I've dug deep, and here it is!
Problem one: "Pleasantly." You see. It's all there. If I'm going to abdicate from my Monaco of singledom it's going to have to be for something more than "pleasant". C is really a very sweet (boy-) gentleman. But there's something lacking. Depth? Is that simply because he is untroubled? In which case, isn't he what everyone is looking for? Well perhaps not. I enjoy the grit and colour and tone in my life. I need to feel alive. I don't like binaries. I like to explore... I... OK, I get bored easily.
Problem two: he's an investment banker. Aside from the stereotypes that attach to the role (which he generally does not seem to fulfil), it occurs to me that bankers do not often spend their money wisely, or creatively. Life has more imaginative pleasures, and rewarding ethical opportunities than the typical corporate interests. He works in Holborn - verging on the funky end of town, but lives in a sterile Docklands (surely an inversion of how it should be?). His considered opinion (I am informed) is that resorts make better holidays (having spent most of the last decade living abroad, I do not concur). He dallies with golf. And I don't know if this is connected to being a banker and the ensuing life priorities, but he has NO BOOKS in his house. No books?! The extent to which this is a problem for me means I could quite easily halt the list here. I'm also skirting around the issue of ethics as this is meant to be a lighthearted blog, but: Hello? Ethics?!
Problem three: he has too much money. Or rather, he is too young to adequately appreciate the amount of money he has. A trip to Iceland taking a helicopter over a volcano is not a big deal for him; he's passing on the huskie-sledding, not because he can't afford it (which would be my only reason) but because instead he is going on an ice buggy over a glacier, or maybe it was champagne swilling in an geothermically heated igloo, or something. No, it wasn't as cool as that. That's what I'd do with the money. He wants to do a brewery tour. Maybe he is a secret philanthropist who donates swathes of his time and income to charity. But if so I need to know about it, and fast.
Problem four: I think his aspirations are based on Friends. There's something altogether teenage about his flat set up. Maybe it's the leather covered sofa with lever-activated foot rests (neither beautiful nor useful), the two large wall mounted TVs (one in the bedroom - indicator of instant sex death), or the fact the luxurious bathroom with heated towel rail has a ring of grime around the bath and smears in the toilet. Something really disappoints me about seeing someone with the finances to do it properly still failing to pull it off.
Problem four: we have already sunk into comfortable. His place is verging on a sty (I'll be honest, now that the glazing of interest is dissolving: smint boxes, mountains of receipts, pockets full of coins and various currencies on every surface vying with the dust for total coverage), and he has no compunction about me seeing it that way. And let's just say the third date's routine was more Thomas the Tank Engine than Trans-Siberian Express. A reasonable enough exposition but no modulation or recapitulation. Work that out! He's texting from his holiday. I know I'm being old fashioned - but part of the joy of a holiday for me is exactly that feeling of being cut off from phones and emails; there is no way I'd be delivering updates on my itinerary from the Arctic Circle. I'd hope I'd be too busy enjoying myself. Or if I weren't, I'd damn well pretend to be!
Problem five: he doesn't have a degree. I tried to convince myself this wouldn't be an issue (he's definitely not thick), but as I have spent the majority of my life either working or studying in higher education, it's clear we do not share the same ideals.
Problem six: he's too young. Five years makes a difference (especially when the man is younger). And he's a bit sheltered. He expected me to be astonished slash horrified by the time he took 2 sleeping pills and didn't wake when his girlfriend pushed him on the floor. However having been knocked out in a 15 car pile up in Java, my idea of a dramatic unconsciousness story is a bit different.
It's not the story itself that's the problem (of course I don't imagine every man should be Indiana Jones, and his could have been funny, had it not been over-hyped); it's the expectation of a grand response I can't conjure. It's the same every time a man expects me to coo over an unspectacular denouement - I can't bring myself to fake it, and am bemused by the embarrassing presumption that I am meant to be virtually peeing myself with excitement whenever a guy "shares." What I like is humility - a man will get far more response from me if I'm not frogmarched to the compliments cupboard with the demand to hand over the key and contents.
