Updated: Oct 3, 2020
The phrase “unlucky in love” gets banded about a fair bit. I’m not normally one of these people that feels the need to do things bigger and better than most, but in reality, I really think I’ve been particularly unlucky in love. I’m 36, and I have had 2 “serious” relationships in my life, both of whom turned out to be complete tossers. I’m not talking your average tosser; you know the type, who cheat on you, go out and get pissed every weekend leaving you at home watching Saturday Night Takeaway or Take Me Out on your own. No, I’m talking about ripping-your-heart-out, life-changing tosser-behaviour. I really have no wish to give these tossers any more air-time than they truly deserve. One of them should actually be in prison and I hope he is. Anyway tosser number 1 turned out to be a drug addict and a wife-beater. Me. I was his “wife”. Perhaps not on paper, but as good as, in my book. Why didn’t I leave him sooner? That’s the age-old question of women on the end of domestic violence. That’s another book…
Tosser number 2? Ah yes. Well he started off promisingly. He made the effort of courting me, and it took him 18 month to get me to agree to go on a date with him! My barriers came down (naturally, after tosser number 1, they were quite high) and we started dating. After a year we moved in together, and then I discovered he was an alcoholic.
Fuck! Talk about bad luck. What had I done to deserve this? Why me? All those questions sprang to mind. By this point my tolerance for the tosser-like behaviour was wearing pretty thin, and it didn’t take long (well, 6 months actually) to admit defeat and leave him.
That was nearly 7 years ago, and here I am; still single, having dated a few average guys but nothing long-lasting. I was happy for my best friends who were in loving and lasting relationships, but frustrated that I wasn’t doing the same, let alone actually meeting any guys! Having re-located for work, I found myself living in a small rural village, alone on most (sorry, EVERY) Saturday nights, bored, and quite frankly a little more than fed up. Scrolling through Facebook on one such night, I saw an advert about on-line dating, and well, here we are.
This story is my story. It is not intended to be a Bridget-esque tale of woe, or a carbon copy of being 30-something and single. It’s just me, and the never-ending scrapes I get myself into. At least this way when I’m 65 with 20 cats, I’ll have something to read to them…!