The Spot That Got Away

The Spot That Got Away………
He gazed deeply into my eyes, whispering sweet nothings that would make Heather Mc Cartney blush. To be honest, his exact words escaped me because at the time, he had an exceedingly swollen pimple on his neck, the squeezability of which was unavoidable. “Just one squeeze….”, I was thinking. The full stop in his tone of voice drew my attention back to his face, where he was anticipating my response. Fearing that he would think I hadn’t been listening, I turned on my best “doe eyes” and emitted a sound that personified “melting inside”. After all, he had obviously just declared undying affection for me, hadn’t he?? (my reaction seemed to suffice, so I’m sticking with that theory) There we were, at 6am, with the morning twilight casting the room in a violet hue, Norah Jones lulling softly in the background, and a blanket gathered loosely around our legs. I was actually freezing my bollix off but I didn’t want to ruin the moment. Anyway, it was the idyllic setting, the stuff that little girls dream of. He was the perfect man.
I had come to his house that night in a state that could easily be described as absolutely pissed. The main reason I called to him was because I couldn’t remember the address of my destined house party, and also because I was frightened of the dodgy bloke in the taxi queue who kept asking for directions to my house (as if I was in any fit state to give them). So I found myself on his doorstep, trying desperately to seem sober while holding on to the garden wall for gravitational support. Of course, him being the perfect man, he was still awake and apparently waiting on my little social visit. And so, into his arms I fell. Literally.
We spoke of many things that night. I probably talked a load of shite really. In any case, he listened as if I were giving away Osama Bin Laden’s exact location. As if every syllable was weaving him deeper into a spiral of enthrallment. And that’s how it started.
In the proceeding few months, he became my “He who is God”. Believe me when I say-this was the perfect man!! Seemingly. This fella met all the package requirements and then some. Gorgeous, mysterious, sensitive, polite, romantic, caring, poetic…... Aaahh…. You name it, he had it. As far as I was concerned, the sun shone out of his glorified American arse, and I busily set about professing his greatness to anybody willing to listen (and a lot who probably weren’t).
No, I am NOT stupid or naïve. Let’s get this straight right now. In all fairness, I willingly admit to being a hopeless idealist. Offer me a jar of world peace for $5.95 and I can safely say that I’d be satisfied with my purchase. This does not mean that I’m gullible-OF COURSE I KNOW WORLD PEACE DOESN’T COME IN A JAR!!! (the peace fairies bring it while we’re asleep, don’t they?) Anywho- I did not fall for him hook, line and sinker. It wasn’t him that attracted me; it was his illusion of flawlessness. I was the true Romeo, in love with the phantasm of love. Go on; laugh your head off at me. I can’t help it. To put it quite simply, I revelled in having captured what no other woman in living history had ever succeeded in catching. I had the perfect man, and I pity the damned fool who would attempt to convince me otherwise.
So no, I wasn’t being completely blind and foolish. I was just being foolhardy and obstinate. The gobshite had his ex wife’s name tattooed on his back, for god’s sake! I was well aware that if some other woman had chosen to kick him back on the shelf, then there was obviously some underlying fault or history of mental illness. I just chose not to see it. Of course I noticed that this self-proclaimed modest and insecure “gift from god” thought exactly that of himself. Of course it began to worry me when he admitted to having lavished manicures and pedicures on himself, luxuries that I generally wouldn’t even bother to adorn my temple with. And when his tales of wild youth became sob stories that’d give the whole of Albert Square a run for their money, I became a little more than freaked out. Plus, he was a nose picker. Of course I noticed all this and more. There were fleeting seconds when his air of authority would slip into self importance, and his soft words would darken to reveal a very ugly and hateful side. But these were the snippets that tortured my mind when I was alone; the thoughts that I would never confess to the oblivious outside world. I suppose I was as bad as him really, consistently reassuring him of his unparalleled excellence when I had half inkling that it was a blatant lie.
By the time we broke up, I was sick to the eyeteeth of him. What annoyed me more than his dependence on me feeding his over ripe ego, was the fact that he never really DID anything wrong to me. Hence I had no concrete reason to bitch or moan or mutate into a fire breathing sycophant and blame world hunger on him. The whole phase was truly like a self constructed (by him) Hollywood love story. Honest to god. The break up itself bore an eerie resemblance to an episode of “Touched By An Angel”. It went somewhere along the lines of him giving me a thousand and one insignificant reasons why we shouldn’t be together and continuing on to paint a wonderful picture of the future I would have in his absence. Not forgetting the age old clichés “It’s not you, it’s me” and “I don’t want to hold you back” (what break up would be complete without them?). I accepted his meaningless drivel and took off like a bat out of hell, shedding a crocodile tear and promising to remain “friends”.
And when I accidentally discovered a few weeks later that he had just thrown an engagement party for himself and his long term partner, all I could do was laugh. And sigh with relief that it wasn’t me. So, in the end, I was left, blissfully rejoicing in my licence to bitch about him until my tongue fell out. The bastard. I have only one regret- I never did get to burst that boil……