Saturday, 1 July 2017

Holding Hands in the Countryside: Going Back To My Roots

Thought I’d better ‘fess up.  I did it again.  Yes, I signed up for online dating.  Exactly one month ago today.  It is with great relief that the subscription has now expired and with immense regret that I have yet to find the man of my dreams.  If I were to grade myself on my efforts though, I would award myself the grand score of ‘half arsed.’   It was somewhat reassuring, but mostly depressing to see some familiar faces there, in cyber love land, since last year.  I wonder do some people exist here in an online vacuum forever, looking and winking without any notion of actually meeting anyone? Or maybe they are actually trapped, banging unnoticed on the laptop screen hoping to be rescued?

I chatted, and went on dates with two guys who, coincidentally, both had the same first name.  Andy1 was mad about me.  He could see us settling down together and would love me forever.  I was mad about Andy2.  I could see us settling down together and I would love him forever.  Let’s just say,- if the wrong text message went to the wrong Andy, we could have had trouble, or a trampled heart at least.

It’s Not You, It’s Me has everything going for him.  We have the loveliest of times.  But, I know when we say goodbye that night, that we won’t see each other again.  He beats me to it next morning, sending me a message confirming what I already know.

By Mutual Agreement is a sweetheart.  He is smart, handsome and kind.  He thinks that I am smart, pretty and kind.  We text the following day and agreed that there was no ‘spark’ and therefore, no point in meeting again.  We reassure ourselves that our date reaffirmed that there were decent people out there and wished that we had the patent on the ‘va-va-voom’ dust that we are all looking for.

Chancing His Arm winks at me every day.  I eventually send him a message, telling him that, as he is aged 26, I really am old enough to be his Mammy.  He enthusiastically sends me back a message saying that ‘age is just a number.’  I wonder if he would be any good at cutting my lawn, but decide against asking, for fear that I will end up in court for exploiting a child.

Adult Dancing thanks me for my kind ‘no thanks’ message and asks me if I have any nice friends who would be interested in him.  I actually contemplate setting up a match-making service for all of the beautiful decent souls I have met and the many lovely ladies in my life looking for love.  Anything that would lessen the torture. 

In the middle of it all, a pattern emerges.   Many of the guys that I have encountered have a farming background.   The last time I snogged a Farmer Boy, was when I was 17.  Farmer Boy was helping to cut the silage on our family farm.  I wiped my face after kissing him, to clear the oily/sweaty/grassy evidence from my face before going in to help my mother prepare dinner for the silage men.   Farmer Boy keeps his head down during the meal, his long hair falling against his heavy metal t shirt. 

I can’t say that that look would do it for me anymore, but there’s something about being a man of the land that is drawing me in.   I think it's because I feel like I have been floating in space for the last while and I'm drawn to that feeling of being grounded, quite literally.  There's the familiarity of my rural upbringing.  And the feeling of comfort when I shake the rough padded hand of a man that works on the land. 

AgriGuy1 still checks in with me most days, tells me that he will fall in love with me, but hasn’t actually asked me out on a date and I ain’t offering.  Meanwhile, I’m only dying for AgriGuy2 to pick up the phone and he hasn’t.  I suppose there’s a silage pit to be covered …

If yis hear of any  va-va-voom dust selling in LidlDeeAldi, will ye let me know?

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