Slowly, Slowly...

Every so often I think it's getting easier and I'm definitely, definitely getting over M.
Like when I went on a date last friday with an eyelinered top-hat wearing hippy.
It was me, him, his brother, and about a billion of his friends. On a first date.

So, it's essentially a party, and then I rock up, all like
 'oh, hai, I'm a girl he met on the internet' and they're all like
'ooh', and I'm all like
 'eugh. people.'

So, yeah. No pressure there then.
But, it seemed ok. We had instant camaraderie, me and the hippy. Must have been a dreadlock bonding thing. He had 3 stubby ones at the back of his hair, I have umpteen. (actually, 68. Find me a dreadhead who hasn't at some point counted their hair, and I'll show you..... a surprised face.)
It was all going so effortlessly. I couldn't remember the last time I felt so at ease with someone. Could this be someone I could skip the going-out-dating stage with, head straight for sofa-dates and mucking about with?
 So when he asked if he could kiss me, I thought, sure, why not.
And I kissed him. His stubble sharp on my skin, my eyes closed, I felt for the dreds at his neck and imagined they were long, rope-like, and... M's. Shit. I was mind-kissing my ex. No wonder it felt nice. I was pretending it was someone else.
I went on a second date with him, on the off chance I could get my head around the ex thing, and realized that he was oddly familiar. I have dated his type before (slightly manic depressive, anxious, exuberant, with a devil-may-care-but-carefully-crafted-image) and it's never ended well. For them. I always walk away unscathed.

And from this encounter, I walk away with the knowledge that his biggest turn on is seeing someone fully-dressed and soaking, dripping, just been in the shower, wet.

I can't believe I'm saying this. But I'd really quite like to date someone totally vanilla.

Settling in to London life......

It's Valentine's day. I've done very well in avoiding the mushy lovey-dovey rubbish in the shops, I don't have a TV, and don't listen to much radio. Nor is there a newspaper in the house. There is, however, a rather lovey-dovey married couple. Which meant the dog has just had a super long evening walk so I could avoid their Valentines meal in... shared with the 4 year old, but sickeningly full of red candles none the less. So, in all, I have spent my Valentines trying to avoid catching conjunctivitis from a very face-grabby toddler, and teaching a 4 year old to wipe their bottom forward to back. Not back to forward. "No, T, try again.... forward to... no, that's your back bottom. You need to start wi..... oh. You have poo on your hand... NO, C, not the eyes! Don't touch my eyes!!!"


I did however get a Valentines flower. A sunny yellow pot plant from T, the four-year old. It's yellow, because I told her Belle was my favourite disney princess, which is rather sweet; it is, however, a Begonia, which for me means I shall have to spend the rest of my time working here replacing it on the sly, as I cannot EVER keep them alive. It's like they take one (literally wilting) look at me, and go, 'oh. Well, you're clearly an irresponsible plant owner. I might as well  die now' and keel over within the hour. Which must be a record in itself - fastest plant death ever.

So.
You may be able to tell.
I have my new job. I moved in nearly 3 weeks ago.... feels like time is moving incredibly fast.
So. Being a nanny, to a 4 year old and an 19month old...
The job requires lifting, carrying, piggy backs, buggy pushing, bath times, holding down a screaming toddler with a poo phobia during nappy changes.... and what did I do 4 days before the job started?
Developed Sciatica.
Badly.
So the first week was fun.
Then I spent a week warding off various ills that the kids and the mum had.
Then I've spent the past 5 days with a record bunch of health complaints. 3 cold sores, a sore throat, a snotty nose so disgusting that at one point I was concerned I may be sneezing up chunks of brain, and, just to cap it all off, my period. And the odd back twinge, just in case I forget that one. I'm 24? Am I sure? I feel ancient.
Another shining example of how my body hates me.

