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It's damn tough being single in this city. The road to 'married smug' is paved with bad intentions. The bad intentions of competing ladies who would knife you as soon as have you look at someone they are interested in or the 'married smugs' who would knife you as soon as have you look at someone they are married to. It's a dangerous road and a girl has to be packing, if only to protect herself from other women.
Of course, even avoiding the above potholes, it doesn't run smoothly. In Galway, where there is a dearth of males, men don't come easy (ha, ha) and when you meet someone you actually like there is generally a catch. To paraphrase an old saying, if he seems too good to be true, he generally is.
The problem is, the problem(s) usually only appear when you are down the road so far, it is difficult to reverse out easily. He's too short and your penchant for heels can no longer be suppressed. Or it turns out you weren't just wearing beer goggles, you were wearing full sensory black-out curtains and, while you were giving him the benefit of being 'ugly in a cute/interesting kind of way', it becomes clears he is also as boring as an encore of the Rosary, or as loud as a demented jackhammer or, horror of horrors, as sweaty as a ... well you get the idea.
But what do you do when he is tall, cute, interesting and deliciously scented but born in the year culottes first came into fashion? You meet, you click, you're thinking 'I could be the next Mrs 'Some Guy I Just Met in Club' when Catch 21 rears its young, cute, beautifully scented head. He's DOB, your DOA.
Do you take the batteries out of your biological clock or do you turn on your three-inch heels and leg it to the bar for a triple sensory black-out? It's a personal preference I guess. Still, you might reason that now that we're on winter time, you have that extra hour to play with. You can always go back to the future in the spring.
Post edited by: content2, at: 2008/02/06 12:04
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