The Mean Reds

Hello, and welcome back! I said the Tinder Tales would continue, and I did not lie…

Tinder Tales #4

With number four, the awkward moment actually came on our second date. The first date went well; we chatted about ourselves, had a couple of drinks, and there was even a bit of chemistry. He walked me back to my car and – for the first time ever on a first date – we kissed. It was quite a good kiss, and I headed home with a spring in my step.

In fact, Mr #4 threw a spanner in the works that I had never even contemplated. We met for our second date at a restaurant local to me, a chain I believe, called Cleaver. He arrived a little flustered, but kissed me as he sat down – hello butterflies. But from there things got a bit awkward. There was chemistry, oh yes, but conversation was reluctant to flow. I turned to that old fail safe, the menu, and asked if there was anything he didn’t eat. I was contemplating various sharing platters – chicken wings, chilli nachos and the like – or a proper, hefty steak. Decisions, decisions. I knew he had a sweet tooth so was confident that a warm chocolate brownie would be appearing in front of me before we left the restaurant. He paused, menu in hand, and then uttered words I never expected to pass the lips of the 6ft something blonde ice hockey player next to me.

“I’m a vegetarian.”

Such simple words. Such a small thing – no meat. I have friends who are veggie, who eat kosher, and I can go for days inadvertently meat-free, simply because I like vegetarian food. The problem is, I also love meat. Suddenly a potential future together flashed before my eyes; nut roasts at Christmas, steak-free 14th March, no hearty beef stews in winter, or Moroccan pulled lamb shoulder with friends, slow-cooked pork sizzling on a BBQ… I’m salivating just thinking about it. Add in that that I have both shot and manually dispatched game birds, and I’m possibly not his type.

He went to Florida for a while. He may even have got back by now – I know he was due to be away for a few weeks – and while a part of me would like to see him again, I know I care too much about food and cooking. It’s not about what he does or doesn’t eat, nor is it about the reasoning behind it. It is about the opportunities and experiences it would close off to us were we a couple. I want to be with someone who actively enjoys food and cooking, and will be adventurous in what they try, both to eat and to prepare. Vegetarianism had never entered my mind as a possibility.

Sigh. Maybe I’m just too fussy.

 

Tinder Tales #5

First date easily 9/10, absolutely swept off my feet. I’d had some bad news the night before, and wasn’t fully feeling in the mood, but decided to go along anyway. We met by the flower stall outside Liberty’s, and he explained he’d booked a table at a bar nearby – number eight somethingorother road. We found the road. I saw a building with a number 8 on it. Eat. The sandwich chain. I looked next door. Agent Provocateur. Wasn’t sure either of these were really suitable first date material, but I swallowed my bad mood and went with it. What I’d failed to notice was an unmarked doorway between the two. With some irritation, trepidation and hyperbolic visions of underground muggings, gang rape, and murder, I followed him down the dark stairway. Far from the perilous site of a fatal attack, I was presented with a beautiful bar full of nooks and crannies in which one could curl up and sup on nought but exquisite cocktails and mouth-watering desserts. We whiled away hour upon hour – and cocktail upon cocktail – with conversation ranging from school (we went to secondary school fairly close to each other) to Plato (he was reading The Republic, or something like that). We shared a couple of desserts and sipped on cocktails containing liqueurs I’d never heard of, amontillado sherry, peat, and all sorts of other surprising things that tasted incredible. He offered me the chance to play a ‘Get Out Of Jail Free’ card and leave, and I declined. At that, he kissed me, mid-date. Chemistry? Yes, so very yes. We carried on, dotting our constant conversation with kisses here and there, for hours more. Rather than nearly missing my train á la numéro deux, I actually missed it this time[i], and he hosted me for the night – accepting that I wouldn’t sleep with him on the first date, and not once trying to twist my arm. The second date was less than a week later and involved homemade chilli (cue text to a friend: “He eats meat!”) and a bottle of red with philosophical debates on the sofa. Third date lasted over 36 hours.

