Oh Wow – Part 2 of 4


I think I got 2 hours sleep after our first date night of drinks, and meeting friends, and seeing each other’s apartments, and dancing in the living room, and incredible sex… and I was more than a little tired. As was O, so we stayed in bed quite late on the Saturday morning, chatting, laughing at how this wasn’t how we’d expected a date for a few drinks after work would end up, and having more of that – you guessed it – incredible sex (I’m not even going to apologise for it!). While still in bed, I had to reject a WhatsApp call from my Mum and text her that I couldn’t answer it because I wasn’t in my own bed (Mama didn’t raise no liar)… #awkward

We finally got up and showered together before he got ready to go to his parents’ and I headed home. PSA – showering with a 6’5 guy makes for some logistically awkward moments. Also some bloody cold moments, like when he entirely blocks the water flow from reaching you.

We both had busy Saturdays of visiting parents and going on a birthday night out (him) and going to the gym then going on an afternoon long brewery crawl (me). He did say before we left each other in the middle of downtown that he fully welcomed drunken texts and expected to see (me) the next day. Despite him telling me on Friday that he’s not a great texter, it wasn’t long before my phone buzzed with a message from him asking how the breweries were.

We texted on and off during the day and at 9pm he asked what the chances were he’d see me that night. I told him it was pretty high, but when I ended up heading home around 10.30pm I presumed he’d be out later so went to bed and only woke up when some other fuckboy called me at 1.30am. Don’t ask me why I don’t put my phone on silent.

O had messaged at 12.30am asking if I was still awake so albeit that it was then an hour later, I called him to see where he was but he didn’t answer. I then sent him a text that he did reply to and, despite it being middle of the night, me being fully in bed and asleep, I somehow ended up agreeing to get up out of bed and going to meet him at the McDonald’s a block from my place. I know, makes no sense to me either. Even just 36 hours in, he was definitely starting to seriously affect my sleep and I should have hated it more than I did, which was not at all.

By the time I got there though, O’s friend whose birthday they had been celebrating and was visiting from out of town had shown up at McDonald’s (he’d gone MIA earlier in the evening) and now needed to be let into O’s place where he was staying. They were both pretty drunk but O seemed to have his shit together, despite stinking of weed. So I suggested he take his friend home, I’d wait for the food that he’d ordered and and then take it back to mine where O would come once his friend was safely tucked up at home. It really was handy that we lived so close.

Standing in McDonald’s still half asleep, I wondered what the hell I was doing. But there was something about him… Clearly he was making me do crazy things, which worried me slightly. But let’s be honest, I’m never going to turn down the chance to snack on a stray fry.

I texted him once I was home letting him know his McDonald’s was awaiting him, and he replied saying “you’re quickly turning into a unicorn”. Well, you do what you can, right? [insert hair bob emoji lol]

Twenty minutes later I went down to meet him outside my building, as I wasn’t sure the buzzer / elevator instructions would be entirely digestible for him that night. Watching his tall frame come lumbering over the street, he definitely seemed a little worse for wear. As we got into my apartment, he got undressed almost immediately so was sat on my sofa, in his boxers, munching his McDonald’s like it was the most normal thing in the world, which was only marginally strange given I’d known him at that point for so little time. But for being an “8 out of 10 drunk” as he said the next day he was, he was still pretty well put together.

Apparently all his friends loved the story of how I wanted to watch the rugby right after we finished having sex and the love bite (which I’d accidentally given him, did I not mention that? Yeah… good God who am I?) was a constant source of amusement for his friends all day. But his reply to them was always to say the sex was absolutely worth it so he really didn’t care. I, on the other hand, was mortified.

I slept a little more on Saturday night than I had on Friday night but only by a couple of hours. We had a lovely morning of snuggling, which I’m pretty sure is what Sunday mornings are made for and which later led to him calling me “a little cuddle monster”. But he seemed to need more sleep so I left him in bed while I skyped my family back home. After having to reject my Mum’s call the day before, and having to explain why I was kind of whispering that morning, I had to tell them the abridged version of the man in my bed… Always fun family chats!

I went back to bed for a bit but I was pretty antsy which he fully called me out on when he woke up. He asked if he’d done anything stupid the night before but I assured him he really was fine. He apologised for gatecrashing my place after his night out, and thanked me again for getting his McDonald’s. He was very appreciative and maybe a little sheepish.

Part of me felt like I’d done too much, I’d been too nice, too accommodating, too available. Was being willing to get up in the middle of the night to meet him when he was TUI (Texting Under the Influence) me giving myself too easily to him? But I had loved seeing him again, falling asleep next to him again was comforting, waking up beside him again was exciting. But I’d started to feel conflicted about my actions, which only fed my antsy-ness.

He had brunch with friends to go to, which seemed like a total struggle for him in his slightly hungover state – I was intrigued how much alcohol was required to get a guy of that size drunk. Meanwhile I was excited to get up and get the laundry on and get out to exercise. We were very different people that morning! I needed a quiet but productive Sunday after a weekend which had ended up not at all like I’d envisaged.

We texted a little during the day and it seemed like his Sunday was getting boozy, brunch was followed by beers on the beach, then around 5.30pm he messaged and asked when I’d be eating dinner. I had been napping, thanks to a serious lack of sleep the previous two nights, but texted back around 6.30pm to say I’d be eating within the next hour, in my head the text finished with “because I want to be in bed at 8pm” but I refrained from sending that part to him. At which point he said he wanted to cook for me.

He had said something in the morning about making up for his drunkenness by cooking me dinner, but I never really thought it would happen. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it if I’m honest. I was concerned about seeing him 3 days in a row, I didn’t want to see him if he was super drunk (Saturday night drunk was one thing, Sunday day drunk was another) and I felt that maybe I should make myself a little more unavailable. But he was so excited to cook for me and having someone cook dinner was always a treat (a symptom of long term singledom), so soon enough he was at mine suggesting he cook fish tacos. When should I tell him I don’t eat fish?

On his arrival, he was a bit of a drunken, beach mess and I slightly started to regret my decision to say yes to dinner. Plus I could feel my anxiety kick in about my scheduled bedtime not going to plan and just generally not making good decisions. I really like order, I really like routine, I really like knowing what the fuck is going on and this weekend had contained none of those things. I also knew that sometimes I needed to be a little more flexible, a little more easy going and a little more spontaneous. So I was trying to find balance.

