There I was, cuddled up in my dressing gown, tea half-finished, mouth completely full of my third Aldi Jive bar, period pain haunting me like a fuckboy when he realises you might be moving on. I was 40 minutes into an in-depth analysis of my taste in men and contemplating deleting Tinder… again. Grim times.
The moment was what it was, and in the bigger picture, the same applied to my love life. It is what it is, he is who he is. I couldn’t change him, and I definitely couldn’t stay here, dwelling in my dressing gown. Life was moving too quickly to spend so much of it wondering whether each WhatsApp message that came in could be from him. And it could be, that was the most frustrating part, there would be nothing alien about that. But it didn’t connect, the WhatsApp didn’t link the idea of us to tomorrow. I cared about him, but did he care enough to value me as more than blue ticks?
I didn’t know much about what was going on between us, but I knew I no longer wanted to be the woman that I currently was to him. “He’s just an arsehole!” were the words from my best friend, carved from her loyalty, that were ringing through my ears. I had handed him the benefit of the doubt on a silver platter too many times, cushioned by my genuine nature and at times, intense stupidity. And once again, he had simply absorbed this energy before driving me to the Jive bars.
I had to get out of his head, because he wasn’t the only person keeping me there. I wanted answers he didn’t have, explanations he couldn’t give me, yet I was unable to answer my own brain when she kept asking me why I kept putting myself through this.
It is what it is, he is who he is. Period pains are totally awful, and Jive bars are bloody delicious.