An Old Fashioned Romantic

I am an old romantic, that much is fact. If sparkles/butterflies/fanny fizzles aren’t immediately apparent, the poor subject is immediately dismissed… well, until last week anyway. Mr. Too-Good-To-Be-True had always been on the outskirts, but unfortunately it was his colleague, Monsieur Gift-Of-The-Gab who grabbed my attention first off. Hilarious. Smile to DIE FOR. Glint in his eye. Talkative, but silent where appropriate. Outrageous, if slightly inappropriate, flirting for no less than 2 months. There were certain undesirable aspects… Surname didn’t sound right next to mine, alternative religion, approximately 12 years of age gap… but I was willing to forget these for a slice of Mr. Wonderful. But nothing came of it. You know when someone sends out all of the right messages… What are you meant to think?!

And so, after making me fall for him pretty damn hard, we start the long fricking road to recovery. A road of tears, many many tears. A road of ‘I am SUCH an idiot’. A road everyone goes down, but no-one wants to. Learning curve? Maybe… But we all know that when Mr. GOTG’s long lost cousin comes along, it’ll be the same story.

But back to Mr. TGTBT, for he is the main topic of this little hurtfully true tale. Gorgeous in personality and kind of cute looking facially, tall, witty and intelligent, privately educated without the dickhead qualities of the average private school idiot, shirts that could only be chosen by his girlfriend slash wife… Granted, he lacked a glint here and a heart stopping smile there, but all in all he matched up pretty well. In addition, deep down the sensible let’s-look-ridiculously-far-forward woman inside me knows the parents will approve, he’s not that much older than I am, and he’d be extremely stable. So we set onto the highway to hopes and dreams, of self-reassurance and future promise. You begin the textual banter that you gradually try to increase and prolong. Constant convincing is required initially, but that fades until you’ve almost forgotten Mr. GOTG. In fact, you start to make yourself believe that GOTG is actually unattractive; he totally needs a haircut/brow trim/chest hair tame… He’s such a waste of space… You pity the receptionist he’s entertaining with his I-don’t-actually-fancy-you moves, glances and side-smiles… TGTBT just emerges on top in every situation now.

Then you find out why his shirts are so stunningly beautiful and well chosen. He’s into GOTG as much as you were. Brilliant.


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