Episode 30 – It’s The Big 3-0!

So I got stood up!

He’s being very apologetic, by text, give him a second chance? God knows I’ve needed enough second chances over the years.

But could I be bothered? While I was waiting for him to not turn up, I had the most delightful hour: people watching and being by myself. I haven’t done that in so long. I just sat, without trying to distract myself from the BlackPit or giving in to it and curling myself into the clichéd foetal position.

I didn’t feel disappointed, annoyed or defensively reactionary at No Show. I just felt glad to be out there, in the world.

But what am I trying to achieve by dating? Dating at this particular time seems completely irrational. There’s no way a guy would “take me on” in my current state. And I’m lying anyway, putting on a show. Moulding myself into what they want me to be, like Vivienne in Pretty Woman but without the body to go with it. And of course, I’m not a prostitute and there’s no millionaire falling in love with me for my ridiculously sick bucket ending.

This is the crux of the matter, I feel. Sex. Men. Is it really just dating and getting out there? Having the fun I didn’t have because I was knocked up/engaged/married/in a serious relationship/relationship hopping/relationship juggling/a stinking mess of depression/mixture of all of the above? Or am I desperately seeking control of something, or someone, or of half the world’s population? What the hell am I trying to prove to myself?

If I’m honest, I don’t want to be in a relationship right now. I am not able for it. Relationships are hard bloody work, especially if said relationship is with a moody bastard such as Quarter Pounder or the son of a “religious” family like Father Rory Best. Or my lovely husband. Or Sir David Attenborough, who wanted way more than I could ever give him.

Damn men.

What do I want? I want to not feel like I have to offer myself up. I want power. Power over myself and over every dickhead in the land. Why should I be the one to be dumped and laughed at and left to walk to my best friend’s house with grass stains and the stench of unwanted sex all over me?

There it is.

I want to hurt a man. Hurt a man like he hurt me.

Jesus.

Messed up much?!

On the positive side… I bought cheapie new PJs for ElsaDaughter and me and we’ve ordered in… Just need to rent a movie on demand now. Preferably one with hot boys. Ironic.

The Marchioness will be here next weekend. Liver, be warned.

We just had take out. Surprisingly I don’t feel sick after eating it. The food obsession has definitely subsided. But then it’s never really about food, or weight – it’s about temporary obsessive control over something almost impossible to keep a hold of. Like a man, a relationship, another life. This week it’s paying bills, stockpiling credits against the upcoming panic attack debits. And the dating of course. Next week it’ll be my intellectual failings, the week after it’ll be the state of house.

No Show wants to meet me on the morning. Willing to travel. Indeed.

We have on the new slippers and PJs. The dogs have been walked. The front door is locked up. The car is safely parked in a meter free zone. The child has been fed. But still I can’t relax. There’s a gnawing in my belly, eating away at my inner peace as furiously as my teeth are clenching together. Something bad is going to happen. I can feel it rumbling in my veins, my blood is gushing through full-to-the-brim vessels trying to find space to ripple into a still well.

But then I am due my period. It sucks being a woman.

That’s why the featured image is Idris Elba with his shirt off.

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