We left mine to go back to his place for him to shower and change before we went grocery shopping for dinner, and the whole time dinner just felt like it was getting later and later and I was becoming more anxious… My anxiety was apparently obvious to him and as he was getting ready to shower he questioned why I seemed so reluctant to be having dinner with him. I tried to explain about my general preference for control and plans and that unexpected changes cause me anxiety, all the while feeling very vulnerable sharing these fairly deep seated fears with someone I’d known for such a short time.

He knelt down beside me as I was sitting on the sofa, towel wrapped around his waist, and said “if anyone understands about anxiety I get it, as a result of the basketball injuries, I suffered from depression and from that developed anxiety, so I get where you’re coming from. Just know I understand” and then he kissed me. It was incredibly sweet and my heart skipped a beat. For being such a big, bullish guy, he was also sensitive and tender.

I loved his openness to being sweet and complimentary, like when we were dancing on Friday night and as he stroked my side he said “damn, you’re fit, how did I not notice that before?!” Or when on the Saturday he said he’d found himself checking his phone and hoping I’d texted him while he was with his friends. And despite him not being a texter, he wanted to text me all the time. Or when he was at the beach on Sunday but had apparently just wanted to be hanging out with me.

But was it love bombing (someone blinding you with grand gestures and hollow words) or was it genuine interest. I couldn’t be sure. On both the Saturday and Sunday I’d tried to make sure I wasn’t driving the contact, that he was the one that reached out first both times, but did that really give me an indication of true intent? It was too early to know for sure.

He smoked a joint on our way from his place to the supermarket and it seemed to help him sober up(?) a little. At least that, and the shower, and change of clothes seemed to have helped so by the time we got to the store, shopping was easy and super fun, but everything seemed like it would be fun with him. I finally admitted at that point that I didn’t actually eat fish but I’d try the fish tacos if he promised he wouldn’t be offended if I didn’t like them. He agreed but promised I would love them.

After dinner, and me finding I did actually love his fish tacos, we were talking about how surprising the weekend had been, as we had a few times already since we’d met. My surprises for the three days of the weekend were him kissing me outside Tacofino, him texting me while out on Saturday, and the fact he was able to make me comfortable enough on Sunday night, despite my spontaneity anxiety, to be able to enjoy dinner with him. His 3 surprises were me saying I’d see him after meeting my friend for dinner on Friday (also me giving up my self restraint to sleep with him), meeting him at McDonald’s on Saturday and letting him stay (also the Saturday morning sex being so good), and me agreeing to a drunk guy coming to cook me dinner on Sunday.

It was fair to say neither of us had expected the weekend to go the way it did but lying on the sofa discussing the many events of the past 48 hours, it felt crazily normal.

He ended up staying over until Monday morning, after he’d said something about “well if I was staying…” and I said “well you’re welcome to” which caught him off guard but, honestly, it had been a lovely weekend and having someone cook me dinner on a Sunday night, and to watch Netflix and snuggle with until it was bedtime was unbelievably lovely. I fucking missed that!

Monday morning was interesting though. He for sure was feeling the effects of a heavy weekend, and the lack of sleep had him more than a little grumpy, though I could tell he was desperately trying to be fun and chatty before he headed home to get some more sleep and I got ready for work.

Within our first weekend of knowing each other we’d each met a close friend of the other’s, stayed at each other’s apartments, had sex (including some stuff that maybe takes some people more than a few dates to get to..), drunk texted, watched sports, showered together, went grocery shopping, he cooked for me, stayed over on a school night. It was a lot, and a lot more than expected, but it all felt really lovely.

I noticed throughout the weekend that I kept thinking “oh, people are going to judge me for going this hard and fast” or feeling pressured to make choices based on the so called “rules of dating” – don’t sleep together on the first date, don’t always be available, don’t give him everything he wants right away… I started to really psyche myself out and there were definitely moments of wondering if I should have been doing any of it. But then there’s the other side, when people say “when it feels right just go with it” or “if you want to, then why not?” So it was a conflicted weekend but by the end of it I was feeling more comfortable with my choices.

I also knew that O was nothing like I thought someone I would date would be, yet the ease with which I was finding spending time with him didn’t match that mis-match in expectations. The level of comfort we both had with each other, and had from the first date drinks, was unexpected and was rare in all the dates I’d been on. I hoped it wasn’t misplaced but we seemed to be on the same page.

I’d said to O on the Sunday night that my only concern with things being this unexpected, and ever so slightly full on, is that one of us (but I really meant him) would all of a sudden have a change of heart or get freaked out and run the other way. And that all I hoped was that there would be a conversation rather than just a slow retreat. He agreed, saying he was a much bigger fan of people having difficult, but necessary, honest conversations, than people getting into their own heads and things getting fucked up by not communicating. In that regard, it was like listening to myself.

But…it sounded like his last relationship was a bit of a head fuck with a serious lack of intimacy and I wasn’t sure he’d fully come to terms with that. He was also only just coming out the end of a long injury lay off and was dealing with the effects physically and mentally of that. He was building his business and, despite surrounding himself with seemingly older friends and mentors, he was only 26 (did I not mention that? Oops my bad) and had said himself he was unemotional. So expectations around any blossoming relationship needed to be kept realistic.

Also, up to this point O’s actions hadn’t entirely matched his words – he wanted to go slow but we slept together on our first date. He said he was unemotional but he’d been super open about his feelings (maybe that’s different?)… but each time the actions were “better” than his spoken intentions so I wasn’t complaining, but that’s where it got confusing for me. I didn’t want to be hearing one thing and having to presume he’d do something else. My head doesn’t need that type of messing about.

I remember my therapist Julia saying about the Canadian DJ situation, “you don’t necessarily want fireworks, the fireworks fizzle, they die out and then what are you left with?” At the time I thought “but how can something that feels so incredibly amazing be wrong?!” Turns out she knows what she’s talking about, as if I had ever doubted her. That situation went so wrong, so quickly. So I was glad it wasn’t feeling like crazy fireworks with O, that’s not to say it didn’t feel great but it just felt… easy.

Despite the element of confusion, I felt a sense of calm about and around O, though I couldn’t quite place where it came from. Was it because it was just “right” or was it because I didn’t fully believe it might go anywhere, because it never does? I guessed only time would tell.

Next post…

…previous post

O – Part 1 of 4


Leaving work on the Friday afternoon, I wasn’t 100% sure what to expect from my date with O. Looking back at his online dating profile I couldn’t quite pinpoint why I’d swiped right but, in all of our messaging, he seemed like a nice guy who could hold a conversation and had the balls to make plans fairly quickly – qualities I admired. I knew he was Persian and 6’5 but when I walked outside and saw him, I really hadn’t expected such an athletic looking, hot, brown guy, with a jawline that could cut glass, albeit covered by a very well trimmed beard. It was a very pleasant surprise.

