I made a pact with myself at the beginning of the year that I'd try my hardest to steer clear of grumpy older men with ex-wife baggage. Instead, I swore I'd focus on the younger steed. And, by crumpets, have I tried. But I've come to realise that, sadly, they interest me as much as brown corduroy.
Take Green Shirt Boy for example. He was twenty and his slim years and svelte chassis had me weak at the knees. But then we tried to converse. And the boredom I felt was not dissimilar to the boredom I have felt standing in long bureaucratic lines.
The Pant (while dancing): So, Green Shirt Boy, what do you do?
Green Shirt Boy: (blocking my one ear so I could hear him over the drone) I'm a student. But I spend more time drinking.
TP: (bop. Ass shake.) Oh okay. But what are you studying?
GSB: (draping a sweaty arm around me, armpit actually ensconcing ball of shoulder) Social Sciences. More of the social than the sciences. What you do?
TP: Um (raising voice to be heard) It's 'what DO you do'.
GSB: (practically screaming) I told you. What you do?
TP: No, no, lovie. You left out the verb. It's 'what DO you do'.
(By now, he was shouting frantically in my ear so that I felt I may incur an injury that would leave me with a life-long case of tinitis.)
GSB: I told you. More drinking than studying.
At which point I excused myself to go to the bathroom. He offered to walk me there AND hold my handbag while I went about my business. I declined, of course. And went to the door. And hailed a cab.
I don't know why, but the ability to speak in full sentences is kind of a prerequisite for me.
Then there was Rugby Boy. This one was slightly older, like my age, had a real job and an insatiable interest in me. The fact that he'd actually just played a rugby match and had what I thought looked like a tampon in his nostril put me off slightly. But he was firm. And, after sufficient facebook stalking, I discovered that without a blue string dangling from inside his nose, he was all kinds of hot.
I ignored his advances, of course. I live in Durban and have a reputation to uphold. He lives in Jo'burg. And while, if I'm entirely honest with myself, I have a very soft spot for Jo'burg, I really don't think it wise embarking on a long distance relationship with someone with whom I'm not overly charmed.
But, I'm getting ahead of myself here. Let me offer, first, the interchange we've had since meeting some two months ago.
Rugby Boy (via facebook! What happened to, I don't know, talking? I suppose, one has to actually give one's telephone to person should one wish to receive telephone call.). You said you were thinking of moving to Jo'burg. When are you moving in?
The Pant: Woah tiger. One step at a time. Like, we haven't even had our first kiss. And my job is in Durban. As is The Daughter's school.
Two week silence.
Rugby Boy: I'm coming to Durban this weekend.
The Pant: Super. I'll ring The Daily Mail, shall I? Oh, and please take lots of photos. Because I'm down the coast this weekend.
Another two week silence.
RB: I don't get you.
TP: I'm sorry about that.
RB: Tell me something about yourself. But a secret that you've never told anyone.
Really? Is this honestly the kind of shit I have to put up with?
Crikey effing moses.