has a wife, you know. I’m not sure if she’s the separated kind.’
Double yikes. Even I wouldn’t get into that situation. I look at Anna whimpering on the couch. She’s very pretty, about 30 or so, one of those tall girls with long brown hair and long elegant arms. I swear my upper arms are abnormally short. Anyway, back to Anna. I don’t know what to say to make her feel better. ‘That’s not…um…good.’
‘I’m just so tired of it,’ she sighs, blowing her nose. ‘The reason I went for that prick was that I was tired of game-playing single guys. He said he was unhappy and separated, and I thought that he’d be perfect for me, or else I wouldn’t have done it, I’m not that kind of person…and then last night he told me they were going to try to work things out…And none of my friends understand, they’re all in long-term relationships or married…’ Oh Jeez. Anna and I aren’t close enough to have this conversation.
‘Um, oh…’ I say. ‘You’ll be fine, Anna.
‘That’s, like, pathetic. Some guy must have really done a number on you.’
This riles me. ‘Oh, please. I’m just not dating right now.’
‘Hey! I’m not going to fight with ya about it!’ He stubs out his cigarette and throws two finger guns at me. ‘Your loss.’
He storms back into the bar just as Kate comes back. ‘That was Tray…I’ve gotta go home. What the hell happened there?’
‘Rejection,’ I say happily. ‘My first Dating Sabbatical rejection in action. His response was “YOUR LOSS”.’ I imitate the finger guns, adding a ‘peeyong’ shooting sound for good measure. Kate and I collapse with laughter and head down towards the tube.
Chapter Six
Right. The morning routine. I snooze till a delightful 8.25 am, and then take a long lazy shower with no shampoo or conditioner as I want fresh hair for Mitch’s party tonight and a double-wash makes my hair flop like it’s pre-product-1972, brush teeth, scrub with exfoliating gloves and body wash, shave pits and legs, blah-blah, you know the rest already.
Today Outer Self is channelling Tough Nu Wave Cookie, so I throw on pointy blue shoes, skinny white jeans, a sleeveless black turtleneck and a black blazer. As I pop up the collar of the blazer and roll up my sleeves, I wonder if I look a bit odd and decide not to think about it. I realised a few months ago that I really haven’t changed my fundamental approach to dressing since I was 13. I pick a theme and keep adding things till I get there. (Favourite outfit when I was 13: DMs, black opaque tights, jeans shorts, a black belt with a peace sign buckle, a white T-shirt and a black blazer. Would definitely wear the same outfit now, minus perhaps the peace sign belt.) Brush hair vigorously to make the day-old grease look like shiny newness and throw it into a dishevelled chignon thing. Win the daily Battle Of The Brow. Inner Self is thus ready to face day two of Dating Sabbatical. I grab my lucky yellow clutch and run downstairs.
As I head into the kitchen(ette) to grab a banana and a tin of tuna, I see Anna curled up with her duvet on one of the 60s settees.
‘Morning Anna!’ I call. She moans in reply and I look back around at her. ‘Are you OK?’
She raises her head and I see her eyes. They’re all swollen and pink like a newborn puppy. Yikes.
‘Don and I broke up,’ she says, reaching for a box of tissues hidden somewhere in the duvet.
‘Oh…dear…’ I say, and come over to perch on the side of the settee. His name is Don? No one has been called Don since 1955. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘No, no, I’ll be fine,’ she says, snuffling into a tissue. She looks up at me dramatically. ‘He has a wife, you know. I’m not sure if she’s the separated kind.’
Double yikes. Even I wouldn’t get into that situation. I look at Anna whimpering on the couch. She’s very pretty, about 30 or so, one of those tall girls with long brown hair and long elegant arms. I swear my upper arms are abnormally short. Anyway, back to Anna. I don’t know what to say to make her feel better. ‘That’s not…um…good.’
‘I’m just so tired of it,’ she sighs, blowing her nose. ‘The reason I went for that prick was that I was tired of game-playing single guys. He said he was unhappy and separated, and I thought that he’d be perfect for me, or else I wouldn’t have done it, I’m not that kind of person…and then last night he told me they were going to try to work things out…And none of my friends understand, they’re all in long-term relationships or married…’ Oh Jeez. Anna and I aren’t close enough to have this conversation.
‘Um, oh…’ I say. ‘You’ll be fine, Anna.
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