He’d texted to say he was outside my office, not where I would usually want to meet someone but he lived close by and for whatever reason I agreed for him to come there and then we’d walk somewhere for happy hour.  He was on the phone as I came out so we had a quick hug mid-conversation and he intimated an apology before finishing his call off to the side.

Coming back over, he said “I’m so sorry, let’s do that hi again”, he gave me another, fuller hug with those fairly muscly arms I’d noticed under his t-shirt when I’d been watching him on the phone. It was an incredibly comforting, friendly hug that didn’t feel like it was from a stranger, almost as if I’d known him for longer than a minute. He quickly suggested a place to go for patio drinks and, as we walked from Gastown to Yaletown, we had great chats about working in tech, the business he was starting, how he got there and his basketball background.

He loved our shared tech experience, saying he’d never been able to have those chats on a date before – “those chats” being about software and processes. I’m not sure I’d ever had those chats on a date before either, given that for the most part a lot of people would consider them more than a little boring.

We got a seat on the patio at the bar he’d suggested, but it took us a while to order drinks because we were chatting so much – it was super easy and fun. We seemed to have a lot in common, we talked a little bit about dating and our views on the subject, which we came at from a similar place it seemed – we didn’t have time for games and we were looking for something substantial.

We shared our love of sports and good drinks, and how we both felt like old souls who preferred chilled nights and early bedtimes. I also found out he didn’t like scheduled sex, or waiting, he preferred calls to texts, not to ask him questions I didn’t want the answer to (thankfully I found this out by him telling me and not by asking him a question I didn’t want the answer to) and that the more comfortable I was with him, the more comfortable he’d be with me. He told me he could be unemotional, as a safety mechanism, and wouldn’t want to rush anything.

We covered all this ground before we’d even finished the second drink. It felt like a lot but these are the chats I live for! I don’t want the surface level bullshit, I want to get deep, I want to understand if there is any substance there, I want to know we align on the important stuff. It felt like he was being open, and genuine, and I loved that.

I was going to meet a friend later for dinner, which O had known when we arranged happy hour drinks. It was the perfect way for us to be able to meet knowing it couldn’t go on all night, with a safety net of an end time in case it was a first date fail. Before my dinner, we went for a walk to the seawall for some gelato. At which point I found out he doesn’t like when things bother him, like the gelato melting over his hands.

I had probably learnt more about him in the two hours we’d been on our date than in all the time I’d known some other people.

As my friend texted to say she was ready to meet for dinner, O said he was going to meet a friend over in another part of town but would walk me to the restaurant. It was nice of him to offer but it made me think he’d probably not kiss me, given that we’d be in the middle of Yaletown, crazy busy on a Friday night. And I realised I’d been hoping that our date might end with him laying it on me.

Well, no, being in the middle of after work / weekend crowds didn’t stop him and as we said bye in front of the restaurant, he leant down (there was a foot in height difference) and kissed me on the cheek, as if tentatively checking the response. Then went full in. Like full on, tongue in, hands on the face kiss.

It caught me a little off guard but Jesus! It was far from terrible and gave me total butterflies. My knees also possibly went slightly weak. It was a pretty perfect first kiss.

He smiled, said goodbye and continued walking past the restaurant. While trying to gather my composure, I turned round to the restaurant, and I see my friend standing about 10 feet from where O and I had just had that moment, and her face was a picture. Turns out she’d walked behind us the whole way along the street and had been taking pictures. Like a creeping paparazzo. But the kiss even caught her by surprise. I also realised when looking at the pictures over dinner just how short I was in comparison to him, I barely made it to his big, brawny shoulder.

Before O had left me at the restaurant, I’d told him dinner would only be an hour because my friend needed to go home to pack for a trip she was leaving for over the weekend, so he suggested that maybe we could see each other after I was finished. I was glad we’d both been on the same page about how much we were enjoying the date. It was one of those where you just never wanted to stop speaking to the person – and that had been so rare on dates recently!

Once my friend and I had scarfed down a couple of tacos and had enough of a catch up, and after a couple of texts and a phone call from me – I’d noted his comment about preferring calls to texts – O came to meet my friend and I at Tacofino. Some might say it was an intense addition to a first date but neither of us were phased by it and he seemed to enjoy being interrogated by my friend for 20 minutes.

They got on pretty well, which was actually something I realised during our drinks earlier – I felt like he would have absolutely no problem getting along with my group of friends. And I hadn’t always felt that way with guys I’d been on dates with. O and I had also discussed the spectrum of my life’s activities over drinks – from watching rugby in shitty bars to going to bougie social events – and how I needed someone who could be comfortable at both ends of the social spectrum. He seemed to totally get it and said he identified with it himself.

We left the restaurant and, after saying our goodbyes to my friend, went back to my apartment, so I could drop my laptop off seeing as I hadn’t been home since work, and then we were going to go and get another drink. He offered to wait downstairs at my apartment but I had no issues inviting him up, it was going to be a 2 minute visit and I was super comfortable with him. Albeit a fleeting thought did flash through my mind of jumping his bones when we got up there, I managed to restrain myself.

Over the course of the earlier part of the night one of his best friends had been texting about meeting up so on leaving my place he asked if I’d mind going to see his friend with him. I figured that as he’d met one of mine it was only fair and while, ordinarily, that might have made me nervous, it felt pretty natural.

By the time we met up with his friend though, he’d already made plans to go and meet other friends. I told O he should go as well if he wanted to but he said no, he wanted us to hangout and have a quiet night back at his place. It actually sounded perfect. And again, he’d seen my place so it was only fair I saw his. But again, that thought of jumping his tall, tanned bones flew through my head. I quickly pushed it to the side, as much fun as we were having, I didn’t want it to end up as just a casual hookup.

Meeting his best friend gave me another view of O. He’d made it clear to me already how important his friends were to him, they’d taken the place of older brothers, and finishing conversations with “I love you” was commonplace between them, which I’d witnessed that night while he was on the phone to his friend, and in person. I value well tended friendships, and someone who works for and is grateful for their closest relationships is someone I want to be with. Not to mention guys who are comfortable expressing themselves, especially to each other.

He lived downtown as well, turns out we only lived about 6 blocks from each other, so after a short walk we were back at his condo. It was nice, and clean, and organised and I was so thankful!

