I appear to have taken an unintended blog holiday since dumping AF unceremoniously via email. Sorry about that – not sure what happened there! I have no excuse except I was too busy being fabulous.
The thing is, after everything with AF, and the fact that I’m clearly entirely inept at being a human being with feelings, I’ve been feeling a bit… well… pants. Blondie is all loved up with her pocket-sized beau still, Bridget’s choosing wedding venues, Flora’s permanently attached to her lover’s penis and Irish has fucked off back to the land of the shamrock for a minor mental breakdown (don’t get me started). I had a run of maybe three or four ‘plus one’ events in a row that I found it damn near difficult to fill, and it bummed me out big time. Seriously, if your plus ones have found their own plus ones and you’re still just a ‘one’, that can get a bit effing depressing.
I chose – perhaps unwisely – to reignite my fierce independent woman status, by inviting The Ex to the theatre. The last we heard from him, you may remember, he’d sent me a rather wanky showbiz text when I was in France, and I’d replied about a year later telling him I was busy until the end of time.
Desperate times call for desperate measures though, so I dropped the text and immediately he accepted. I rather think this was through a love of a good freebie as opposed to any lingering affection held for me, but take from it what you will.
So we went, and we talked (once he finally showed up. Late. Of course) and I told him about work and life and the fact that I’ve just been promoted (slipping that one in there) and had that day come out of an appraisal that essentially declared the world my oyster (well, theatreland anyway – maybe more of a mussel or a clam…) and on top of that I’d just won a pair of Vivienne Westwood pumps on ebay for an absolute steal.
‘Wow, sounds like things are going really well for you Ritzi!’ The Ex enthused while clapping a slightly patronising but probably well intended hand on my shoulder.
And actually I suppose… he’s kind of right.
Okay, so I haven’t found my Darcy, but frankly I’m smashing the crap out of Darcy’s estimated ‘ten thousand a year’ on my lonesome and it’s still too cold to expect a man to dive fully clothed into a lake as a form of foreplay, so maybe I’m not missing much.
So instead of moping around while everyone else picks out paint for their picket fence, I’m reminding myself that being single is basically awesome. Last week, I bought SIZE 10 skinny jeans*. Today, I’m off to Starlight Express press night with a gang of gays. Tomorrow, I’m taking over the world.
Just think what a girl can do with all that pointless ‘snuggle’ time…
*this is a big deal. My bootilicious ass has been in 12s for years. Nothing tastes as good as fabulous feels – and 100 squats a day doesn’t hurt either**.
**okay, that hurts. A lot.