As I explained only a couple of weeks ago, I try not to make a habit out of eagerly anticipating a message from any given man. I don’t like checking my phone constantly on the off-chance that some guy decides he wants me. Regular readers know I always introduce these posts by saying ‘this… BUT’ though, so here comes the ‘BUT’… recently I’ve found myself itching to hear from somebody in particular. Refreshing my email (yes, I use email, I am forty one years of age and I like to ramble so email is my medium: deal with it, Zoomers) hoping for any kind of contact.
Refresh. Nothing yet.
Relax! Maybe he’s busy.
Refresh. Nope. Perhaps he’s met someone else and they’re taking up all of his time.
Relax! Remember that you are a fun and desirable person – especially to this guy. You do not need to worry just because he’s taking a while to respond.
Refresh again. No, nothing. Maybe he’s become angry with me for reasons I can’t put my finger on. What if the last email I sent, or something I said on one of my public social media channels or on this easily-searchable blog has pissed him off in a way I hadn’t anticipated and now he doesn’t want to talk to me ever again?
Fuck.
It’s that.
It’s definitely that.
I have done or said something that’s upset this man. Even though I work pretty hard in real life not to upset any men, especially the ones I want to bone, somehow I have crossed an undefined line and my clumsy words have landed me in the shit.
Oh shit.
Relax! I talk to a friend. She asks:
“He’s an adult, right?”
“Y…yeah.”
“So he can take responsibility for telling you if you’ve upset him.”
“I… oh.”
It sounds so obvious, but it wouldn’t have occurred to me otherwise. I make a note to mention this to my therapist, and when I do I’m pretty sure I see a wry smile flit across his face before he returns to inscrutable calm.
It’s interesting though, this feeling. As I say, I don’t make a habit of worrying whether men are going to message. I have a roughly 30% return rate on messages I send on dating apps – I fire compliments and questions into the ether, and roughly a third of the time I’ll get a response. The ones which don’t get a reply never bother me, because as soon as I’ve sent them I forget and get on with my life. The occasional guy might stand out: if he’s got a full, funny profile and at least one picture in which he’s smiling, my heart occasionally jumps a little in anticipation of a reply. But I never dwell on it for more than about two minutes. These are just messages in a bottle, after all, hurled into the ocean of men then left to float or sink outside my eyeline.
Not with this guy though.
With this one, I want his response. I want him to want me. I desperately want him to… whisper it… not be mad at me.
Perhaps that’s how to tell the difference between men I care about and men I do not. Am I worried he might be angry? Then he’s probably important.
Tragic shit, honestly. My therapist would have a fleeting facial expression about this too, I suspect. The fact that I can tell which men I truly like by examining whether I’m ever-so-slightly on edge, nervous in case I’m in trouble. The men whose emotions I dance attendance upon – anticipating their needs and worries and potential insecurities so I can pre-emptively apologise, or double down on compliments to mitigate their pain.
Refresh. Nothing yet.
Relax, he’s an adult.
Refresh… hnng. Fuck.
He is an adult, and I’m sure he’s not thinking anything bad. My friend is wise and correct. Besides, the last time I spoke to this guy, I ended our interaction with a rock-solid confidence in exactly how he felt. He wants me, he likes me, he is very far from mad at me. My rational brain knows this, even if my anxious heart does not.
He wants me. I know it. I remind myself of that fact. I cling to it. Remember that I am a strong, confident, desirable woman who doesn’t need validation from men.
Except, of course, this one.
I email him.
I disrupt the cadence of our messaging so far, and send one out of turn: how are you? My stomach does backflips as I hit send, then every few minutes as I wait for a response.
When it comes, a weight lifts swiftly from my shoulders. I breathe easier. Feel better. My mind is cleansed and whole again, in ways that are both comforting (now I’m fine) and alarming (how much of my happiness had been riding on one man in the first place?!).
We’ll deal with that later, as we’ll deal with so much other stuff: the soothing way alcohol numbs my sadness or the blissful self-harm that is smoking. For now I am content, relieved, sated, validated, calm… because I heard from the guy in whose hands I’d placed my heart.
He isn’t sad or angry, after all. He wants to destroy my cunt.