It’s a point of discussion with me and my friends – do you prefer to go to someone’s place or have them come to yours? I always want a guy to come to mine, because I know it’s clean and comfortable. You go to a guy’s place and you’ve no idea what’s waiting for you… For others the comfort in the knowledge they can get up and leave at any time and not allowing someone into their personal space makes going to the other person’s place preferrable. I digress.

Fortunately, O seemed to be pretty house proud so we settled in for a night of drinking Japanese whisky and listening to his vinyl collection – everything from Frank Ocean to the Bee Gees.

When he told me he was going to do something really cheesy I wasn’t sure what to expect, but it turns out him taking my hand to dance in the middle of his apartment, in low light, to old school Bee Gees love songs didn’t actually make me as uncomfortable as I thought it might. What did was kissing him while dancing – my neck may never be the same again, damn that height difference! But I wouldn’t have changed it, it was incredibly romantic.

After the dancing, we ended up getting a little hot and heavy on his couch and he started talking about how all week he uses “self restraint” but he didn’t want to with me. It didn’t take a genius to work out he was talking about us having sex. And while I was hugely, massively, almost indescribably attracted to him, I was really conflicted about sleeping with him on the first date. The voices in my head were telling me that this felt like it could actually go somewhere so don’t fuck it up by giving it all up so easily. But those voices didn’t take long to be drowned out by the fact that I really did want to sleep with him and he didn’t seem like he’d just disappear afterwards…

But first I had to shower, I felt pretty disgusting from being in the same clothes from a day at work, I stupidly hadn’t taken the chance to change when I dropped off my laptop. And that was playing on my mind a lot. For the things I wanted him to do to me, I really wanted to feel clean. Why did it feel awkward to ask that? As if me wanting to be clean, meant I must be stinking just now?! As if asking for a shower was maybe somehow asking for too much, despite the fact we were about to have sex? My brain is a riot sometimes.

So I worked up to asking him and said “ok, I absolutely can let go of my self restraint but only if I can shower”. I think O wasn’t sure what to expect after the “but” and he was delighted it turned out to be something he was more than onboard with. I tried to ignore the fact my legs also needed to be shaved but you can’t have everything…

Is it just me that finds that if I haven’t shaved my legs I will always end up having sex? And if I have preened my body hair to within an inch of its life, I will undoubtedly end up having no sexual encounters? It’s like if I want to have sex, I should just not shave and go out – BOOM! Sex guaranteed.

A quick shower later and we were in his bedroom for some incredible sex. His body was in great shape and the height issue during our dance make out was not an issue in bed – what is it they say? You’re all the same height lying down?

The sex was incredible, did I mention that? It was super hot, and comfortable, and that athletic body I’d clocked at the start of the night was a good indicator of his endurance, if you know what I mean. And we had fun! Isn’t that what sex is supposed to be? I know when you’re sleeping with someone for the first time fun can sometimes be passed over for just getting to know each other but it didn’t feel like that at all. Mid-summer, late night sex, with the city bustling 20-odd floors below us, after an eventful, multi-stop first date – this was Sex and The City worthy.

After the incredible sex (wait did I already use that descriptor?), he leaned over to fix the music on the iPad on his bed stand and, as he did, I asked what the time was. It was around 1am and happened to be just after the British and Irish Lions rugby game had started in New Zealand, which had kind of been on my radar to watch, thinking I’d have been home long before kickoff. Knowing how big a sports fan he was I didn’t think he’d mind if I asked to put it on, plus we were finished, so it was fine, right? Thankfully, yes, he not only was keen to watch it, he also loved the fact that was one of the first things I’d said to him after sex – “can we watch rugby?” I guess that’s not usual? Ha! And so we spent a glorious hour and a half post-sex, watching rugby and cuddling. Talk about my perfect Friday night.

Soon after the game ended in a crazy draw, we fell asleep tangled up in the sheets and each other. And it was bliss. When I said “I wasn’t 100% sure what to expect from my date with O”, I really hadn’t expected this. And it was fair to say I 100% didn’t know what to expect from the coming days / weeks…

Next post…

… previous post

Please Remove The Bullet – Part 2 of 2

I never thought going back would be easy, but I could never have imagined how much it would tax me. To live everyday second guessing what your partner is telling you, trying to determine if they’re lying, looking for telltale signs of the behaviour repeating itself. Meanwhile dealing with the fallout of friends who think you made a mistake by going back, or had so vociferously made their feelings clear when you were separated that now they can’t backtrack the things they said about the man you’re giving it another go with.

We went to couples counselling, well, mostly I went. I think he joined for two sessions. I was familiar with counselling already, having gone after my parents divorce and then seeing a life coach before I got married. I’m not sure how much this particular instance helped but I felt I had to go because it was the right thing to do?

It took around six months for me to stop checking his phone. I did it almost daily for the first few months, and then slowly weaned myself off. I sometimes think I shouldn’t have gone back if I couldn’t not check his phone but it seemed like the minimum viable action to allow me to be present in the marriage but to also feel a tiny bit of peace.

And peace wasn’t something that was easy to come by. My brain and my thoughts and my dreams ran wild. I was in a constant state of turmoil, feeling like I wasn’t trying hard enough to make it work, not appreciating enough that he had seemingly changed, not fully feeling like myself. I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel like her again. In fact, I’m not sure I knew who she was by this stage.

We went to Vegas with some family for his 30th birthday in the March, ten months after the whole sorry mess had come out, 11 months after we got married. My aunt commented while on the trip that it was the most relaxed she’d seen both of us in a long time and it definitely felt like a bit of a line in the sand for us.

Then in the April we were in Portugal to celebrate his parent’s (some important coloured) wedding anniversary. It fell right around the time of our first wedding anniversary and so we didn’t get to properly celebrate our anniversary which actually felt like a bit of a relief to me, I didn’t know if the first year of our marriage was worth celebrating. Sure we’d made it but at what cost?

Instead we moved through spring, past the May date that was ingrained in my head from the year before, hoping there would be no random, unprovoked argument that led to a night of horrors. Thankfully not.

The only thing for me to deal with was a hospital procedure for an abnormal smear result that had come back. Hospital visits had never been something I’d experienced in the past, pretty much since I’d left the hospital as a baby I’d had no reason to return. Yet since I’d been married I had been to hospital twice. Can we say omen?

