My Sally Field moment 

(Warning: NSFW in parts)

Enjoy these happy posts guys. It’s all good right now but it’s bound to fall apart any minute. 

I’ll start last Saturday. I mentioned that I got very drunk on Saturday night in my last post. While I was drinking, and my defences were down, I got a text from the maths teacher/Deputy Head (I still find Deputy Head a hilarious title. It sounds more like Officer Blowjob than Vice Principal to me.) You may remember him as the one who tried unsuccessfully to put a dog collar on me but succeeded in putting a hood on me. I agonised for quite a while about whether to meet him again or not (he is super hot) (and he’s not just about dog collars. He also had a large photo of his dead granny on display, watching him while he did wicked things to me.) Eventually, a week or so ago, I texted him and told him I wasn’t really interested in someone who didn’t want to cuddle and he’d cut the conversation completely off. I’d written him off, safe in the knowledge that I had plenty of other prospects. 

As I say, however, I’d been drinking and my defences were down when I got an unexpected text from the Deputy Head, asking if I wanted to come over for “a cuddle and nothing kinky.” A few messages later, it was clear he wanted more than a cuddle, but he was swearing he’d be good. I told him I was out in the pub and had just ordered a pint. I said I’d text him in 30 minutes when I’d finished my pint and I’d come then. (Witness my growth! As if I would I have told a hot man to wait for me to finish a pint when I first arrived in London.)

I sent that message at 10:45 exactly. At 11:16 he texted me back to check in. 

I’d told him I’d be half an hour. He waited 31 minutes. He must have been looking at the clock, counting down the minutes till my text arrived. He was clearly dying for me to come over. No one’s ever wanted me that much. I sat in the pub just saying “31 minutes” over and over for about 5 minutes. 

I felt like Sally Field, when she won her second Oscar and she tearfully said “I can’t deny the fact that you like me. Right now, you like me!” 

I told him I’d text him in 30 minutes. In 31 minutes he texted back. He can’t deny the fact that he likes me. Right then, he liked me! 

I got all in a flutter and told my drinking companions all about this man. I sent him a text saying I was at the bus stop on my way to see him. It was another twenty minutes before I left. I’m an unreliable booty call. I did eventually get on a bus, but when I told him I was at Clerkenwell 45 minutes “after I’d left”, he got all huffy and aggressive. Our texts got snippy and I got off the bus to his place and got on a different bus to go home without getting my cuddle. 

He’s still in touch. He still wants me. It’s all good. 

But as I wrote in my last post, I had a much more exciting, romantic and gratifying experience with a Frenchman on Monday evening anyway. 

I felt so good after Monday that I spent all day Tuesday floating on air in spite of lack of sleep. 

Then on Wednesday morning, the post-Frenchman glow was wearing off. I was standing in a passageway in Stratford station, waiting to buy my regular morning Diet Coke, when I felt someone pinch my bum. My Frenchman was there! He smiled cheekily and told me he had to rush to work. 

I can honestly recommend nothing better to start your day with than a bum pinch from a sexy Frenchman. I’m being romanced! 

I had brought my gym gear with me. After such a massive weight loss last week, I’m not expecting a great number this week and it’s time to get back into exercise. Other than to avail of saunas and jacuzzis, I haven’t been to a gym properly since I was living with my Boys, back in spring 2012, a lifetime ago. 

I don’t get nervous going to a sauna or a hot tub but I do when I go to the gym itself. As I’ve written about here before, there’s an equality of vulnerability to nakedness that makes a sauna less intimidating than a treadmill or a weights bench (and anyway, there’s always a fat guy in the corner of every public sauna. It’s basically the law.) I don’t feel like I fit in in a gym. I feel like the only vulnerable one. I feel so scared before going to the gym and always end up having a long argument in my mind to convince myself to go. 

But I did it. After work I went to a cafe and didn’t go to the gym till 7:00 so I wouldn’t get caught in the post-work rush. I just wanted to do cardio. It’ll take a bit more courage to start doing weights again, but I’ll get there. 

I decided to do 45 minutes on a bike, and I did it. It’s a start. I’m going to be a regular at the gym. Even though gyms terrify me, I do love them and exercise makes me happy. In that sense, my relationship with gyms is a lot like my relationships with men. 

One of the first rules you learn when you arrive in London is that if you’re getting the Tube that you stand on the right and walk on the left on the escalators. If you don’t, you’ll just get trampled by angry commuters. I was on such a post-exercise high after the gym that I did something I’ve never done before in my five months in London. I didn’t stand on the right. I walked on the left! Am I going to be one of those people now? 

Could my week get better? Better than Sally Field and 31 minutes? Better than a Frenchman punching my bum during the commuter rush? Better than the gym turning me into a walk-on-the-escalator person? Yes it could. Because Thursday night is musical night and so, last night, I saw Wicked. Theatres during Easter time are a mistake. There were too many groups of teenagers and kids on school holidays and they bothered me at first but not for long. Wicked is magic. Did I cry? Of course I did. 

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