Maybe it’s unrequited love. Maybe it’s unrequited fancying. Maybe I’m an idiot or ugly or something. Maybe the people I fancy simply cannot and will not fancy me. Chuck Palahniuk told us that “The one you love and the one who loves you are never, ever the same person.” And maybe he was right. Or maybe I just fancy everyone and get upset when they don’t all fancy me in return.
I am sad and insecure tonight so I shall talk about my insecurities. Not smart enough, not funny enough, not normal enough. I’m hoping that some day a nice boy will find my insane and inane musings endearing. How do you tell someone that you have something in common with them without sounding like you’re lying? Maybe I just naturally sound insincere. It’s not often I click with a nice boy, and even rarer that that boy should give me butterflies. And when that does happen? When all the criteria is met and I like you, then what? I’ll try, in my own demented manner, to seduce you. Invariably, this will involve me talking about something ridiculously unsexy and uninviting like crisps and scurvy. Doesn’t anyone find that hilarious or endearing? I know what will happen. What will happen is that I will not attract bearded, intelligent boys. I will attract lunatics and boys with no personality. Oh God.
One boy doesn’t know I exist (why would he after our sixty second conversation and two seconds of eye contact?) and the other probably thinks I’m an idiot (and he would be correct). Oh God. I am definitely regressing. I am almost certainly fourteen. I’m pre-pubescent. Oh God. Oh God. Help. Next thing you know, I’ll start menstruating and discover lip gloss. Oh God.
One of my closest friends is an absolute guru when it comes to boys. She can flirt with more ease and confidence than with which I can breathe. Flirting is second nature to her and if she wants to kiss someone, there is no doubt in anyone’s mind that she will kiss that person. She is the only person I know who can decide to kiss someone and within minutes, achieve that goal. I’m the anti-guru. If I decide I want to kiss someone, it almost certainly will not happen, not unless I allow my standards to slip a notch or two. My guru friend needs no Dutch courage in her endeavour to kiss a (very lucky) boy, whereas I need at least a couple of pints and about a week’s worth of anecdotes to whip out (or, failing that, my boobs). I wrote before about my attempts to flirt with a boy in college. What I didn’t mention was that the whole thing ended in disaster, the details of which I won’t go into at this juncture. Ugh.
My other attempts at flirting have gone equally tragically. My friends still joke about when I was talking to (read: trying to flirt with) a boy on Facebook and we were on the subject of music. He said of Ed Sheeran, “He’s not my favourite.” With hardly a moment’s hesitation, I wrote, “I’m your favourite.” A bold statement by all accounts. (Actually, on this occasion, my “flirting” worked and ended with another notch on my proverbial bedpost. However, it also involved lots of ignoring me thereafter and so the accounts probably balanced really.)
Other times I have tried to flirt, I have invariably been revealed as a weirdo. I mention crisps, cheese, pubic hair and lots of other seemingly random subjects. Once, in the Students’ Union in college, I was with my friend, Francis, and a boy he knew (and for whom I had developed a soft spot – possibly in the brain) asked to borrow his laptop. Francis refused and I offered mine instead. The boy said no thanks, I don’t really know you, it might be inappropriate, to which I replied, in a barely concealed whisper, “We’ve touched in my dreams.” I was only half joking. See, that’s the problem: I try to be funny when I’m talking to boys but, in the wise and immortal words of Georgia Nicholson, “Boys don’t like girls for funniness.” Well then.
My same kissing guru friend suggested that the best way to attract a boy is to – as the cliché goes – be yourself. I replied to her advice with an incredulous “Have you met me?!” Be myself? If I carry on being myself for much longer, I am sure to begin to attract the mentally ill and the mentally deficient. (Wonderful people, I don’t doubt, but not my type.) Being myself involves trying to be funny when it is not at all appropriate. And generally my idea of funny isn’t the same as the rest of the world’s. Especially not good-looking boys. My friends think I’m funny but they don’t want to jump my bones or touch their tongues against my tongue (except Francis, but that’s different). My mother started laughing at my jokes recently, which I can only take as a bad sign.
I mentioned my boobs which are glorious in size if you’re into that kind of thing. Personally, I’m not. One of my gay friends groped me on a night out and told me that my boobs were wonderful and that “all the straight boys must love you!” Unfortunately not – at least, they’ve never mentioned being fond of my mammary glands. (Except for that notch on the bedpost boy who told me, in the throes of passion, that my boobs were “class.” A strange adjective for boobs but what do I know? I’m not from the west of Ireland.)
The point is I’m sort of funny and my boobs are “class” and in an ideal world, that would be enough to guarantee me a lifetime filled with good-looking boys with beards and unusual senses of humour (is that the plural? who knows?). Sadly, we do not live in an ideal world. We live in a world where boring people are in relationships and plain people are throwing their lips on everyone around them – and, more importantly, not being fought off by a reluctant receiver. Oh, to live like the normal people do!
I must be content with thinking up stupid things to say to other humans (such as “Rachel Allen is going in for Ireland in next year’s Eurovision” and “Fitzi scored the winning goal for Chelsea in that last match”) and reading Bridget Jones’ Diary and feeling that I can well and truly relate. (I might try reading something that requires a knowledge of literature next – you know, like the one my degree is supposed to provide – but for now, it’s all Nick Hornby and Helen Fielding and easy-to-read love stories. Because they do wonders for cheering up a loveless fool like me.)