I have a friend who’s always very quick to warn me off any men of our mutual acquaintance who might show an interest in me, or in whom I might be interested. This one is very charming but cold and unfeeling, he flirts with everybody but doesn’t really care for anyone, except, possibly, his wife. That one is fragile and deeply damaged himself, to be handled with great care. This one is amusing but shallow, I would get bored very quickly. That one is fascinating but too intense and dangerous.
If I were a different sort of woman, I might resent her interference. But I respect her judgement. I will always listen to her opinions because I know she’s right. Always, infallibly, straight down the line, bang on the money, right on the nose.
But do her individual judgements, I wonder, give her the insight to understand the fundamental problem? Which is, that they’re all flawed, every single one of them, there is no one out there who could tick all the boxes, meet all the requirements. There can never be a man to match my complexity, he hasn’t been born, not in this age, at any rate, and if he has, what are the chances of me finding him, or him finding me?
Love is always a compromise, but I have compromised for long enough. I will cultivate friendships, and maybe find sex along the way. That shouldn’t be so hard, should it? Once I used to think it was, but perhaps I was looking in the wrong places.
In the end, perhaps, I will come to the realisation that the one who suited me best was dear old Hubby. He will never feed my passion, answer my questions or fill my empty, gaping holes. But he is there. He tolerates, ignores, never criticises, never complains. Never engages, never listens, never responds. He will never leave. So I have to be the one who will. Or accept that I will never be my own woman. And does that matter? Yes, I think it does.
When I think about Himself, I know it wasn’t him, that he could never be the one to tick all the boxes. And yet, he ticked so many, that I was blind to the ones that still stood empty, I dismissed them hurriedly, as though they didn’t really matter. Oh, they did, they did, and they still do. But now, each time I think about a man, I find myself mentally checking against those same boxes, the ones he ticked... Sense of humour? Dark eyes? Intelligence? Smile?
No, that way madness lies. Get a grip, woman. Think about something sensible and ordinary, take your mind away from those murky tracks.
Holiday starts today. I’ve decided. I didn’t get all the work done yesterday. My brain was still fuddled from exhaustion. I will let it all go, for a few days, at least. No one cares about deadlines at this time of year, do they?
I wrote and sent off all my cards for Europe yesterday. I know, I know, far too late. But they will be there for the New Year. It wasn’t till last week that I got round to sending the annual circular email asking if addresses had changed from last year, if people still wanted to be on the list. I felt embarrassed in the post office, till I realised that the man in front of me had cards for Canada, the States and Australia. Maybe they were Easter cards.