In the same way that a 12 year old Charl would scribble into her padlock secured diary with a fountain pen about the boy at Primary School who would tease her about her ginger hair and push her over (who she obviously developed a crush on), being a dating/lifestyle blogger means that I view my problems as “a problem shared is a problem not necessarily halved but shared nonetheless. And seeing as I pride myself (is pride the right word in this situation?) on honesty and a “we’ve all been there” “it happens to everybody” attitude when it comes to dating, I’m prepared to share the rough with the…slightly less rough pitfalls and fall out of my love life.
I feel in some ways that Hannah and I are the Adele’s of the blogging world. We both lay our hearts bare in times of rejection and allow the whole internet and world to see our failures in love… and then I remember that Adele won all those Grammys and made all that dollar after releasing an album full of songs about the boy who break her heart. Granted, I can’t hold a tune to save my life, except in my mum’s bathroom where the acoustics are better, so maybe one day someone will want to turn my little old blog into a collection of “WAH broken hearted girl” posts and I’ll be laughing all the way to the bank with my jigsaw puzzle heart and stories about men who done me wrong. When that happens, I fully intend to buy the whole of Stoke-on-Trent and evict them all.
A new “man moan” from Charl? It must be Wednesday.
I think there should be some kind of unwritten rule which says that you cannot go from being something which doesn’t have a label (a bit more than friendship but less than a relationship where you’ve exchanged saliva/seen eachothers intimate areas) back to being friends again? That’s the situation that I’ve found myself in and I’m not quite sure how to deal with it.
My last “proper” relationship ended in a way which was very much “we no longer exist in each-others lives/thanks for the memories/TTFN” kind of split. As much I massively respect people who are able to stay friends with their exes, I’ve always very much been a “you need to not exist anymore, it didn’t work out, have a nice life, I hope you catch herpes” kind of girl. This comes complete with social media deleting/blocking along with the whole deleting that persons phone number from your phone and thus, your life. Closure of the 21st century, some may say.
When you’re the rejected or friendzoned party, there’s going to be a massive part of you who doesn’t want to lose THE REJECTOR (almost gives them a superhero villain persona when you put it like that) as a part of your life. After all, there’s a reason why you were swapping saliva and putting time and effort into witty but flirty exchanges and why you wanted to make it work in the first place. Trying to see someone who you’ve envisaged naked and bumping uglies with as a “punch you on the arm and crack a joke” kind of person again is going to be difficult. Not only because there will still feelings of more than friendship being harboured (by you, at least) but also because above all else, they’ve hurt your feelings. And when someone hurts you, dents your pride, bruises your ego and makes you listen to Taylor Swift’s “White Horse”, it’s difficult to bounce back to “what was”. As much as you want to return to patented, meaningless and good humoured banter, there’s an unspoken awkwardness that you can’t shake.
Accepting friendship as a consolation prize opens you up to a world of getting your heart (which is already slightly bruised and dented) repeatedly fractured as you try to settle into your new role in that persons life. Friendship is kind of like a sedative you’re fed to make them feel less like the bad guy. It allows them to move on with their life and you become the Joey to his Dawson (y’know, pre Dawson and Joey “the relationship”). You’re left standing on the sidelines watching as he develops crushes on girls who will ultimately break his heart and you’ll be torn between giving him a shoulder to cry on and gleefully laughing at his misfortune in a “hurts, doesn’t it buddy” kind of way, whilst secretly keeping your fingers firmly crossed that maybe one day he’ll stop being such an utter idiot and realise that you’re the best thing since lemon curd on sliced bread. In holding out such hope, you do run the risk of ending up surrounded by Chihuahuas (I’m allergic to cats) at the age of 65 and barely able to remember the last time you experienced the touch of a man. (Or just the touch. Full stop.)
For now, I think it’s easier for me to take the lead of Bridget Jones. Wrap myself in my duvet, exchange “vodka and Chaka Khan” for rose wine and Lana Del Rey (lets give it a 2014 spin), hibernate through the whole of the Valentines build up to avoid that whole “salt in wounds” feeling and hope that eventually the whole concept of being in that persons life as a *grits teeth* “friend” won’t seem so difficult.