It’s May. As an Irish child of the 80s, that meant that it was the month of Our Lady. One of the science teachers in our school used to lead the students (those who bothered going) in the rosary every day in the school chapel at the 11:00 break.
May is of course also the month of the Eurovision. As usual, I’m cursing myself for not being there. But someday…
My mother and Kylie Minogue share the same birthday at the end of May, and on the 15th of May I will celebrate one whole year of freedom from cigarettes.
This May will be an insanely busy and emotional month. I have my interview to be Assistant Warden in Trinity Hall. I’m kind of working on the dangerous assumption that I’ll get the job. I really do want it. I like Hall. I like free accommodation. I think I’d be perfect for it.
I have a somewhat more important interview on the 30th May. It’s the continuation interview for my PhD, the only exam I have between the start and end of my PhD. On alternate days, I believe it’ll either be fine, or an absolute apocalypse. I am eerily calm about it though.
Before that, there’s something I’m much more worried about. My boys are leaving. By the 24th of May. Expect much rending of clothes and gnashing of teeth.
I’m also spending May teaching on the evening course that will never end. I feel like I’ve been doing it since the dawn of time. Actually it’s been eight weeks, but I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t teaching this course.
This week, I’ll finish the Couch-to-5K programme, which means that on Sunday I’m planning to run five whole kilometres for the first time. Expect a dramatic, self-satisfied blogpost.
Before Sunday, however, comes Saturday. Saturday the 5th of May. I’ve been thinking about the 5th of May since last September.
Not because it’s anyone’s birthday, or anniversary (to my knowledge). Not because it is a Mexican holiday. Though I wholeheartedly approve of both Mexicans and holidays.
You see, last September, on an impulse, I bought two tickets to see Simon Amstell in Vicar Street on the 5th of May.
I made an oath to myself that I would have a boyfriend to go with to the show. I didn’t want to go to yet another thing with a friend, presumably a girl, like some kind of feeble, pitiable version of an actual couple. For nearly eight months, I’ve been telling myself, and my friends, that I would have a boyfriend by the 5th of May.
I didn’t do very much about it until, ironically (and somewhat poetically) Holy Thursday, when I got on Grindr and set up dates with two different men. I don’t need to say what happened next as I’ve written plenty about it here.
I haven’t heard from my man, or from any other vaguely acceptable men in a few days. I’m not panicking, but I NEED my happy ending.