Another Suitcase In Another Hall

Either I was born under a bad sign or I have and am never going to have – no luck in having a relationship with los hombres.

Last night, MM went out with the object of her desire. Admittedly, the girlish giddiness I initially felt had left the proverbial building but the interest or perhaps hope of things kicking off with him were still there. The night was going fabulously. He got to mine at around 6.30-ish and had a couple of brewskis before heading down to Quan 88 for some fabulous Vietnamese food. After chowing down on spring rolls, chilli squid and veg and bean curd with rice, we hailed a cab and headed for a night of salsa at the Night Cat with the fabulous latin band, Rumberos. We had time to have a good chat and get a couple of beers in before the band came on. MM was looking tres hot (may I say) in my saucy new red dress and fish nets and my ubiquitous red lippy. We made our move to the crowded floor and attempted some feeble yet effectual salsa moves and were really getting into it. After 3 or so songs, we admitted that the place was inundated with far too many 20 somethings and was too packed for us 40 somethings so we opted for quieter digs. I suggested Kanella bar down the road but were closing up when we got there so we crossed the road and ended up at the Spanish Bar. After grabbing a couple more beers, we moved into a booth and started chatting. In course of conversation, I asked him why his marriage had ended. I won’t publish it here as it’s highly personal. He then told me that he had a 5 year relationship with someone that didn’t end all that well but 2 weeks ago, she emailed him out of the blue. They caught up and…. now they’re back together!!

Jeezy creezy, how does that happen? When he uttered those words, I felt like it was happening to someone else. I just did the ‘oh wow’ and ‘oh, yes?’ etc etc and tried not to betray myself. I then started asking questions on the whole situation which gave me a deeper insight into him. I was concerned when he said he told her he had started doing tango in the last year and her response was ‘ Hmm I don’t know about that. Why don’t you choose another form of dance?” Thankfully his response was that he had no desire to do another form of dance. I then said in semi jest; “ We’ve just started our private lessons and she’s gonna take my dance partner away!’ in which he responded “ no that isn’t going to happen.” Good news for the MM. I’m wondering if any future scrag fights will ensue on the dance floor (cue Sophie Bexter Ellis).

 We left the old Spanish Club (read were kicked out) and came back here for a cuppa and some of the chocolates my mum had given me (word of advice: avoid Guylian’s version of Favourites like the plague- disgusting). After a chat and bagging out said chocolates, he got in his car and went home. I sparked up the laptop, got into my jim jams and started watching the copy of Evita my nephew had lent me that day. So far, not good. I couldn’t concentrate anyway. I had a slight constriction in my throat and the sensation of an arrow in my chest. As I watched Madonna, Antonio and the rest of the gang singing away, I kept repeating the mantra of ‘I’m not gonna cry, I’m not gonna cry’.

 Mercifully, I passed out at some stage and woke up with Madonna bleating out another song (oh yeah, musical- that singing shit never ends). I turned the blessed thing off and tried to slip back into unconsciousness but to no avail. I couldn’t get the fucking thoughts out of my head and the feelings of self doubt and being the old odd sock. I slipped in and out of sleep, heard the rubbish men as usual at around six, and had sleep of sorts till around 8. I pulled up the lap top and began writing this post as a word document (don’t have wireless yet and I’m still in bed) and decided ‘bugger it- I have to have that fucking cry.’ It wasn’t a big boo hoo hoo or a woe – is – me, more of a ‘here we go again’ but I realised as I let the emotion flow down my face, it wasn’t too bad. I’m in a better place than I was a year ago. These things happen as yard sticks and if I received this kind of news a year ago, I would have been totally gutted. I wouldn’t be writing this blog.

I guess I can take the clichéd positives from this situation. As a friend, he is a fabulous person. I now have a dance partner for my tango lessons so we can help one another perfect our technique of the dance we love so much. In reality, I don’t think we would work as a couple anyway but you can’t help being hopeful and I like that. It means you aren’t hardened or jaded. It means you still have passion for life and a need to reach forward for better things. It means you aren’t cynical and fatalistic about life. I love that I still feel hopeful even though most of my pursuits of coupling in the last few years have been paramount to a kick in the guts.

 And the best thing I’ve learnt is- I’m fabulous and I deserve to be loved.