5 Dec
@Coffee Lab

flickr image by Chen Hao Hsuan

Today is my singleversary. I have now been boyfriend-less for not just one year, but two.

This is the longest period of time I have been single since my first serious boyfriend at the age of sixteen. And by serious, I of course mean he was the first boyfriend to touch my private parts.

A lot can happen in two years.

During the past two years approximately two hundred and sixty six million babies were born worldwide. While one hundred and thirteen million, one hundred and ninety four thousand and sixty eight people have carked it.

Over the last two years I’ve apparently produced four thousand, three hundred and eighty litres of sweat. Each of my fingernails have grown approximately seven centimetres. I’m likely to have guzzled one thousand, six hundred and twelve standard drinks and passed wind an impressive ten thousand, two hundred and twenty times. I’ve blinked about one hundred and forty six thousand times and my heart has produced roughly seventy million beats.

But how many boyfriends have I had over the past two years? Zero. (I wonder if all that sweating and farting could be to blame?)

When I met my last boyfriend I assumed he was out of my league – too cute for his own good and showed absolutely no interest in me. Now, anyone who knows me well enough is aware that I was born with a dilapidating condition – Court Jester Syndrome. Essentially, this syndrome rears its ugly head by desperately trying to get new people to like me.  In the past it has led me to do regrettable things such as unmercifully show-off in group situations, pepper serious conversations with inappropriate jokes and speak a few octaves above everybody else. On one occasion, my Court Jester Syndrome even forced me to create a blog about the most embarrassing walks of shame I have committed.

After encounters with new people, I possess an overbearing intrinsic need to have them walk away thinking I’m funny, smart, witty, or just generally amazing. I’m not proud of it, but it’s who I am.

Needless to say, with the help of my Court Jester Syndrome, not only did I have this cute aloof guy eating from the palm of my hand (metaphorically), but I also had him inside my pants (literally). A relationship bloomed and six months hurtled past.

Realistically I knew he wasn’t The One. There were a multitude of black marks against his name. Although he was talkative and funny when we were alone, in the presence of other people he would become mute and sullen, like a sulking three year old. This did not sit well with the Court Jester in me.

The sex was certainly of the vanilla variety and didn’t exactly set my loins ablaze with a fire of ecstasy. But then, I suppose I should just be grateful they weren’t set ablaze with a scorching case of herpes. What with all those scaremongering advertisements on TV, it seems you can’t be too careful these days. Though to be fair, it was probably rather unnecessary to get blindly intoxicated after the breakup and stumble down George Street telling all those who would listen (and even those who wouldn’t) about his inadequate lovemaking skills.

Also, he had children. Two of them, to be exact. To a woman he couldn’t stop talking about. Many of his stories referred to an allusive “we”, which I knew to be him and his ex. At first I overlooked it. But realistically, I didn’t need to know what brand of contraceptive pill she took, which was her favourite breakfast cereal and how many times a week the pair of them had made love.

We were both pretending to be something we weren’t – a blissful new couple falling in love. For whatever reason, be it desperation or a fear of being single again, I’d tried to ignore the warning signs. But the death of our relationship came on a balmy Friday evening two years ago today.

We rendezvoused at a Greek restaurant. I, sensing trouble, had consciously put a touch more effort into my appearance. I slipped into my favourite black dress and heels, ran the straightening tongs through my hair and applied an extra lick of lip gloss. If I was going to be dumped, it wasn’t going to happen in a pair of jeans with frizzy hair.

An awkward meal ensued, which I dragged out longer than necessary by ordering a round of appetisers to share. I then stupidly insisted on paying the bill, thinking perhaps these gestures of goodwill could seal the emotional cavern now stretching between us.

On the walk home he paused near a busy roundabout, placed his six pack of beer on somebody’s front fence and unceremoniously broke up with me. It just wasn’t working. He didn’t have those feelings for me. We weren’t right for each other. Maybe we’d be better as friends.

I thanked him for his honesty, gave him a perfunctory hug, and continued on my way. I waited until I had rounded a corner before I set the waterworks flowing, the carefully applied mascara running and the despondent text messages to close friends flying.

I’m well aware that the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. However, in the past I’ve been with some mediocre men, purely in the hope of cleaning some stains from my aching heart.

