Fear and Loathing in Glass Houses

Hello, you.

We are all, said Bukowski, museums of fear.

Fear of commitment, fear of rejection, fear of losing the best thing that’s ever happened to you, fear of missing out on the best thing that could ever happen to you, fear that something better will come along, fear that it won’t, fear that this is the best you’re ever going to do, fear that you could do better but you’re too afraid to do anything about it.

We are all museums of fear.

Perhaps this would have been a better title for this blog. If I only I knew what the hell he was talking about.

Ah, screw Bukowski. That bum never went speed dating.


NO.8’s SECOND DATE - 18/09/09

So. So so so. I ticked three of my mini-datelets. I got one response. And it wasn’t the one I was expecting.

(By the way, my friend ticked six and got a 100% positive match. And then dated none of them. It’s like watching Lenny Henry canter around Ethiopia on a camel, setting fire to food whilst laughing and laughing. As Dawn French looks on, sobbing. And eating.)

And, you know, I’ve got my troubles (oh man I got the troubles, oh I got them bad, oh yeah I got the troubles - like Northern Ireland used to when it was interesting and not utterly pointless as it is now, like Wales). Yeah, I got my fair share. My life hasn’t turned out the way I thought it would do by now. Every year I live is merely another one closer to death and another one further away from my hopes and dreams. I’m losing my hair. My friends greeted my announcement that I was internet dating with the words ‘good for you’. My father is starting to realise that my statement that I would win an Oscar before the age of 30 was, in fact, nothing more than the ravings of a buffoon. PROPER troubles, yeah? Not like this rubbish you see on The Bill or Party of Five or Martina Cole‘s Lady Killers. I mean, as IF anyone really gets so poor that they have to have sex with people for money. Just do an extra shift at Clark’s, or wherever it is you fucking work.

To add to my genuinely heart-rending troubles, I had to date a beautiful woman.

Ah come on. I don’t deal with pressure very well. I feel on edge when I know the man at Tesco’s is going to ask me if I have a clubcard. I don’t! I don’t have a clubcard. And he HATES me for it. I know it. I can see it in his eyes. I mean, I would see it in his eyes, if I was ever brave enough to look into them. I can smell the disdain on his breath.

Perhaps six months of internet dating had knocked my confidence but No.8 (yes, this is how she will be referred to throughout the duration of this blog) was so attractive that I assumed she would have no interest in me whatsoever. Yes, even when she agreed to go for a drink with me. Even then.

I know what you’re thinking. And, yeah, No.8 ticked me after the speed dating, which she wouldn’t have done if she wasn’t a little bit interested. Fair enough. I propped myself with other such platitudes as I tried to think myself attractive on the tube.

Now. When you meet someone for a ‘second’ date, having previously speed dated them, there are several things you don’t really want to hear out of their mouths (or anywhere else). Especially when you’re several degrees less attractive than they are. To hear something negative would be like David heading towards Goliath, only to be told on the way that, contrary to rumour, Goliath isn’t actually a giant at all but a fucking invisible fire-breathing dinosaur. What's that, Davey? Oh, you've got your slingshot, have you? That's, that's great.

So, out of the following list, which you would you LEAST like your date’s first reaction to be?

a) Not recognise you.

b) Say ‘Sorry, I forgot who I was meeting.’

c) Say ‘To be honest, I just ticked the form indiscriminately.’

or

d) All THREE.

I can only assume she had spent the days prior to the date calculating exactly how to perfectly shank my confidence into touch. Because if she did it off the cuff, that is not only incredibly sharp but beautifully brutal. It was a proper exercise yard shiv job.

What she didn’t know is that I've got a bleedin' NVQ in dating prison rules. If someone jabs a sharpened toothbrush into your ribs, then you have to get them back. And fast. Or, you know, you’ll lose face.

We headed down the streets. I loaded my proverbial pool balls into my metaphorical sock, swung the whole allegorical thing round my head and did my damned best to smash her figurative teeth out of her symbolic head.

I had to fight my ground. If she thought the speed dating was a bit silly, I thought it was pathetic. If she hadn’t enjoyed the evening, I had hated it. If she was bored in my company, I was falling into a catatonic coma as a direct result of her conversation. I affected a state of indifference so pointed you could have bunged a load of lamb on it and called it shish. So, she was disappointed when she met me and decided not to hold back. Ok. Fine. So, as a petty child throws the Ludo board across the room, I was going to let her know I felt exactly the same. And then some.

By the time we had got to the pub, I had successfully whittled her confidence down into a small, ornamental chair. Too fragile to sit on but, hey, it looks pretty.

I’m the daddy now. The daddy of whittling.

We got a drink. We sat down. We started talking. And, finally, now that we were too exhausted and humiliated to fight any longer. Now that we had thoroughly convinced the other that we were definitely NOT interested, yeah? Now we were spent forces, we talked like two normal human beings. And it was lovely.

The whole thing, like it had been with me, had been a façade. A front to protect her. I had assumed, simply because she was beautiful, she was confident. Strong. Tough. But under all that, there was someone who, like the majority of us, had been hurt before. And didn’t want to be hurt again. If someone was going to get in, they were going to have to get past some serious defences. Ah, who knew beautiful people had feelings too?

For the one drink we had, yep just the one, we put down our weapons. We were momentarily defenceless. But the damage had been done. Both our egos had been bruised, both our confidences damaged. She had been too embarrassed to embrace dating someone from a silly speed dating evening. I had been too proud to let her air this embarrassment. We both protected ourselves relentlessly, afraid the other one would inflict humiliation upon us. Afraid that we’d be exposed. Afraid that the other would see we were all too capable of being hurt. Afraid of being afraid.

Ah.

Come on in. Take a good look at the exhibits. Years and years worth. Don't touch, some of them are valuable. Some of them are still in collection. Some are too precious to be seen by anyone. A lot of them are very boring.

Yes. All of us then, museums of fear.