Month: October 2013

Online dating advice for men.

Men. When writing your profile for online dating purposes, be aware that few readers will make it past the first line. This is especially true of match.com where the first line of your profile is all that’s visible until someone clicks through. Therefore, do not use any of the following as your opening gambit. These lines are of no interest to readers, are over-used, make you sound weak and are essentially spam. You are losing potential customers when you announce yourself with these words:

  • Well here we go, deep breath, a bit about me. You don’t need this sentence. You are supposed to write a bit about you, it is your profile. We don’t need to hear you bracing yourself and drawing breath in preparation for the immensely challenging task of drivelling on about what films you like.
  • I am new to online dating. So, you are an online dating virgin. No-one cares. This isn’t a selling point. It is only going to be a selling point to Nigerian princes who urgently need to store a large amount of money off-shore.
  • Ugh, I hate these things, I don’t know what to write. Perhaps you should have thought of something before you started typing.
  • Thought I’d give this online dating business a go. Really, quelle surprise. And here I thought you were doing your grocery shopping.
  • What can I lose by giving this a try. All of your self-respect.
  • As I type this I am watching Jeremy Kyle. And I am shooting up heroin but I don’t write about it on match.com.
  • I’m trying to keep myself busy. This made me tear up a little bit. It hints at a deep level of personal tragedy. I spared myself the harrowing details by not clicking through.
  • This is weird. No, it isn’t.
  • This is the worst part of internet dating. How seductive. Do tell me more about the worst parts of your life.
  • I would describe myself as normal. Good to know.
  • I can never think about what to write on these things. Then stop trying.

This has been a public service announcement. Thank you.

Spanking the Honcho.

That wasn’t the most exciting weekend, I mostly did work that was left over from Friday. However, I am happy to report that my brain has shut the fuck up about Sayed and is no longer screening romantic dramas starring him while I sleep. These transmissions have been successfully terminated by paying more attention to the Honcho, a rather dull and predictable character in comparison, yet still alluring enough to boot Sayed out of my headspace when I am willing to let him.

Things take a strange turn with the Honcho of late. The quite disastrous round of negotiations in August pushed me past some crucial tipping point, into uncharted lands of fury and disrespect, with the result that our conversations since then have taken on a very unusual flavour. He has long since stopped posturing and preening himself, well, 99% of the time, anyway. Most of the time now he talks like a normal person and not like the Wizard of Oz. I am as impatient, aggressive and demanding as any battle-hardened ex-wife or pissed-off divorcee. He isn’t taking any action in respect of my various demands but his tone is bordering on the submissive. This is a new dynamic in the relationship, I must say.

Of course, it isn’t going to go anywhere because he couldn’t get his shit together when I was completely available for him. We’ve now reached the point where I have no good will left and I’m making demands that would be difficult even for a man who was very committed to success. He is not going to be able to do this. He couldn’t do it when the bar was set low, so he certainly is not going to be able to do it now I’ve set the bar high. I don’t think I am going to hold my breath waiting for the expensive jewellery. I might hold his breath. Possibly under water.

It is doing the job, though. Just about. Time spent pulling rank with the Honcho is time invested in preventing other people from getting too close to me. If I occasionally – OK, fairly often – look at my phone to see if the Honcho messaged me, well, that’s in many respects a lot better than checking my email to see if I heard from Sayed. A lot better. Sayed is dangerous. I have strong feelings for him, he is alluring in a lot of ways that a younger man would find hard to compete with, and his life is full of factors and variables that I don’t know enough about and cannot control. The Honcho is simpler. Most of his shine has rubbed off already and I know everything that I need to about his life and most of it disqualifies him from dating me.

Notorious BIG: Things Done Changed

Better.

Phew, that’s better. My sudden and brutal headache has finally gone, after 36 hours, and I have just awoken from a dream in which the Honcho was doing nothing more sinister than playing board games, one can hardly imagine a more innocent and less disturbing state of affairs. So thank you, brain, for ceasing to fuck with me, I really did not need that when I was feeling ill.

Bah. I feel weak. I am going to make coffee and at some point today I will attempt to go out for a walk. I still weigh 138 lbs.

Well, that came out of the blue.

Only just got back in the gym, suddenly floored by a surprise migraine. Spent most of the last 24 hours unsuccessfully trying to sleep it off. Still feel like shit. Am only at my computer now because I was woken up by a horrible dream, apparently set in the present day, where Sayed left me a second time; I woke up crying. This is insane. I had no idea, absolutely no idea, that he was the owner of so much real estate inside my head. I am glad the Honcho is paying attention because I need him right now. I am thinking of breaking up with everyone and anyone else who might have a claim on me, principally meaning Hussein. I can’t cope with other romantic attachments, I feel mentally unbalanced. If the Honcho were as emotionally psychic as my last serious boyfriend, he could be cashing in right now. Thankfully, he is not psychic. He is just a dude who sometimes knows when to lean in for the kill and sometimes not.

