Disgruntlement With the Self

But still, I never learn. Experiences seem to flit over me, hitting me on the head much like a stone skipping over a placid body of water, making momentary ripples that promise permanence yet are forgotten before the ever-widening rings come to pass. The larger issue seems to be my complete awareness of the repetitive nature of my mistakes. I know exactly how the event will play out. I should, I’ve lived it time and again. I know that I am merely setting myself and others up for disappointment, that I will kick myself for going through with it later, that dealing with the subsequent fall-out or debris is sure to be a hassle. But still, I never learn.

Once again, I agreed to a blind date. Once again, I knew full well that it wouldn’t be successful beforehand. Did I weasel out and save both parties the trouble? No. I chose to take the easy route and be accommodating to the whims and hopes of others. Same stupid submission; different day.

Maybe on some level in my subconscious, I think that this “yes, ma’am” attitude is a form of self-sacrifice for a greater good – a positive gesture to the happiness of others. But really, it isn’t. What have I achieved? I’ve appeased the person pushing for the date, but only to provide false hope to both the pusher and the poor man being thrust in an uncomfortable position. I have basically led him on before even introducing myself. I’m a perpetual tease.

And what boggles my mind further is the fact that he ticks all the right boxes. So I should have no excuse not to like him. He is gorgeous (think a semi-buff Gerard Butler), he is smart, he is ambitious, he’s the perfect age, he’ll make a great family man, and he’s a gentleman. AND he fits my mother’s “Good Christian Boy” requirement. That’s every box on my list ticked.

He complimented me just often enough to be flattering yet sincere. He was eloquent. He was interesting. He was funny and charming and genuine. It wasn't a game or a dance to be played out with certain step-requirements. It was an honest and open introduction of two individuals shoved in each other's direction.

He put up with an hour's driving in some sketchy Cairo neighbourhoods at one a.m. because I am road illiterate and too stubbornly proud to admit it. He put up with a crowded evening of strangers and 4,000 renditions of my broken foot story to as many new faces. He even held the car door open without being instructed to. The last of London's chivalrous men.

And yet I nit-pick. My reason this time? I don’t see the families getting along.

That just makes me a complete bitch.

And I know I'll only see him again while he's still in Cairo out of guilt and remorse.

Why am I still waiting for the fairytale and fireworks when it is obvious that those only exist in the magical realms of the imagination? He borders on perfect. Hell, he’s every woman’s Mr. Right.

Why can’t I accept him as mine?

Because I’m an idiot who is actively pushing herself into a life of solitary confinement in my own deluded psyche, that’s why.

Run folks, otherwise you’re destined to read about years of therapy and cynicism.