So the last time I left you, I was preparing nervously for a date.
I geared up anxiously. My hair was coiffed clean and soft and not in a bun. I had mascara, blush and lipstick on. I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognise myself. My son screamed in terror at the stranger trying to kiss him. Okay, slight exaggeration… but not by much. I had clean and altogether grown up clothes on. There was nary a smear of vegemite or glitter glue to be seen. I was in a good head space. My night was going to be fabulous. I was own personal cheer squad and “Hey, Ho, Let’s Go!” I was excited.
Let me just say, what a waste of make-up.
Talk about THE dud date to end all dud dates. I politely informed him there had been a terrible tragedy in my immediate circle of friends about half way through my pre dinner glass of wine, unceremoniously bailed and then proceeded to hit a pub with my girlfriend for a scathing debrief and solemn toast to the death of my social/dating life as I knew it. (I was not going to waste fabulous hair and grown up clothes!) To be honest, the vodka with the girlfriend was the absolute highlight of my social calendar for the past month and way more fun than an awkward first date with quite possibly the rudest, most socially graceless person I’ve met in a LONG time. And I live with a demanding toddler, whose manners and social skills are akin to an armament hoarding dictator, so that’s saying something. Maybe I need a better screening process? Either way, it certainly put the dampener on my drive to get out and start dating again.
So life returned to normal, just me and my little one; our never ending supply of cars and trucks, a study work load that a horse couldn’t jump over and a ceaseless war with my laundry basket. Over the few days that followed, maintenance was being undertaken on some power lines at the top of our street. It involved all sort of machinery, much to my toddler’s delight. And, luckily for me, a bevy of rather cute tradesmen to operate said machinery. Life was looking up again. Thinking that maybe I wasn’t going to regale myself to the ‘single-forever-and-proud-owner-of-many-cats’ lifestyle just yet, I promised my little one that we would walk to the top of our street to watch the cherry pickers and flashing lights (and hot tradies). Any parent of a toddler will know that children are physically incapable of leaving the house without taking something with them. Matchbox cars are so much the norm for my child that I assume they are permanently grafted to his hands. Subsequently, I’ve stopped paying attention to them. He’s clutching some bright blue thing in his hand and I’m not really paying attention. Off we go.
We make our way to the top of the street. Heart-stoppingly-handsome tradesperson #1 comes over. We chat, we smile and he offers to show my son the truck with all the bells and whistles. Excellent. Off to a flying start. He bends down to my son’s level and proceeds to engage him in conversation. My boy is nearly beside himself with excitement, and obviously attempting to endear himself to his new found hero, reaches out a chubby little hand with his tightly clutched treasure.
Hot tradie smiles indulgently and extends his hand. My son deposits a bright blue wrapped tampon and grins winningly.
I’m going to be single forever.
Until the next misadventure, A Xxx