I’m going to a birthday party tonight. It’s one of my more glamorous friends, and in preparation, I’m ironing. I own my own iron and my own ironing board, but I only iron about once every year. The last time before today that I remember ironing is August 2011. I’d be OK with it being another eighteen months before I iron again.
In the run-up to the party, the predominant thought in my mind is that I’ve broken a fingernail. I know that you’re not meant to be concerned about a broken fingernail. In fact, it’s the definition of being a wimp if you care that you break a fingernail, but today I am a wimp. It’s my fingernail and I’ll cry if I want to.
This time last year, I was on my way to the birthday party of the same friend, and I washed my bed sheets, just in case I might find a gentleman caller to bring home. This year, I haven’t washed my sheets, which probably raises my chances of pulling considerably.
My manhunt continues. People do shake their heads at me. One person told me that the reason I don’t have a man is because I keep writing about looking for a man. Lots of people say I just need to project more confidence. Another person said I’ll meet people through my hobbies. And another says I should just get drunk more and I’ll shift someone in a nightclub like “normal” people. Yet another says I shouldn’t go near the internet or nightclubs and I should just wait until a friendship blooms into a romance. That last one made me laugh. Another person said that being in a relationship won’t solve any of my problems. No one has said that I’m really twelve stone too heavy for love, which is the thought I can’t banish from my mind.
I’m pushing ahead online. And I am going to try being more social. I promise.
Last week’s Man from the Internet messaged me saying “im sorry im sick im flue”. I think he must have chickened out.
He’s sent me about six messages this week, so I think I could still go there. And now he wants to meet for a coffee instead of for bedroom antics, which is kind of a sweet progression.
He’s Indian. I seem to be very attractive to the people of Asia. I was involved in a series of interactions with a Japanese man online a few months ago. In fact, pretty much every man I’ve been in contact with recently with a view to romance/sweaty fumbling has been either from Asia or Wicklow.
Maybe Asians like me because I look like Buddha. Or a sumo wrestler.
On Monday, I got a message from a Chinese man who calls himself (horrifyingly) GoodNews4Chubs. He just sent me his number and said to text him whenever I wanted a good time.
I think that might be my next move.