I’m living in hell. Completely engulfed in flames standing outside of my body watching my emotional wellbeing go up in smoke. Fuck, I’m so dramatic. Ok, let’s go back to the start.
First weekend in a while I’ve been minime free so I organised a date on Saturday at 2pm. With a guy who sold bricks. PLEASE allow me to enlighten you on the world of bricks. Firstly, do you know how many different TYPES of bricks there are? No? WELL I FUCKING DO. This was my second “get back on the horse” date and all it did was reconfirm for me that I’m turning into a raging feminist lesbian because women are beautiful and a less complicated and I hate men. Ok that’s not true. I’m just miffed you know? I can’t find the part in my brain to switch off the a-hole beacon. Ok that’s not true either. I think I found it… later on that night. So back to brick guy. Mate, you’re lovely, but I don’t care for bricks. I like shoes. And Witchery blouses. After three beers I told him it was imperative I go home and complete an assignment for uni (still successfully procrastinating about that one) and I headed home. I immediately dialled my best bud to give her the low down because she always makes me feel better and it took ZERO convincing for her to come out with me to drown my sorrows. We met some friends out actually, we drank Patrone, we danced at a club that played OUR music (I’m talking about the Spice Girls), and there were A LOT of slut drops and dirty dancing. And then I met someone.
You read that right… I MET SOMEONE DANCING! Not on tinder. This. Is. A. Miracle. Tall… football player…handsome face…. Gently spoken. Gentleman. OMG. I love him. All my friends at 1am were like “Hey, Suzi… it’s 1am… we should go.” Yeah… no. I’ve just met my husband, thanks. I’m not going anywhere. Now most of you know me pretty well. You know I have this drunk debaucherous alter ego that only manifests after the right amount of vodka sunrises and white Sambuca shots. We got home at 5am. We. I made pancakes and everything because I’m considerate like that, and was still drunk at 8am. He told me I was amazing. Ok so maybe not the right course of action when you meet your future husband but it was fun. Until he told me he was born in 1996….
OK… have you done the math and regained your composure? Firstly kudos to me. He thought I was his age and told me I was pretty *SWOON*SOOO I’ve had several discussions about this with a couple of close confidantes. If the roles were reversed and I were 20 and he were 31, no one would bat a fucking eyelid would they? Probably not. In fact, there’s a certain something who I used to be close too that has almost done exactly that. I bet all his mates high fived him. I can’t particularly get past it. There’s really only one reason for not being able to move past it, despite seeing him again. And, by the way, he is still the loveliest young man I’ve ever met… mostly because I don’t know any other 20 year olds. Everyone is like give him a chance, give him a chance #TEAM20!!!! He seems super keen, super sweet natured and super handsome. But it’s not his age. It was a text message. When I checked my phone on Sunday morning, there was a text message. Take a guess at who it was from? Can I quote you a line from the conversation? Please allow me to. It reads, “I adore you.”
And so returns Mr. Darcy. I am in emotional hell, so here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson.