Glossing Over the Intimate Details

I’m sat eating alone in a restaurant. I feel so warm and happy.

I remember reading Cosmo (or the like) when I was younger. It gave advice on how to be an ‘independent woman’ and it said ‘Take yourself out for dinner. Do it. Eat alone.’ Like it was something utterly rebellious for a woman to brave the act of being seen out alone.

I remember my Mum had to wait for me once, and I said ‘get a drink in the pub’ Mum said ‘a woman, drinking alone? God no. We can’t do that.’

Both times I thought the idea of drinking or eating alone must be bliss. The forbidden fruit. You know what? It is. It really is. I have my kindle, I have my thoughts, I have my own company.

I truly love dating myself. This is what I see it as. However, I would never go on a dinner date with another human being. Jesus Christ. With MY issues around eating. Lord no. I’ll put your dick in my mouth on day 1 but I would rather die than put food in my mouth in front of you. 

Weird isn’t it. See, it’s about intimacy. Eating for me is very intimate, and I am more than happy to get intimate with myself but I am yet to find a partner I would get that intimate with on date 1 (or even date 5).

Bit sad really, that I don’t hold sex as an intimate thing. Yeah it is, it really is. I don’t disagree with that. When I think into it. I don’t want to actually date. I can’t handle being intimate with anyone, but I am happy to dive in and get sexual because I think it will fast track love (spoiler: it won’t). I want the ‘two years in’ feeling two minutes in. Not because I am lazy, but because I am scared to show myself and it get rejected. (Myself as in who I am, not my naked body. Come on, no one rejects bare boobs.) Months of slowly peeling away the layers and revealing your vulnerabilities? Shudder. Two years in they are comfortable, they’ve seen drunk Meg, they’ve heard all the stories, seen (most of) the sides to me and they are still here. Yeah, comfortable. Lord knows I love comfort. But Honey, that doesn’t come early days, you have to put the work in. Which is too fucking terrifying to do.

It’s so much easier said than done and I’m already asking a lot of myself at this current moment in time. So I’ve deleted tinder (hinge, bumble etc.), I’m avoiding any chance of late night coital entanglements that I could mistake for possible and potential love. 

For now, I’m happy just not dating. My abandonment-issue-complex screams, shouts and stomps her little feet at this prospect. She wants to chase the un-chaseable, strive for the love that leaves to prove that I’m unloveable. Every person I meet she pipes up ‘oh we fancy them’ when really we just like them and want them to be a friend. Yet she goes in all guns blazing, gripping her dutty little hands around any part she can and in turn terrifies them off. Cling on dear abandonment! Cling on. It never ends well though, hun.  So you’re getting benched, I’ll take it from here thanks.

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