Warning: This week's column is being written by a pms-driven woman. Sensitive males (if they exist, which I seriously doubt) may be offended. Reader discretion is advised.
I hate men. Or at least one man in particular. But if I must be honest with myself, I'll have to admit that I don't hate him, I just wish I did.
I recently met a guy. Yes, some readers may be bored out of their skull by now with my blow by blow accounts of my (frequent) dating disasters but in the spirit of catharsis (and having nothing better to write about), please bear with me. Again.
This story kicks off where the last one left off: while I was shaking what my Momma gave me and (very easily) getting over the last object of my affection, fate stepped in.
Or rather, my hand. In a very inappropriate place. He claims I groped him, I claim I was dancing and he walked into me. Either way he had me at: "we just met, slow down."
It takes a lot to make me laugh (probably because I'm a bit of a cynic) but he made me smile (it could have been the alcohol), one of those heartfelt, from the tips of my toes to the top of my head smiles. And I liked him, so I gave him my number. Ok, forced it onto him and told him to call. Not after three days (the usual and "acceptable" period guys take before calling a girl), but soon. And so he did.'
The rest as they say, is history. Or magic. It's amazing how one feels when they meet a kindred spirit: I can?t articulate it well so I'll draw from one of my favourite songs:
"You keep me on my feet happily excited. By your cologne, your hands, your smile, your intelligence. You woo me, you court me, you tease me, you please me. You school me, give me some things to think about. Ignite me, you invite me, you co-write me, you love me, you like me. You incite me to chorus."
The extract comes from Jill Scott's He loves me. Except of course he didn't love me (not that I expect him to) because a month later he decided to go back to his girlfriend of six years whom he loves and wants to marry (And although it's noble that sometimes love conquers all, I still want to vomit.)
So yet again I found myself in Julia Roberts' shoes in My Best Friends' Wedding, the movie that is fast becoming the neverending story of my life. Except I want to say "choose me". But yet again, I don't. Because I'm afraid of the rejection, afraid of the pain, afraid that he won't.
Instead, I sit like a teenage girl waiting for my phone to ring, to get an email or to hear my sms tone. And every time I am met with a deafening silence, it is followed by outrage. Because if he has managed to make such an impact in my life in so short a time, why haven't I?
And that's when I convince myself to hate him, but instead found myself in another (favourite) movie. In 10 things I hate about you, Julia Styles plays a rebellious girl who against her will, falls for someone who inadvertently hurts her. The movie ends with a poem she writes to him:
"I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair. I hate the way you drive my car. I hate it when you stare. I hate your big dumb combat boots, and the way you read my mind. I hate you so much it makes me sick; it even makes me rhyme. I hate it, I hate the way you're always right. I hate it when you lie. I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry. I hate it that you're not around, and the fact that you didn't call. But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all."
So I guess this is my ode. Because I can't... hate him.