Problem seven: his shirts. He wears loud stripy shirts. And they don't coordinate with the slightly ratty but equally loud yellow stripy scarf he loves. Like most men, he looks fantastic in his white, pale blue or grey-striped normal shirts. How about sticking to those, and finding other outlets for your "creative" side?
Problem eight, and this is the real, inescapable, deal-breaker: I'm being mean and I don't like being mean. But once I've lost a sense of admiration or respect for a man, I'm like a missile - seek and destroy. Experience tells me now is the time for both of us to get out.
Problem three: he has too much money. Or rather, he is too young to adequately appreciate the amount of money he has. A trip to Iceland taking a helicopter over a volcano is not a big deal for him; he's passing on the huskie-sledding, not because he can't afford it (which would be my only reason) but because instead he is going on an ice buggy over a glacier, or maybe it was champagne swilling in an geothermically heated igloo, or something. No, it wasn't as cool as that. That's what I'd do with the money. He wants to do a brewery tour. Maybe he is a secret philanthropist who donates swathes of his time and income to charity. But if so I need to know about it, and fast.
Problem four: I think his aspirations are based on Friends. There's something altogether teenage about his flat set up. Maybe it's the leather covered sofa with lever-activated foot rests (neither beautiful nor useful), the two large wall mounted TVs (one in the bedroom - indicator of instant sex death), or the fact the luxurious bathroom with heated towel rail has a ring of grime around the bath and smears in the toilet. Something really disappoints me about seeing someone with the finances to do it properly still failing to pull it off.
Problem four: we have already sunk into comfortable. His place is verging on a sty (I'll be honest, now that the glazing of interest is dissolving: smint boxes, mountains of receipts, pockets full of coins and various currencies on every surface vying with the dust for total coverage), and he has no compunction about me seeing it that way. And let's just say the third date's routine was more Thomas the Tank Engine than Trans-Siberian Express. A reasonable enough exposition but no modulation or recapitulation. Work that out! He's texting from his holiday. I know I'm being old fashioned - but part of the joy of a holiday for me is exactly that feeling of being cut off from phones and emails; there is no way I'd be delivering updates on my itinerary from the Arctic Circle. I'd hope I'd be too busy enjoying myself. Or if I weren't, I'd damn well pretend to be!
Problem five: he doesn't have a degree. I tried to convince myself this wouldn't be an issue (he's definitely not thick), but as I have spent the majority of my life either working or studying in higher education, it's clear we do not share the same ideals.
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| "I'm mad, me." Remember Colin? |
Problem six: he's too young. Five years makes a difference (especially when the man is younger). And he's a bit sheltered. He expected me to be astonished slash horrified by the time he took 2 sleeping pills and didn't wake when his girlfriend pushed him on the floor. However having been knocked out in a 15 car pile up in Java, my idea of a dramatic unconsciousness story is a bit different.
It's not the story itself that's the problem (of course I don't imagine every man should be Indiana Jones, and his could have been funny, had it not been over-hyped); it's the expectation of a grand response I can't conjure. It's the same every time a man expects me to coo over an unspectacular denouement - I can't bring myself to fake it, and am bemused by the embarrassing presumption that I am meant to be virtually peeing myself with excitement whenever a guy "shares." What I like is humility - a man will get far more response from me if I'm not frogmarched to the compliments cupboard with the demand to hand over the key and contents.
Problem seven: his shirts. He wears loud stripy shirts. And they don't coordinate with the slightly ratty but equally loud yellow stripy scarf he loves. Like most men, he looks fantastic in his white, pale blue or grey-striped normal shirts. How about sticking to those, and finding other outlets for your "creative" side?
Problem eight, and this is the real, inescapable, deal-breaker: I'm being mean and I don't like being mean. But once I've lost a sense of admiration or respect for a man, I'm like a missile - seek and destroy. Experience tells me now is the time for both of us to get out.
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