Jen: Who moved my sunset?

This is not the way it’s supposed to go. You’re supposed to find a man, fall in love and walk hand in hand into the sunset, right? So I found the man, fell in love, but someone done gone and moved the damn sunset!

Yes, dear readers, a lot has happened over the past two months. A lot. I know it sounds a mere blip in time but the calendar belies the intensity of my whirlwind romance  with a very special man. And the fact that circumstances beyond my control have brought it to an abrupt halt just make me want to yell to the universe “it’s not fair!!!!”. I mean come on, I like him, he likes me – why throw a spanner at something that should be – and was – so easy?  I know there are lots of so-called wise words and nauseating quotes that will tell me how I need to learn and grow from this experience but I’m afraid the fact remains; it’s shit. Shit, bollocks, kak, and poo on a veritable stick – and I want my freakin’ sunset!

In many respects father time is the big culprit here. Had I had this encounter a year from now, things may very well have worked out differently. So master of minutes and sovereign of seconds, if you want to make it up to me, make time be the healer and send this one back to me when you’re done with him.

Yet despite my grief, which I can assure you is very real, I do not wish that I had never met this man, I do not wish that I had never fallen in love, and I do not wish that he were different. I just wish that I had the power to determine the ending rather than have to watch his past encroach on my future.

And I wish I didn’t have a blasted cracked rib which is making a bit of cathartic crying rather more painful than it needs to be  – talk about adding injury to insult!





Jen: Are we there yet?

In reference to my good Catholic upbringing, it has been 36 days since my last confession – on Beau Dacious, that is. You know, the one where I admitted to getting that funny feeling around a certain gentleman. Well, several weeks have now gone by since meeting said gentleman and I am pleased to report that he – and his undeniably beautiful abs – remains a fixture. So much so that I did what I only do when a date turns into something markedly more significant: I told my mother. Naturally I put a big caveat on the news – let’s not entertain fantasies of finally marrying off her 30-something daughter just yet – but I did relent and send her a photo of mister. Perhaps she mistook him for a puppy because her response was “he looks healthy”.

It’s all quite exciting and lovely at the moment but my healthy mister and I have agreed to take things slowly. Though I have to be honest, I am not exactly sure what that means. Does it mean we should only just have graduated from holding hands? Does the fact that I entrusted him with a set of my house keys around week 4 make me liable for a speeding fine? And what about ‘the others’ – at what point should we be declaring that ours is an exclusive arrangement?

YOUR elbow, dude, not mine.

You see  going slow is all good and well, and is the reason  I keep telling people – mother dearest included – that “nothing is official yet” but truth be told I am starting to wonder at which point it might be considered acceptable to require some form of relationship classification. Yes, gag, I know, defining it does feels annoyingly suburban which is why I placate myself by saying that much of it has to do with semantics: what on earth should I be calling the man when I refer to him in conversation? Calling him my ‘friend’ feels insufficient, and ‘lover’ always makes me feel a bit wanton, but use of the term ‘boyfriend’ or ‘partner’ feels like it should be preceded by some form of discussion and mutual agreement. It’s all terribly serious, you know. But when – and how – does one broach that topic, if at all? I may just throw up a bit if I find myself saying the words “so where is this going” or, worse still, “we need to talk” but years of bad Hollywood romcoms might just put words in my mouth if I am not careful.

Fortunately I have grown a bit of a ‘love spine’ over the past two years so I am not feeling particularly vulnerable or agitated. On the contrary I think I’m doing pretty well at going with the veritable flow and just enjoying the company of a delightful man who seems to like me too. However, I have now gone so far as to clear my dance card and I guess I just want confirmation that this is not an outrageously premature thing to do.

What do you reckon? Should this kind of thing be organic or is a conversation required. And if so, are we there yet?

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