I’d been warned that after the procedure I would potentially not feel great and may experience some pain – both of which turned out to be true, not least because my body does not deal well with anesthesia. I’d been told I wouldn’t be able to drive and probably shouldn’t go to work and I was glad for the day off. But as I lay still snoozing in bed at the time I would normally be up and in the shower and instead was listening to my husband in the shower earlier than his usual allotted time because I wasn’t going first, his phone pinged with a message.

As I had finally grown able to do, I ignored it and didn’t instantly jump to any stomach churning conclusions. But as it did the usual iPhone second ping to remind you there’s a message, I suddenly thought that it might be one of the guys from his work. He managed a removal company and if one of the workers was texting to say they couldn’t make it in or there was a problem with one of the trucks then I knew my husband would want to know sooner rather than later, as that sort of stuff could really fuck up his days.

There’s something ironic in the fact that I only looked at his phone to make sure his day wasn’t going to be fucked up and instead it fully fucked up, not just my day, but my life. Again. Damn that motherfucking phone.

Opening up a text that came from a name that could have been male or female alongside the name of his company, making me instantly think it was a work text and so continuing to open it I was faced with a picture of a women’s backside in a thong.

Just staring back at me. At 7am in the morning. Some women’s half naked arse. On my husband’s phone.

I put the phone down, rolled back over and pulled the covers over my head. I couldn’t bear to deal with it. I almost, for a split second, thought about ignoring it. I was in so much physical pain already that the thought of dealing with something that I knew already had no good outcome was really past what I was feeling up to at that precise moment in time.

Instead I waited until he was almost dressed, then half sat up in bed and said “you got a text message while you were in the shower, I checked it because I thought it might have been about work, it wasn’t, it was a girls arse, I can’t do this.”

With panic flashing across his face he picked up his phone to look and then instantly tried to excuse it away as a joke from one of the guys. But I knew all the guys he worked with and I’d never heard that name before. Then he tried to tell me it was a contact he met through work and they’d obviously sent it to the wrong number. He told me I was being ridiculous if I thought a girl would just send a photo like that to him at that time on a Thursday morning.

Again, gaslighting in full effect. With no one around to validate you and the person you love more than anyone in the world standing over you telling you you’re wrong and have made a mistake, it’s hard not to start to doubt yourself. It’s funny what the brain can do to you, even as the memory of a lace thong is still burning a hole in your eyes.

But I really didn’t have the energy to fight him on it. I told him “ok, just go to work” and I could see he didn’t trust that it was ok or that in anyway was I accepting of what he was telling me. But I just wanted him out the house. I wanted to not have to deal with it. He finally left for work, promising to come back at lunchtime. As I heard the car drive away, I called my Mum and had her come over from work and pick me and a few suitcase up.

For the second time in 14 months of marriage, I was back living at my Mum’s.

This time, I told even fewer people. I couldn’t bear the questions. The judgement. The pity. I couldn’t stand having to dissect my marriage all over again. And so I kept going to work, I avoided most social situations and instead hibernated at my Mum’s, while she wondered how on earth her daughter was going to navigate this.

The second time felt more cut and dry. All I had to go on was one picture. I didn’t have all the mounting evidence of the first time, I hadn’t seen anything else. I hadn’t witnessed any other inappropriate behaviour and his constant denials and rebuttals that it had been in anyway what I thought really made me question myself.

I moved out, he kept telling me I was wrong, didn’t give me space, begged me to go back. And while not motivated by my vows so much, this time, I couldn’t fathom not going back due to mostly logistical reasons – negative equity on our house, credit card debt, weddings we were already booked to attend later in the summer. So because of stupid financial, travel, RSVP reasons I returned to my cheating husband for a second time.

And in that moment, I knew that as much as I was being judged by others for my choice, no one was judging me more harshly than I was myself. In that decision, I lost respect for myself.

What had I become?

I moved back in sometime in August, and at first it wasn’t too bad. I felt numbed by so much of it, I compartmentalised a lot of what had happened and instead tried to focus on something, anything else. But I was different. I was incredibly tightly wound, I couldn’t relax, I couldn’t enjoy anything. Life became more and more joy-less. Where I once found joy, I would often find tears. Escaping a room full of friends laughing, I would tuck myself away in a bathroom and allow myself to silently weep. For what? I wasn’t sure.

I continued, mostly in silence for around six months, but into the new year I started to notice that the anxiety which had been rising within me was becoming unavoidable. I’ve written about it in a previous post, but that feeling of the wind being physically taken from you when you think about this being the rest of your life. The startling realisation that this “normal” could be your only “normal” for years to come was literally breathtaking to me. And not in a good way. That was happening more and more often. I had started to have panic attacks in the shower before work. I would scream tears but no noise would come. I would fold into the corner of my shower, feeling trapped in a life that I had a thought would be my forever. I needed to be rescued and I couldn’t make a sound.

By the beginning of summer, I realised I had to get help. Paranoia was driving me crazy. And I truly mean that. I was so convinced that he was still doing things behind my back that I had begun to try and catch him out. I would feign being sick at work so I could go home and be there at lunchtime to see if he came back to the house. I would make the bed a certain way, with something specifically placed in a way I’d remember to see if it had been moved when I came home from work, so I’d know if he’d been in bed with someone else. And I started sniffing the seat belt in his car every time I got in. I told you, crazy! But hear me out…

The seat belt was the thing that gave my Dad’s cheating away. I remember he picked me up from school one day, which was an unusual occurrence, and I happened to smell the seat belt as I was pulling it across myself to put it on. And it was a perfume scent I’d never smelled before. In all fairness, it was lovely, but it wasn’t any of the perfumes my Mum wore. And I remember thinking to myself, for the seat belt to smell that strongly of a fragrance, the person wearing it must have been in the car a lot. Long story short, seat belts can be the downfall of a cheater.

Mostly my husband’s passenger seat belt smelled of me but it didn’t stop me having a quick sniff every time as I got in. And with every lunchtime stakeout, precision bed making or seat belt whiff, I was slowly losing my mind. It was absolutely the start of what could have easily ended up in certifiable insanity. I can entirely understand how people go there.

After one particularly tough morning when I wasn’t even sure I could get into work, I texted my Mum and asked if we could meet for coffee. Our offices were near each other and there was a perfectly placed Starbucks in the middle.

Sitting with our coffees at a little corner table, I explained to her how bad things were, the panic attacks, the resignation to a joyless marriage, the anxiety, and she was, naturally, shocked. Everyone thought we were doing so much better and in some respects I’m glad we’d managed to create that facade, I didn’t like the thought of people having to go through this with us. But I realised that it did however mean that if/when I told people about the reality, they were likely to be incredibly surprised.

