“He fucked her.”
The one thing you have to love about London is that if you dare to converse openly in the street every Tom, Dick and Harry will give you their two pence worth. As Galia and I made our way to Rebel Bingo, I started rehashing the whole did he/didn’t he of my ex’s supposed infidelity, and secret friendship with a girl whom I’d never heard of until last Christmas.
This was random man’s opinion on the debate:
“Who describes his bedroom to a girl via a text message? Take a picture, yeah, send it to her, but who describes it?”
He made a very good point.
“It’s easy love, the simplest answer is most probable.”
Was it more probable a psychopath became obsessed with my ex after staring at him too long? Did she then lie to her husband (yes husband) about an affair? Did they then conspire to ruin an innocent man’s life?
Or was it more likely he just shagged her, got caught and now regretted it?
“Simplest answer love.”
Camden’s answer to Confucius turned to a cash machine and started to get money out, leaving me and Galia nodding our heads. Why we were nodding I don’t know. I’d never know which story was true.
Why do I keep bothering with dating when my instinct on men is so off?
I once had dinner at a Mexican friend’s house and was discussing yet another failed relationship when her Nana came in. She joined in the conversation with the promise of bestowing her years of experience and wisdom. At the end of my tale of unreturned texts, a terminally ill relative that never died, and crucial gym commitments, I looked to her for her wisdom. She delicately placed a hand on my shoulder, looked at me consolingly, and said “Mija, pero tienes radar de pendejos.”
When I turned to my friend to ask what she had said, she replied “Nana says you have asshole radar.”
My life reads a lot like a Jane Austen novel (with a Mills & Boon cover) that had a massive chunk of the middle pages ripped out. Bits of Bridget Jones, Stephen King and Sylvia Plath have been glued in and interspliced with the occasional nudie pic.
It reads like a serial killer’s scrap book.
There have been many lovely men in my life, and others available. As a good friend of mine will remind me, “You never go for the ones I try to set you up with, you always like their fit/dodgy mate!”
I have been on a one woman mission to perfect the art of reverse man alchemy, where I take a guy that looks golden and turn him into a shit. Complete success has been achieved on more than one occasion. That doesn’t bug me as much as the fact my life has become one big dating anecdote.
The things that I have done, places I have seen and people I have met are the backstory to a failed love life. This realisation has lead me to my new plan: rewiring my radar.
As dumb as I may already sound, I am not so stupid that I am going to sit crying into a tub of ice cream about how unlucky I am. Well, not anymore. I don’t really believe in luck, or karma. Up until now I used to think that I believed in myself, but it was clear to see after months of flailing around struggling to come to terms with a whole new life in London, and a lot of disappointment, I didn’t believe I could make any of it work alone. Me. Who moved to a Mexico alone at 24 with no friends and 100 pairs of knickers because a) why not? and b) you always need clean underwear.
Those of you that know me, know me as a fearless, loveable idiot who won’t shut up. Those that have known me longer know might think I’m quite tough and cynical. No one knows you better than yourself though, and after the last dating anecdote I’ve decided to take time off life as I’ve known it.
I have a pathetic amount of money saved and will be funding the ‘having-a-life-and- being-happy-project.’ During this time, I will be going out and about in London. Travelling to a city near you, perhaps. Writing about what I see along the way, the people I meet, and setting my radar to ‘no pendejos’.
If you need a partner in crime, call me. If you want to go somewhere you haven’t been to before, I’m your girl.
It’s been two weeks now, and it’s absolutely terrifying. I have only just stopped waking up with the kind of pain in my chest that makes me have to pat myself down to see if I slept with my bra on.
Still totally worth it.
Wish me luck.