I went to a wedding last night, and was, one of five single people there. Two were under the age of two, but, for the sake of saving face, I'm going to count them. At the end of the wedding, the rabbi, called up all the 'singles' (collective noun for those without a partner) to the front, to drink from a cup of wine, as it was a good omen to find your 'beshert'.
When I'd got over my, extremely unholy, feelings of wanting to batter the rabbi over the head with a whole case of wine, no, scratch that, an entire wine cellar, I started to think about this idea of someone having a 'Beshert', or a preordained, destined partner (for anyone who watches friends 'a lobster').
It is a bit of an odd thought, that some guy (or girl, whatever) is sitting up in heaven, deciding who one will ultimately end up with. If it's so preordained, why is it so bloody difficult to find this person?!
And so begins another Bridget-esque tirade about the sorry state of my love life, and the past three months have been nothing short of disastrous. You see, I started doing this #100daysofhappiness project (much to the delight of my brother, who just loves to see my pseudo-smug updates every day. (In his words 'when the hell is it going to be over'). One of my biggest motivations for this project was to try and exude a more positive demeanor, and it started to work. As I started to skip to the sound of the birds, appreciate the sunsets, and revel in the small things, I remembered one thing it said on the website. 'People claimed to have fallen in love when completing this challenge'. Well, I thought, I'll embrace that idea, and go on a few dates. Silly me.
Date number one, with a guy who, told me I was who he should probably marry one day, borrowed a not insignificant amount of cash and cried on my shoulder about how depressed he was. Why was he depressed? Well, it turned out HE WAS ALREADY MARRIED. Now, this guy continues to haunt me, popping up on instant messenger every so often with some handy love advice, most recently (and might I say, most insultingly) he suggested I look for a boyfriend on 'a site that caters for men who like larger ladies'. Asshole.
NEXT
The American TV producer, who wooed me with a creative date, comedy club and a fun pop up bar, and kissed me shyly goodbye at the tube station. He was a perfect gentleman, bright, funny, ambitious and spontaneous. He showered me with attention until date number two, my turn to organise. I picked a cosy cinema, with an oscar nominated movie, and dinner before hand. Perfect, no? Well, apparently not. In the first scene, the lead character's husband killed himself, and the film went downhill from there. It was, admittedly, bloody depressing. But, you know, that shouldn't matter, it's not my fault that the movie was bad, right? Wrong. I never heard from him again.. apparently the film 'ruined his illusions of me'. Great.
NEXT
This one, actually never technically made it to a date. This is because, he was absolutely and utterly terrifying. After two days of texting, he declared he loved me (weird). I went away on business, and he told me to tell my (male) colleague that my boyfriend was 'jealous and dangerous' (we'd not met). And proceeded to tell me his sad life story, in detail, about the murder of his parents, and how he had spent his life seeking revenge. Shit.Got.Weird. The only reason I carried on texting him was because I was terrified of him finding out where I lived and ending me.
NEXT
Burpy guy. He seemed like a great prospect. Jewish, educated, funny, not too intense, not intimidatingly good looking. So, we met for a date. He trekked (from Essex) to my 'hood', and we went for dinner. Now, burpy guy was a vegetarian (nothing wrong with that, although I maintain, you cannot make friends with salad) and he ordered a large onion and cheese tart. He then, proceeded to burp stinking gas in my face for the remainder of the date. It was awful. But, I tried to overlook it. In fact, I convinced myself that it was just a quirk, that his gaseous stomach could be overlooked. I ignored the fact that he was unapologetically belching without covering his mouth, and then breathing the onion stench in my face (I will NEVER eat an onion tart in my entire life). At the end of the night, he leant in to kiss me and i was greeted by the unappealing onion smell, mixed with stale beer. I artfully (certainly for me) moved my mouth out of his way and offered him my cheek. even doing a double kiss (proclaiming it continental) to cover up my disdain.
Now, most girls would call it a night at that said goodbye and gratefully watch him walk into the night. Not me, no no. I waited, anxiously for this guy to text. I'm not sure what I was expecting, or even wanting. Feedback on my dating performance (married guy had helpfully informed me that I was a decent date, I dressed well, made relatively intelligent conversation and, appeared educated. Double asshole), or perhaps, I wanted to go back for round two? Maybe this time, the gas wouldn't be limited to being emitted from his mouth. I should have walked away. Instead, I got upset when he apologetically texted me saying that he would like to stay friends, but he wasn't attracted to me. HE wasn't attracted to ME? We all know I'm not a super model but at least I don't emulate a skunk on a date. Oh, and did I mention, he 'left his wallet at home', so essentially I HAD TO PAY FOR HIM TO BELCH IN MY FACE ALL NIGHT.
And so ends my unsuccessful date rant. A myriad of weirdos, each with their own quirks, and clearly none, my Beshert. And now that I think about it, I'm bloody glad about that. I'm not sure I could cope with an entire lifetime being burped at.
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