But yes. Valentines. For starters, I dreamt about the EX last night, which, like everyday in the past few months, rebroke my heart afresh.
Then I realised I haven't had sex in at least 3 months, which for me is unheard of. Indeed, that length of time between some kind of bedroom activity may not have ever happened since I was 16. Ok.. maybe 15. The odd thing is, most of me really couldn't give a flying fuck. Wait. Inappropriate. A monkey's.
My weirdness with the whole having sex thing continues with a vengeance, and I'm not so adverse to just ignoring it entirely anymore.
And.... having finally realised how much I'm still in love with the Ex, I can't imagine being comfortable with anyone else. I tried that at the beginning. Vigorously. It didn't get me very far. So, spinster-hood it is.

Since I've moved to London, I have been naked in front of someone though.
They were so nonjudgmental, so gracious that I felt quite normal. Quite natural. At peace with my body. No nerves whatsoever. Even with the fact my bikini line stands testament to my non-sexual status and has been left entirely to it's own (wild, somewhat exuberant) devises for the last 3 months. I even got a boob grab when we were fully dressed later.

It's when she hit me in the face with a stickle brick when we got home from the swimming pool I realised the toddler really couldn't care less whether I could juggle her and a towel and our dry clothes at the same time or let us just stomp about the changing room in matching birthday suits.
 But still. It's nice that she didn't start crying.

Letters to nowhere

M,
Today I realised I still have a photograph of you in my wallet.
A passport one I insisted on keeping, what, 2 years ago.
I can't imagine a day when I'll be ready to not have it there. Perhaps if it got lost one day, I'd never notice it's absence and forget it had ever been there, but to physically remove it.....? No. I can't. I am not over you. In the slightest.
I think about you for too long and I start to cry - and you know that's never been my style. But every time I find myself welling up, it reminds me of breaking down in front of a work colleague 3 weeks after meeting you because I was scared I'd lose this amazing thing I'd only just discovered. I didn't want to leave you. So I didn't move to London when I was meant to nearly 3 years ago. I stayed. For you.
But I guess I always loved you more - I was the first to fall. You are the first - and only - person I've ever fallen truly in love with. So gut-wrenchingly, awfully, head over heels in love with. So quickly, so totally.
I remember the first time I saw you naked, even though it was the first night I'd even seen you dressed, it felt like I was coming home. I knew you. There was no surprise. No mystery. You were just you. You were everything that somehow, I already knew to be you. And I remember being convinced from the start that you'd be the first one to ever break my heart. Maybe the only one - I'm loathe to open myself to that kind of pain again! I suppose I'm destined to return to the ice-hearted, distant and wary way I was before you.
I was always so scornful of love songs, stories of heartache. I couldn't believe in it. I didn't believe it really happened. Love was...meh. Not all that. In the past few months I've come to see that every mention of broken hearts is all too real.
You hurt me. And yes, I know, I struck the final blow. I pushed you away. I ended it. I brought this on myself, but it killed me that you could move to London without me, after I'd stayed for you. Because you asked. Because you wanted me to stay.
Then when you wanted to leave, I couldn't bring myself to ask the same thing. I thought it would be selfish. I wanted you to do what you wanted. But I still wanted you to want me. But I was scared to ask. I was scared to really delve into pleading for confirmation that you loved me in case I heard an answer I didn't want.
Once you were gone, of course I wanted to make it work. But I didn't want to have to fight for you, to struggle, to try. I'd decided in the fairytale love affair, you were Prince Charming. That your devotion would be unfaltering and unconditional. We'd live happily ever after without ever needing to try at it. Our love would be sublime. Effortless. And having put such a high standard on us, when I felt you slipping away from me, I started to shut myself off from you. Locking you out. Protecting myself against your change of heart I felt to be coming. I closed the book of fairy-tales - I wrote 'the end' too soon.
I decided I needed to toughen up, grow up, be more independent, not just your lovesick fool.
And just like all growing up, I wish I could go back. Back to the time of innocence, when our fairytale was real.
Even though you could annoy the hell out of me, I'd never been so happy or secure as when I was with you. It was the only time I was content to say 'this is it' and be happy with my lot.
It was the only time I've ever said forever.It was the only time I meant it, with all my heart and soul.
I still love you.
I'm sorry.
Forever yours,
Ali