There was Sam. Who poked me ‘good naturedly’ in the stomach with a hypocritical meaty finger and asked if I was pregnant when I’d put on a couple of kilograms. He also kindly informed me that around ninety eight percent of men cheat on their wives or girlfriends. This then led me to ask the obvious question, “Are you in the two percent category or the ninety eight percent?”

Then there was Andy. Who accidentally sent me a text message meant for his other girlfriend. ‘I’m sorry baby, of course I still like you! I couldn’t answer my phone last night as I went to bed early. I promise I’ll make it up to you.’ Funny, I hadn’t recalled him going to bed early. However, I had recalled him jackhammering me with his penis, mistakenly thinking that equated to good sex. After the wayward text message fiasco, he arrived at my doorstep to apologise with a bottle of expensive wine, which he then accidentally smashed on the paved step as he reached for the doorbell.

This time I told myself there’d be no rebound relationships. No boyfriends just for the sake of it. I wouldn’t enter into a relationship until someone really worthy came along. I mean, I wouldn’t want to be with the wrong guy when the right one came swanning past.

There have been plenty of pashes, dates and sexual encounters over the past two years. But no boyfriends. And for the first time in my life, I’m okay being single. For now, it feels right. When my knight in shining armour appears to sweep me off my feet, I’ll be ready.

However, until then, I’m off to drink a cheap bottle of sauvignon blanc and peruse the ‘Adopt A Kitty’ section of the Lost Cat Society website.

Happy singleversary to me!


11 Responses to “Singleversary”

  1. mariasrandomrants December 6, 2010 at 3:29 am #

    Oh Dawn, love your posts, all the detailed descriptions of your nutty escapades. I’m living vicariously (single)through you. If I’m ever in Australia, I’m going to buy you a beer. LOL. 🙂

    • Dawn Dash December 6, 2010 at 10:11 pm #

      My anti-love life is so tragic it’s laughable. Much more therapeutic than crying! And I’m Australian – therefore I’d always accept a free beer! xx

  2. Heather December 6, 2010 at 9:46 pm #

    We ARE sistahs from another mistah! I love finding blogs this and girls like you. This was an incredible post – I loved it. Even though I don’t even HAVE a Singleversary (I guess it would be my birthday? LOL), I like the idea of it. I can’t wait to read all up through your blog and get invested in it. My reader will be awaiting!

    • Dawn Dash December 6, 2010 at 10:21 pm #

      Yes, was rather devestated when driving my car yesterday and it suddenly hit me – I’d been single for two years. I mean, how is that possible? I don’t have a third nipple, am not covered in scales and do not drag my knuckles on the ground when I walk. Sigh. I’m loving your blog too! I actually found it last night and was having a good old read. Definitely your fault that I stayed up way past my bedtime! 🙂

      • Heather December 6, 2010 at 10:48 pm #

        Oh, don’t I wonder the same things everyday. Except I’ve been single my ENTIRE life. I’ve never had a boyfriend. Ha. I do not feel bad about you staying up all night at all either! How far back did you read? God, there’s so much in that blog. Geez. Kudos to you for attempting that! I’ve got yours open in its own window – this is on! So far, I am LOVING it!

        • Dawn Dash December 6, 2010 at 11:35 pm #

          Single your entire life?! Well it must be by choice then, as you are gorgeous and quite the witty banter-ess! Unless men just feel intimidated by your amazingness. I can empathise. I too am single, and quite clearly amazing! I was up until about 1.30am reading about your first online love and the delightfully sexy (yet unfortunately engaged) guy you had bumped uglies with. I’m about to read some more now!

  3. kctan75 December 13, 2010 at 12:21 pm #

    Hey Dawn Dash …. very cute blog … very witty …. if you ever come down to Singapore we should hang out …. 8)

    • Dawn Dash December 13, 2010 at 7:34 pm #

      If I ever go to Singapore we can hook up, then we’ll both blog about it.

  4. kctan75 December 13, 2010 at 9:06 pm #

    lol …. that sounds exciting ….

  5. newyorkcliche April 21, 2011 at 2:12 am #

    I’m delving into your blog past for some good reading 🙂
    I have CJS too! And a very similar state of mind about boyfriends. I like this Singleversary cause for celebration- I’m marking my calendar!

    • Dawn Dash April 21, 2011 at 11:52 pm #

      I’m not sure how much it is a cause for celebration… Certainly a few vodkas, but I’m not sure if they could be classified as the celebratory kind. My three year singleversary is approaching at breakneck speed!

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