I told her that when we were in the supermarket I wanted to wring his neck, for no apparent reason. I explained that I had begun to flinch when he wanted to have sex, that it felt like a stranger. And I noted that unlike in the beginning, I no longer felt safe in his arms. It was that last part that I was finding hardest to deal with. I longed to feel secure, protected, safe.

My Mum, having gone through a tumultuous marriage and, possibly, even more horrific divorce with my father, was well placed to offer good advice, which she did. She suggested I set myself a time frame. Be it two months, ten months, whatever I felt comfortable with. And in that time, to really be aware of what was causing me to feel the way I was. Was it solely what had happened in the past, or was it other external factors, that would usually just amount to a bad day.

While she knew I’d obviously been trying like a motherfucker to make it work, she wanted me to be sure that I’d done everything I could before I called time. But she was emphatic that if I knew I’d done that and I was still feeling this way, then I had to walk away, for my own sanity. I was aware that her having to say those words to me were hard. I know she believes in the sanctity of marriage, despite her divorce, and I know she would have have done anything for us to be able to work things out and stay together, she loved both of us even after all he’d done. But her concern, ultimately, was for me.

In my head I gave myself six months. It would take us to November and I hoped that for the first time since we’d been married we could at least make it through the summer, given that the first year shit had blown up in May and in the second year it had been June.

As chance would have it, summer wasn’t to be our favourite season and on the last day of July we returned home from a weekend away with friends. Having taken the Monday off because I wasn’t sure how late we’d be home, I wasn’t in any rush to get to bed. But he needed to be at work in the morning so while he unpacked, I settled onto the sofa with our laptop to go online, having been on an island off the west coast of Scotland for the past 3 nights.

Opening the web browser, I saw an unfamiliar login screen. To an MSN account. With an email address pre-populated in the login field. It was a nickname of his (that I’d always hated) from university. Wondering why he had an email address I didn’t know about, I called him through from the bedroom to ask him about it.

Had he come through and just admitted it was his email address, I don’t know how things might have ended up. However the story he tried to spin me was… incredulous. Initially, he said he knew nothing about the email address. Then he finally (we’re talking five, ten minutes here) admitted that he had previously had that email address but he hadn’t used it since university. When I pressed him as to how it had then ended up on a login screen on our laptop he proceeded to tell me that someone must have logged into it from our computer.

When I feigned shock that he was suggesting someone had broken into our house and we should call the police, as if I was believing a single fucking lie that was coming out of his mouth, he then offered that what must have happened was someone logged onto our wifi, then hacked into our laptop which was connected to the wifi, and finally password hacked the login to an msn email address he used to have at university.

Did he hear himself? Did he genuinely think I was going to believe a single word of that? Even if I hadn’t been working in the tech industry by this stage, I’m hopeful I still would have been aware that it was a big pile of stinking bullshit.

But that was his story and he stuck by it. In fact, he still sticks by it today. It’s fascinating to me.

I gave him every opportunity to provide the true story, to backtrack on what he’d just told me with no repercussions, if he would just tell the truth. But no, he was adamant. Deny, deny, deny. To the point that he stormed out the flat after about an hour of relentless back and forth, apparently hurt by the accusations I was levelling at him.

While he was out I made myself busy hacking into the email account that he insisted he didn’t know about, until he remembered, but definitely didn’t remember the password. I went through all the security questions, had to track down the backup email account, get that reset because it was an old email he definitely didn’t have anymore, reset the security questions and, not long after he’d returned to the apartment, finally I was in.

I didn’t say anything to him about the extreme password reset skills I’d just discovered I possessed and instead gave him one last opportunity to come clean. I vividly remember looking over the back of the sofa at him and saying “I don’t think you understand how crucial what’s happening right now is going to be to our marriage”. He yet again flat out denied there was anything else he wanted to tell me and took himself to bed.

While he was likely drifting off to sleep, I genuinely don’t think he was lying awake and concerned by what was going on, I started to delve into an online world that felt dark and secret and disgusting.

It wasn’t an email account per se, it was a type of MSN account I’d never seen. I didn’t even know MSN still existed at this stage but it turns out it did and my husband appeared to be a seasoned user. All of his friends on there were female, mostly women with profile pics of them in their underwear. There were also a few names of women I knew. Friends of his sisters, a woman he worked with.

There was so much information and I was taking screenshots and trying to get timestamp clarifications on things so I could put together a timeline. It was saying February, but was I just to presume it was February of that year? What if it was from his university days?

Writing this now, I’m aware it doesn’t fucking matter! Either way, it was fucking shady, he’d clearly lied about something and I didn’t need anymore proof. But for me I wanted to be sure. I wanted to be 100% sure before I effectively blew apart my marriage. For what I knew would absolutely be the last time.

I went from looking at the MSN account to Googling how to do a deep dive on your laptop’s history. I knew you could easily wipe the browsing history but I also knew that it didn’t completely clear it. I spent hours reading all sorts of articles and doing all sorts of things in the depths of my laptop. I was truly on a mission.

As I finally discovered browsing history that confirmed my inclination that he had been coming home at lunchtime, I also discovered that while he maybe hadn’t been coming home to have sex with people (though who knows), he had definitely been coming home to go on this MSN account and had also been partaking in dating sites.

I had a chilling realisation that this didn’t even hurt me. My overriding feeling was actually one of relief. Relief that I had a final reason to walk out, that I had validation that the choice I was about to make was the right one, and that finally I was going to be able to end this on my terms.

I barely slept, and as soon as I heard his car leave the next day, I called my Mum who was already at work. I gave her a brief overview of the previous night’s cyberspace investigation and asked her to ask one of her colleagues who works in IT, that I knew, if there could be any other feasible explanation for what I found. I didn’t even care that the guy must have been like “WTF, why are you pulling me into your family drama?!”

I sent her the details of what I needed to know word for word in a text which she relayed to him, ending with “can there be any other explanation?” Her reply came back “no”.

Trying to make a relationship work after cheating can be like being shot and the bullet being lodged in you. The doctor tells you that you could probably survive. So you try, with the bullet still inside, to heal, you hope it’ll just take time.

But you find that the long term effects of having that bullet lodged in you isn’t something you can live with so you choose to remove it. You know that in the act of removing it you’re going to cause yourself far more short term pain. When that bullet’s pulled out, the vacuum it created is soon going to be flooded with blood, pain and tears, and it could well kill you.

