My mum has always told me: “Never ever think you can change a man”. But this has nothing to do with today’s post, so let’s move to her other favourite pill of wisdom, that is indeed more relevant. “Ideals don’t exist in real life. You’ll end up with someone that initially you probably didn’t even like”.
True. After all, it’s personality that wins me. A cheeky smile, some banter, an interesting remark, the choice of an unusual word, a low threshold of embarrassment, and so on, and so on.
A friend of mine said something that struck me. She was holding her baby and told me: “I would have never imagined he had this face. I’m so surprised. I’ve always imagined him with other features”. That’s a sentence that I sometimes repeat to myself. Much as I think hard of this partner I want next to me, I am quite sure he will not resemble the hunk in my mind. I dream of a tall, athletic, dark-haired, even dark-skinned man, with wrinkles around his green or dark eyes, broad shouldered… Ok, you got the image. But I am ready by now to accept the idea that, given my luck, the personality that will conquer me might be encased in a short guy, maybe blond, with a blue eye and a glass one, that probably gets as red as a lobster when sunbathing, with a hairy back, a beer belly, maybe even a wooden leg, just to make things more original.
I’m (kind of) ready for that. I know life has more fantasy than me. I’m old enough to know that ideals don’t exist, I’ve learnt my lesson, mum…. until I see a guy that is EXACTLY my dream one.
A Saturday night at the Piccadilly Institute, a club in Piccadilly Circus, four rooms with different music, and many, many straight guys. After the NYE clubbing experience I’ve decided once and for all to stick to straight places, hoping this strategy should yield more results (at least statistically). I’m letting my hair down (or the 5 cm of hair I have by now), dancing to ‘80s tunes with my girlfriends, when I see HIM . Mr Perfect, Mr Grey (t-shirt), Mr Fucking Hell Look At Those Abs…We can call him in many ways.
He’s there with a group of friends, who all seem on a mission to drink the whole bar out. One of his friends has targeted me, and I start dancing and talking a bit with him, with the idea, however, to actually get to Mr Perfect. Between “I wanna dance with somebody” and “Vogue” I steal glances at him, like a little child in a candy shop, trying to take in as many details as possible and as quickly as possible.
The fact is, I’m really tired that night. I don’t feel particularly up for flirting. I’ve almost lost my voice talking with my friends over the music, and I don’t wanna go to him and start an embarrassing exchange of the usual chit-chat asking him to repeat three times everything he says. I don’t have the energies and I don’t have the voice for that.
And yet…. What if it’s Him? What if God in his immense benevolence has decided to keep me a spinster for so long to then reward me with such a hunk that would also turn out to be a super sweet, sensitive, socially intelligent, adventurous, curious, tactful, honest, open minded (and bla bla bla) caring individual? How do I feel at the idea that just out of tiredness I might lose the chance of meeting the man of my dreams?
…Well, I feel that I sigh, decide that the old school method is still a good one, head to the toilets and ask the lady working there for a pen and a little scrap of paper. Less is better (unlike my posts, sorry, guys, I can’t write little), so I write the evergreen and straight to the point: “Coffee/Drink? Roby” and my number.
I go back to the dance floor with my little message in my back pocket, and start asking myself if I really wanna do it, and if so, how.
“What do I have to lose?” is one of the questions that I more frequently ask myself (together with “What would McGiver do?”, but that’s another story), so I decide that yes, I should approach him and give him my message. Plus, this technique should make him think that I can’t be older than 25 ;-).
While his friend is still dancing a bit too close to me, he leaves the group to go to the toilet.
“It’s now or never”, and smiling to myself I go and lean against the bar counter near the room entrance, waiting for him to come out from the toilet.
And here he comes, his biceps barely contained in those sleeves, his pectorals.. Fuck, he even has dimples, now that I see him so close. “What if it’s him?” is my last thought before I smile to him and stop him.
Will I have enough voice to say what I have to say over that music? And what is it that I have to say? And more importantly, will Mr Perfect care in the slightest about my little act of courage? Once more, you’ll have to wait to know!