Over the next few weeks, we danced, we brunched, we drank wine, debated politics and philosophy, he tried – adorably – to make me breakfast and I subsequently taught him how to poach an egg, we dunked giant Bourbon biscuits into mugs of Earl Grey over a game of Scrabble, we watched Audrey Hepburn eat her breakfast at Tiffany’s while we ate brunch. He seemed funny, respectful, ambitious, hard-working, good fun. Possibly an over-thinker, but let’s face it I am the blackest of pots where that kettle is concerned.

But. But. There’s always a ‘but’. The last of this series of wonderful dates, I had a particularly painful arm on a day we had brunch at Seven Dials. The next evening, he called me to explain that he’d been thinking about the future and wasn’t sure he wanted any potential children we may one day have to inherit my genetic condition. We did talk over it all, but really truly, what it all boils down to is one simple answer: “Fuck You!”

***

I’ve been on one other date since that fiasco, and I hope to see him again so I shan’t jinx it by giving you details here. But Mr #5 has left me with some scars; I’d never before perceived my genetic condition, painful as it may be, to be a barrier to a relationship. Most of the time I have a strong enough perception of my self-worth to realise that it’s his loss, and if he’s flaky enough to turn me down because of the 1 in 20+ chance that any future kids – if we ever got that far ­– would inherit the more painful version of this condition from me, then he’s probably not the best person with whom to entertain the idea of a relationship. I mean, imagine something actually went wrong – not just a ‘maybe one-day’, but an ‘actually now’. What if a pipe burst, or the car broke down, or one of the kids got measles? It’d be a veritable Armageddon! I want to meet someone with whom I can face the challenges life brings hand in hand, all the stronger for having each other. But still, it stung, and on those days when I’m cursed with H. Golightly’s patented Mean Reds, it’s a new, looming spectre in the back of my mind.

“Every cloud has a silver lining” and this cloud was no exception. “Dickface”, as he’s affectionately known by some of my friends, has provided me with a lovely segue to bring me to the next, short but exciting chapter of my life: today was my first day at the INPUT Pain Management course at St Thomas’ Hospital in London. I have fondly nicknamed it St Thomas’ School of Pain, a name that brings with it images of a slightly twisted, Tim Burton-esque version of Mallory Towers. I might even have to get some ginger beer for a midnight feast. My goal is to try and expand the parameters of my life again, to re-encompass into it things I used to love but may have let go, and to do this independently, not having to rely on anyone else to help me cope with the pain. I’ve written before about depression, and I’ve written about the emotional reactions I have to parts of my body when they cause me pain. Those are just two of the experiences that will be covered on this course, and much more, in much more depth. It’s going to be a tough four weeks, but we’ve been told to approach it as an experiment, and in that spirit I shall be documenting some parts of it here. In addition, the philosopher in me is intrigued to see how others with chronic pain refer to themselves and their bodies: as one unit, or as two distinct entities?

Anyway, I digress. Today was Day 1, and in all honesty not much happened: a lot of introductions, to each other as well as to the staff; an outline of what to expect; initial assessments (I had to walk up and down a corridor for five minutes); and not forgetting lunch. Tomorrow is when the fun really begins. That said, it has  already got emotional a couple of times, and I predict that will only increase as we all start to realise we have four weeks ahead of us of facing up to that which we normally try to sweep under the rug. I might buy shares in Kleenex this evening.

And my love life? Well, I intend to see Mr #6 again – and soon if I can – but unless it goes tits up I’m unlikely to write about it for a while. All I hope for is some fun experiences, more intriguing conversation, someone to eat meat with, to feel a few fireworks, and to get through it all without being cast aside as damaged goods. Because I am one hell of a catch – I mean, even as I wrote the first draft of this in Leeds station, the cute barista in Starbucks came over to where I was sitting for a brief natter, then made me a free drink to make up for my train being cancelled.

If only I lived in Leeds…

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[i] Note to self: ask for watch for Christmas.

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