It was that day that I decided to remove the bullet and let the flood come.


Next post…

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The Tourist


It had taken a while but by midsummer I was starting to feel like I was a little more comfortable with dating and meeting people. It had been truly enlightening – whether it be learning about my preferences, my boundaries, my turn-offs or even just a better understanding of the opposite sex in today’s dating world – which, combined with my growing confidence from a shit tonne of work on myself both mentally and physically, led to me feeling more brave, more bold. And it was fun.

I was also being a little more picky about who I was swiping for on the dating apps and as I was updating my profile pics to better reflect my sunnier, slimmer disposition there was a definite shift in the type of guys I was matching with, and they weren’t bad to look at.

The first one I really noticed the difference with happened to be a tourist. In Vancouver from England for a couple of weeks to visit a friend, he was a hot blonde 29 year old. Hot Tourist (his nickname probably could have used a little work) and I had been messaging for a few days and at first I was a little reluctant to meet him considering he was only in town for a holiday. Was I happy just to have a short lived fling or should I be holding out for a potential relationship like I thought I wanted? But I figured it couldn’t hurt to get a few more dates under my belt, they were all learning experiences right?

So after some very funny, flirtatious and suggestive texting, we eventually found a time that worked for my work schedule and for his vacation schedule (who the hell is so busy when they’re on holiday?) – the night before he flew home. So that short fling had just become a very, very short fling. Oh well. I decided I’d go meet him and see how it was, if I wasn’t feeling it I’d leave. But essentially I went in knowing that is was pretty much going to be a sex date.

I wasn’t sure how that felt, the sex date part. I inherently felt like it should be wrong, that I should feel guilty, as if somehow it made me a bad person. But what was the harm in going to meet a hopefully nice guy, spend some time with him and maybe enjoy some extra curricular activities? Why was that a bad thing? Provided we were both on the same page, and careful in terms of protection, it didn’t seem like it should come with the same social stigma that somehow seemed ingrained in me. That feeling that sex, particularly sex with a stranger that had no potential of developing into a relationship, was dirty and irresponsible – where did that come from? At what age or where in life are we, particularly as women, taught to think that sex is such a bad thing.

I decided to push past those thoughts and figured if anyone actually gave me attitude about it I’d be likely to scream “I WAS CELIBATE FOR THREE YEARS, AND I WANT TO HAVE SEX! LEAVE ME ALONE.”

So with that put to bed, as it were, I met up with him after a work event I was at with a girlfriend. He was out with his friend so I decided to take my friend too and, when another friend texted me about drinks, the five of us ended up meeting up around 6pm on the patio of a local bar. It was a pretty random start to a sex date, but it eased me into it at least.

It turned out to be a fun night. Four of us were Brits so there were shared cultural references aplenty and my Canadian girlfriend found the humour hysterical. Throughout the night I was trying to gauge what Hot Tourist was thinking, as it really was just like five friends sat round a table chatting and not a whole lot of chemistry between the two of us. In all honesty I was glad the other four were there, as Hot Tourist was pretty to look at but didn’t have a whole lot of chat. Slowly but surely, five became four, became three… until it was just Tourist and I.

Oh but before that happened, and I’m not even sure when or how but I ended up taking pics on my phone – I can’t help myself – including getting one taken of me and Hot Tourist. This would become a standing joke with my girlfriends, once I shared it with them the next day. From then on I was routinely asked if I had a “sex selfie” for them post-date. Weirdly I ended up with them way more of those types of pics than you would think reasonable.

Back to the night, Hot Tourist and I finished our drinks and headed back to mine. It’s strange how quickly you can become comfortable with someone you’d never met until a few hours ago. I always think that on dates. Though, obviously, I use the word “comfortable” loosely… But we definitely became comfortable in the elevator. It was like a switch. He’d made no attempt at physical interaction until the elevator doors closed.

There’s something about that elevator, honestly. Those elevator doors close and apparently all inhibitions/insecurities are left on the ground floor as we up head to my floor. I’m sure some of the guys would have left their clothes there as well if they could, such is the speed with which situations seem to change in that moving metal chamber.

We get into my apartment and by that point Hot Tourist had now found his balls after being fairly quiet all night and took charge. I didn’t hate it. It was more than just a little hot and I’ve come to learn that’s definitely my preference when it comes to the bedroom. I take charge in every other aspect of life and can find it hard to relinquish control. Not so in the bedroom. I’m sure there’s some psychoanalysis research into that but all I know is it’s the place that I’m the least bossy and actually want someone to tell me what to do.

Prior to this period in my life I had never even had these realisations about my sexual preferences. It just was. My sex life just was the way it was. I never thought much about what I really liked or didn’t, what I’d like to do more or less of. I’d have said I had a good sex life with my ex, but I realise now it was never something I truly had a good understanding of from my own personal perspective. Most of my sexually active life had been with him so you end up growing together in that respect rather than figuring out your own stuff in isolation. And that changes it for sure, or at least it did for me. So I was now finding these new found preferences fascinating.

Hot Tourist did a great job of taking charge. Swiftly followed by a great job of promptly falling asleep. Like, I mean out cold, dead asleep, right after, before I even came out of the bathroom, possibly before I even got into the bathroom which is ten feet away. I genuinely wondered if he had narcolepsy. And now thinking back that’s all I really remember, is just the whole thing being swift. Which I’m not sure any guy wants to be his lasting legacy.

Earlier in the evening it had been mentioned that he still had to pack before his flight the next day and as his friend had left from the bar he had thrown in a comment about “if you’re not back by 8am I’ll send a search party”. I’d laughed because at that point I wasn’t even sure the sex date was going to happen, let alone him staying out til 8am. But when I woke at 7am for work, Sleeping Beauty (he did have lovely, luscious blonde locks) was still dead to the world. So I had to do that awkward “hi, morning, remember me, yeah you’re in my bed, you need to get up”. After I’d had a shower and done my make up, of course (insert hair bob emoji here).

Somewhere in the midst of his sound sleep he’d changed back to his quiet and reserved self, not the persona he’d put forward in his pre-date texts or his post-elevator doors closing actions, so the whole ten minutes he took to get up and get out were slightly awkward, almost painful.

Once he’d finally gone, I went to put my rings and earrings on before leaving for the office and there on my dresser was a pile of loose change. His. Those coins stayed there for a good two or three weeks. I was reluctant to put them in my purse for fear it would feel slightly like payment.

And who wants to be worth $11.35?

