You know your friends don’t take you too seriously when they call you in the middle of their workday for a chat, hoping for funny, and sometimes sordid, tales of your never-ending quest to find a man. As tends to happen, I got the call this week, from a friend who derives more pleasure than I consider acceptable from my miseries.
“So there’s no drama?” he asked, sounding very put out.
“Nope,” I replied, shrugging nonchalantly even though he couldn’t see me.
“But…but that’s why I called you…” he pouted.
“Sorry babes,” I replied, “there’s nothing going on here.” I shrugged again, and again he didn’t see it.
“Really?” he asked, suspicious.
“Well…” I mumbled, debating whether to make something up in his honour. I do that sometimes, its easier to give him what he wants.
“Really?” he asked, suspicious.
“Well…” I mumbled, debating whether to make something up in his honour. I do that sometimes, its easier to give him what he wants.
“Yes…”
“There is this one guy…”
“Yes…” he urged, his voice a couple of notes higher in anticipation.
“I think he likes me…”
“Yes…” This time I think I saw him bouncing in excitement.
“Buuuut…”
“Come on woman, spill…” he snapped.
“Oh forget it, its nothing.”
“What is it? You know you call tell me anything…” he pried, eager.
“Its just…”
“What? Is there something wrong with him? Did he do something bad? It’s not a married guy again is it?”
“What?” I asked, thrown by the sudden twist the conversation had taken.
“You have a thing for married guys, its always a married guy,” he sniffed prissily, “I don’t know why you cant just find a single jamaa.” He either Nkt’d or Mscheew’d me at that point, the line was not too clear.
“Dude, it was one married guy, and it was just a crush…”
“Yeah right!” he snorted, “Only one guy she says...”
“No really, it was only a crush…wait, what?”
“You know what. You don’t really think that langa who is always busy, even on weekends, isn’t married?” There was an unsaid ‘Bitch please!’ at the end of that sentence.
“No, he’s just really busy…”
“On Sunday morning?”
“Yes…”
“And Tuesday night at 10 pm?”
“Yes?”
“You’re not really that thick, are you?”
“Eh?”
“Listen, if the man won’t take your calls at night or on the weekend, then he’s not single…”
“But…”
“No buts!”
“But…”
“Are you not listening to me woman? Nkt!” He hung up on me.
And that was what I call a Nkt! conversation, one that leaves you feeling like you want to slap someone for gross acts of stupidity, only this time I was on the receiving end, and all because I didn’t have a story for him, useless bugger…
Thanks to that phone call, and several other reasons that I’m sure I don’t have to spell out, I’m currently debating whether to get back into the dating swamp, this as I try to decide whether or not I’m content to live out my days all by my lonesome or to succumb to that most basic human need for companionship. Don’t get too excited, nothing is ever straightforward with me, and this is no exception. Thing is, I love the solitude of being unattached. On the other hand, however, one can only have so many conversations with oneself before one starts to lose one’s mind, no? Now that was an awkward sentence, one should perhaps pick up a book on grammar and school oneself, no? My problem is, as much as I miss that warm body on Saturday night, I’ve gotten to like waking up on Sunday morning to the sound of…nothing.
See I like Sunday mornings, I like that I have nowhere to be, nothing to do, its the one time in the week I get to slow down and catch up on everything I missed. I make myself a cup of industrial strength coffee and then sit back to catch up on the week’s news, revelling in the rubbish. Really, I read the papers for about 2 hours on average, cover to cover, while listening to John Legend, he that I will one day stalk in person if they ever give me that visa (although now that I’ve put that down I’ll probably never get said visa, will I?). The thought of having to talk to someone on Sunday morning? That bothers me, slightly. With the last guy I dated a compromise was reached, no conversation between 10 am and noon. He’d watch a movie and I’d read my paper, then as penance for neglecting him, I would provide (or procure) lunch. I am, unfortunately, not optimistic as to the odds of that lightning striking me twice, I’m not that lucky, am I?
Folks, is there any chance I can find a man willing to be bound and gagged for a couple of hours while I sip a latte? No? I’ll feed him when I’m done, really, I’ll even water him if need be. No? No takers? Dammit.
On the very remote chance that my quiet Sundays will become a thing of the past, very remote chance if my recent history is anything to go by, I give you ‘Live it up’ by Mr Legend
“…Raise a toast to the days ahead
You can’t take it with you when you’re dead
You might as well enjoy it now instead…”
