Hi everyone, my name is Amelia and I’m a Dataholic.
It’s been about three weeks since my last post and I’ve come to the conclusion that something isn’t quite right.
I can probably pinpoint my second of realisation to the moment I stood under the florescent lights of my work bathroom mirror. A girl in the mirror opposite looked up as I was frantically applying blusher and mascara. “Hot date?” she said.
“No.” I replied, “meeting a friend.”
She smiled back but I’d wished I DID have an actual date to tell her about.
There is a whole ritual attached to meeting guys that is so much more than the actual event itself.
First it’s will he call? Won’t he call? The endless dissecting of kisses in a text message the routine browse through his facebook pictures trying to guess who the ex is (don’t even try to deny you do it!)
The rush of excitement from meeting, dating, the first time he says he loves you, the time you meet his friends and his mother… all amount to a string of highs that will eventually come to an end, but if you’re single, present endless little fixes. They are a constant supply of adventures to tell your friends about (or blog as it happens), outfits to plan and futures to fantasise over.
It’s easy to develop a habit.
More worrying than this, is that it took a guy I knew for 48 hours to make me forget about Chris, something that all my holidays, work, fabulous friends, and writing couldn’t do.
So, I’ve decided to give it all up for three months.
No more eye contact over the bar (or as my friends like to call it ‘strawface’). No more snogging in clubs, contacting golden boy (or the Swede, or the French one) no more obsessing over lift guy at work (we’ve been saying hi to each other in the lift for six months and I don’t even know his name)
So, how will I get on? And what on earth will I have to write about?
Well, I’ve been four days sober and it’s not been easy.
Temptation is everywhere and I pretty much broke on the third day (yesterday). It really wasn’t my fault. Lift guy jumped into the lift just as the doors were closing and said “Hi.”
“Hey,” I replied as the doors closed and the lift was plunged into silence. He shoved his hands in his pockets, I looked at my phone, the doors opened and a girl got out. They closed and he shuffled a little closer making room for someone else. We made eye contact, he smiled, I smiled and cringed and looked at my phone again before the doors opened and I all but ran out of the lift.
Now this would have all been fine had I then not attempted a Sherlock Holmes campaign to find out who he was finding his exact seat and counting how many rows it was form the back of the room. It took several failed attempts of peering over abnormally high telesales desks like some kind of lost Meer cat before I gave up.
I’d cracked, slightly, but I was determined to get back on track.
That evening I was meeting my friend in Shoreditch. It only took one mojito for me to get halfway to drunk and start reminiscing over our time at my old work, Chris, and how funny last summer was. She was having boy problems and we dissected a text, sent another and analysed the entire situation between bouts of laughter and faces full of prawn crackers.
We moved onto another bar in Brick Lane, a homely little cove of tatty velvet furniture that looked like it had previously belonged to an eccentric granny, red lighting and movie posters form the 80’s.
It had been several vodka limes and I was trying really hard not to pull ‘strawface’ at two guys that had sat opposite us.
“He’s disgusting” My friend said.
He probably was, but I was drunk and there was something about his American smugness and Michael J Fox hair that was making me want to give up on the whole no men thing.
Thankfully, they left and after several more drinks and cheese bagels really could have done without, I was on my way home in a cab and trying my very best not to contact Golden Boy (now in my phone as booty-call Nick.)
That night I couldn’t sleep, and in my half drunken delirium couldn’t stop thinking about Chris.
Was it impossible to have a world without men or is it just me? Do I have an actual problem?
After a long day at work, I decided to take myself shopping and replace one vice with another. It’s amazing how much walking round a department store can cheer you up, (It’s amazing how shallow I feel even saying that)
Browsing from Ted Baker to Karen Millen, it occurred to me that picking up guys in bars, and shopping really aren’t so very different. You see something you like, you have a closer look, pick it up and feel the fabric, maybe try it on for size then either discard it or buy it. Sometimes you find something amazing that fits perfectly and you have the exact same rush of excitement as when you’re in a cab home with someone you can’t wait to get into bed.
Suddenly I wasn’t even in the mood for shopping anymore.
I took the escalator to the lingerie department…. Just to say goodbye to the pretty things I really won’t be needing anymore. Among the frill and lace, in the corner of the department I saw a row of plain bras I’d never even looked at before. I decided If I was going to go without men, or sex then I was going to damn well get some comfy underwear.
I walked out of the store with two plain bras that were totally gross but fitted better than anything I had and couldn’t stop smiling all the way to the tube.
No more worrying about guys texting, no more itchy lace, no more disappointing nights in bars in Balham surrounded by idiots. Three whole months about me, and my writing and friends.
It could be worse!
So I guess this may be good bye for a little while! Wish me luck!