Sunday 25 December 2016

Holding Hands in the Countryside Part IV : Jesus Loves Me

With all my talk about dating, you'd think that I would have been inundated with Christmas presents from admirers, wouldn't you?  Well, dear reader, I regret to advise that I didn't get as much as a battered Christmas card, cheap perfume from LidlDaLDI, or even a bloody Toblerone.

But I don't want you to feel sorry for me.  I'm in great form, it's Christmas and good stuff is going down.  In the week when Bob Geldof 'liked' a blog post I wrote (sorry, I just had to throw that in there), an email alert from a dating website tells me that I am Jesus's 'favourite'.  Given that it is his birthday week, I wouldn't have thought he'd have time for a web trawl and to find me, a non-believer, among his many, many admirers.  I click on the link.  As expected, Jesus is a fine looking lad, but just, different than what I expected - paler, more clean shaven, a sharper dresser.  He's got a look about him that says 'eternal youth'.  But Jesus lives a continent away and I don't expect him to part seas, or to walk on water to see me.  So sorry Jesus, you may be loved by millions, but I ain't the gal for you.

I collect a parcel from a distribution centre.  Logistics Guy recognises my address and describes where I live with Sat-Nav precision and also, describes who lives in my house, or rather once live'd' in my house. Without really meaning to, I blurt out the current make up of my household and quick as a flash, he offers to take me out on a date.  Just like that.  My package contains a blood-red lipstick, a gift sent from a friend.  I wonder if Logistics Guy has scanned the package, seen the contents and summed me as a femme fatale.  Or perhaps, there's an offer on packages, a buy-one, get-a-date-free type scenario.  Either way, I decline his offer and leg it with my lippy.

By chance, I see Feckin' Fecker parked in the car park of a filling station and my heart skips a beat.  I don't know if he has seen me as I walk out of the shop.  I'm suddenly self conscious about how I look and what I'm wearing.  I hesitate as I leave.  I sit into my car, hoping that he will knock on the window of my car, just to say hello.  But there's no knock and I drive off, feeling slightly bruised. There's no Christmas text message either.  For closure, it would have been nice to get a 'Happy Christmas', but I think I know him well enough to know that he hasn't contacted me because he doesn't want to get my hopes up of us ever being an item. But FF, I get it, swear.

Although we speak regularly, I have no idea what Vital Statistics thinks of me.  He has the loveliest of smiles. I like the way he runs his hands through his hair when he is animated, although I'd much prefer him to run them through mine.  I demonstrate great restraint and do not share this sentiment (and you won't tell him, will you?).  Vital Statistics is an expert on risk assessment and seems to have applied the same methodology to himself and myself.  He can't predict our long term forecast due to the unknown outcome of predicted life happenings for him.  I understand his hesitancy, but reassure him that although I MAY be high maintenance, that I am low risk and being financially independent, a low cost option. 

I wonder if he's too polite to say that he's not that interested in me, so I ask him out straight.  He is puzzled by the question.  He replies, 'sure I'm here', which is true, he is indeed, here, sitting right across from me and there isn't a gun to his head.  But still I want more.  I consider presenting him with a questionnaire that produces facts and figures that could prompt him.   

For example, 

(A) 
On a scale of 1-10, where 1=Total Minger and 10= Hot Momma, how would you rate the woman sitting across the table?  

(B) 
Please create a pie-chart indicting percentages of how you consider your date, using the headings below
1. Bessie Mate
2. Would like to bring her breakfast in bed
3. Want to grow old with her
4. Thinking of blocking her number on my phone
5. Undecided

I think it's best that I embrace the advice of my two older male friends, who recently insisted on giving stone-cold-sober me a drunken pep talk on my loveless life and 'slow the fuck down'.  So I won't ask Vital Statistics any more probing questions.  I'll just remind him now and then that I'm a woman in demand, I mean, how many girls can say that Jesus winked at them?

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