Aretha Franklin: Dr Feelgood (Love Is A Serious Business)

My gym is a temple of happiness.

I dragged myself out of my torpor and went to the gym. Actually, I went for a ten-mile march (march this time, not walk) and then I went to the gym where I lifted weights. I have definitely lost some muscle and am as weak as a kitten but that is easily remedied because apparently I can pack on muscle almost as easily as I can pack on fat. After the weights I soaked in the jacuzzi.

As you know, it took me nearly two weeks to get back in the gym, during which time I used a hangover and then a cold as excuses. I should have trusted my past experience. It is nice to be back. It seems to be a simple fact that exercise makes me feel happy, empowered and uplifted, more or less immediately. Within a few minutes of getting moving. I particularly love marching. Marching efficiently around outdoors, while looking fit, in well-coordinated sportswear, makes me feel like I’m in control of my entire life. I can tell when I’m in an extra good mood when I break into a run.

At the gym, the Most Gorgeous Staff Member was working in the restaurant. I haven’t seen him for a few weeks but he seemed to remember me from our earlier conversation, in which I complimented him on his blinding good looks. So there I am, standing at the counter, and he chats to me in a friendly way about absolutely fuck all, being all smiley and looking meaningfully into my eyes as he chit-chats about the gym. I interrupted him and told him I was unable to concentrate on his chit-chat because ‘you are too handsome, it is distracting, I can’t talk to you, get me a protein shake please’.  His workmate LOLd. Gorgeous Staff Member blushed and got me a protein shake. I took my shake and departed for the women’s locker room. Two minutes later I came back and gave him my phone number scrawled on the back of a receipt. Did I mention that I love my gym?

As if to further prove the magical properties of the gym, the Honcho emailed and texted me while I was in the pool. I don’t mind a bit of Honcho attention right now. Apart from enjoying the compliments, it keeps me from wasting time thinking about Sayed. The Honcho might be a horrible pretend boyfriend but at least he is a safe bet, insofar as he stays in his cage and is completely reliable in failing to organise real-life dates.

2 Health points.

A box of tiny clothes.

I have new Skinny Jeans. They are not new new, they are in fact about four years old yet they are unworn. I remember buying them. It would have been around 2009, near the end of my relationship with the Serious Ex, a year prior to starting this blog. I would have been a lot heavier than I am now. I had in mind at the time of purchase that I was a UK size 12 (US 8) when clearly I was more like a large 14. So I bought these jeans in a 12, and they are not even a generous 12. Like my Karrimore lime shorts, they are more like a size 11, if such a thing existed. I tried them on at home, nearly wept at the immense disparity between the waistband of the jeans and my enormous gut, and relegated them to a plastic crate.

In fact, that was the day I went through my wardrobe and sorrowfully picked out garments that I wanted to keep but was way too fat for, and put them away tidily in that plastic crate which has been buried under a pile of suitcases in the hall ever since.

Today, in 2013, spurred on by my miraculous weight loss, I tentatively pulled out the crate to see what clothes are in there.

The jeans fit me. They are my new Skinny Jeans. They are not baggy in the legs, they are the right width for my legs, which are slim. They are a wee bit too tight around the middle, which is just perfect. It gives me something to work for, in the same way that I’ve worked all these months to get my old skinny jeans to fit me. It stops me getting complacent. Also, I have just had a chicken soup, a latte and a Crunchie, so the fact that I can eat all that and still do the zip up is something that I am calling a victory.

There is a holy grail where my clothes are concerned. Back in 2000, when I used to date Sayed, I had this pink chiffon blouse that I absolutely adored. It was cleavage-tastic, framing one’s bosom in an obscene froth of pink frills. Even better, it didn’t even do up with proper buttons or anything. Just these ties, like ribbons, which you tie together in bows and which your lover can enjoy unlacing later in the evening. Man, I loved that blouse. So cute and sexy. It is a UK size 10 (US 6).

I pulled it out of the box just now and tried it on. I am too hefty for it. I can do it up but it is plainly a size too small and it doesn’t drape correctly. But guys. I tried it on. It went on and the seams didn’t burst. It is too small but only one size too small.

I am wearing the new Skinny Jeans and a slim-fitting size 12 t-shirt right now and I look like a size 12 woman. I look like a woman who is slim but could still do with losing five pounds, mostly off her hips and belly. And that, all things considered, is a pretty happy place to be.

If I can slim down enough so that pink blouse properly fits me, I will go on a date with Sayed just for the sake of wearing it. I would be surprised if the ribbon ties didn’t trigger deep, primal memories in his old lizard brain.