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Second Dates Can Be As Bad As First Dates. Who Knew?


Despite my resolution to move away from the quiet guy sphere after a few less than stellar dates, one of those meh dates came back for seconds and I figured maybe it was worth another try.

It was the second date guy from the Friday evening, and he asked if I wanted to go out for dinner. Even before we got to the date it was all pretty bizarre, to the point where I did wonder why I was going, more than once. He insisted we go to a specific pizza place, which was fine as their pizzas are great, and he suggested 5.30pm. Now, I’m hardly a late night rager but even that was early for me to be going out for dinner. I was going to ask if we could make it later but I realised it could work in my favour if he was still not lighting my fire I could escape without my entire night ruined. Though as one of my girlfriends queried “How old are you? What is this? Some Early Bird special?” She had a point.

One thing I didn’t mention about my first date with this guy was how it ended once I cut it short.

As is always the case when you’re wanting to get out of somewhere quickly, the server took an age to come over (one of the reasons I disliked the place he’d picked for the first date so much is the service) but when she did I was expecting the normal exchange of “can we get the bill?”, “sure, together or separate?” One thing I love about Vancouver is that splitting a bill between all parties, either in equal portions or based on what each person had, is something almost every food and drink establishment offers and it’s great for when you’re out in a big group of friends. However, it causes a little more awkwardness when you’re on a date, especially a first date, and one of you actually has to basically out loud determine who’s paying. It’s always a fun cliff hanger!

In this instance however, he cut the exchange in half by declaring “can we get the bill and we’ll pay separately”. Well alrighty then.

The ‘paying on a first date’ debate is lengthy and controversial and seemingly culturally influenced – my North American friends have a different take than us Brits – and really there’s no right answer. For me, I will always offer to pay for myself on a first date and if he declines my offer I’ll happily let him pay. After that, while you’re still in the early dating stages, I prefer taking it in turns to pay rather than splitting bills.

However, while I’m comfortable paying for my own, there is always something attractive about a guy picking up the bill, it’s not so much about the money for me but more about them taking charge, making a decision, wanting to show their values. To make it so blatantly clear he had no intention of paying the $12.60 for my two gins, it was more than a little off-putting.

For some of my friends, that would have been enough to never reply to another of his texts, never mind not even consider a second date, and meant they were openly sceptical that I was giving it another chance. I believe the phrase “By Felicia” may have been used more than once about him. I apparently love a red flag though, so happily went on a second date with a guy who was financially ungenerous and wanted to eat dinner at 5.30pm. Who says I make poor choices?

If there was ever a second date to give my friends an “I told you so” opportunity, this was it. I can genuinely say the best thing about the date was the pizza. The chat was stilted, I realised quickly just how different we were (and not in a good way), he was awkward with the server, and I always think how someone interacts with a server says a lot about them as a person. So it was less than ideal and I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I made up a story about needing to go and see a friend who was in crisis afterwards. I hate lying and I was going to see a friend after but the crisis part and urgency with which I needed to get there were maybe slightly / definitely completely embellished.

Rather than have to endure a similar wait as we did on date number one, as our plates were being cleared away I quickly asked for the bill at the same time. It caught him off guard but he got himself together quick enough to shout after the waitress “she had the dipping sauce, you can put that on her bill!” Wow.

As I picked my jaw up off the floor, the waitress looked over at me as if to say “sorry if that’s your date” and when we were doing the card machine dance she pointedly said to me with a smile “ok and yours is $33.29, including the dipping sauce”. Love a bit of server collusion on a date. Before the receipt was even printed I was putting on my coat to leave. I felt rude asking for the bill so quickly and being in such a blatant rush to get out of there. I felt rude despite him really not displaying any manners of his own, I couldn’t help it. I’ve realised sometimes I’m too nice. It’s not something I ever thought I’d say about myself, but in dating I realised sometimes I needed to be a little more assertive.

To quell my (misplaced) feeling of being rude, I said yes when he asked if he could walk me to my friend’s. I’d tried to be vague about where I was going but when I pointed in a general direction he said that’s where he was going too. Well, great. We walked in awkward conversation while I was preoccupied with trying to decide how I was going to give him the brushoff, knowing I was likely going to need to do it in person, here and now.

I intimated that we were getting close to my girlfriend’s place and as I suspected he said “so can we hang out again?” (“for you to not pay again?” I finished in my head). At that point I bit the bullet and launched into the story I decided I was going to go with. I know I said I hate lying and I really do, but I had also learnt the value in knowing when it was just easier all round and he seemed like the sort who wouldn’t take “I’m not feeling it” very well.

I explained that an ex had recently got back in touch which was confusing things for me and I didn’t want to string him along (an actual event which has since taken place – I must have brought it on myself). He looked questioningly at me and said “so why did you even come on the date? When did this happen?” I said it had been over the weekend and I’d thought about cancelling but didn’t want to be rude and I know realised it would be too difficult to keep dating other people. He started asking when I’d dated this guy, what he wanted, why we’d split up, what I was going to do and finished with “so how long should I give you?”

Wait, what? No, no, this isn’t a temporary (albeit fake) situation. This is me telling you we’re done. I told him I wasn’t sure and thought it might be best for us not to see each other again. We’d come to a standstill now outside my friend’s place and as he turned to go he said “ok, I’ll check in again in a week”. Um, what? No! I said we shouldn’t see each other again. And what was this? A business meeting that has follow up tasks?!

I fell into my friend’s apartment, already spilling the story as she opened the door and Unbelieving Cheapskate, as he was now known, was talked about at length. For some reason, his questioning of my story had really shaken me. I don’t think I should be able to get away with lying, I really do hate it as a practice and yet I was affronted that he’d even dared question it. And was annoyed he’d made me lie even more with all his damn questions. Jeez, I’d built up an entire fake ex in my head by the time we were done.

My girlfriends laughed and took the opportunity to throw their “Bye Felicia” advice in my face, which I had to take. Though I still argue that knowing when something is not worth pursuing and when something maybe just needs a little bit of time is a tricky balance. They say fireworks are bad, they’ll just fizzle. They say you should be able to tell right away if there’s something there. But presumably based on that first piece of advice, it shouldn’t be with fireworks? Well I don’t bloody know what the happy medium looks like. Yet.

What I do know though is that Unbelieving Cheapskate is true to his word. 8 days after our date, I got a text “it’s been a week, is there any update?” Genuinely could have been the content of an email from my boss. For once, I did the unthinkable for me and didn’t reply. Bye Felicia.

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