Every single bereaved young person I’ve met has wisdom beyond their years. It’s unfortunate. I’m sure we’d all love to be frolicking without a care in the world. Instead, we possess intelligence that you can’t learn or improve on at university, even a world-class one like mine. We have to experience tragedy and work through the ensuing shitstorm. Having such emotional intelligence does not mean we always make wise decisions, of course – look at my ridiculous sexscapades (click here). Rather, we are able to look at the world with a perspective that helps us delineate between what is important and what is not. Earning lots of money? Meh, not bothered and not impressed. Giving your all to your loved ones? Crucial.
On one hand, being a young person living with grief makes us strong and determined to live happy, fulfilled lives. I’ve written a lot about that. On the other hand, grief makes us terrified of things in life going wrong again. In my case, I’m scared of losing my home and the memories in it. I’m scared of losing my few remaining friends. I’m scared of mental illness. I’m scared of being deserted by my family. I’m scared that I’ll die like my wife and break my family’s hearts. I’m scared of being publically shamed because of my behaviour. I’m scared of being caught out by people I date for being a widow.
In my last post (click here to read it), I wrote about Tinder Girl #4 (TG#4) going AWOL on me, despite what seemed to be an excellent rapport, and how this was because she’d discovered the secret of my widowhood from clever LinkedIn and Google stalking. Well, it turns out I was wrong and overreacting. The rejection was not down to my marital status or fear of me being a psycho nutter, it was down to HER fear of dating someone so “seemingly perfect” only a few months after breaking up with someone else. Figuring that I had absolutely nothing to lose, I did follow up with TG#4 just one last time, using the reveal of the Labour Party’s manifesto as an excuse. Bet nobody’s tried that one before. That time, she responded (talking politics is sexy, clearly), explained she’d gotten nervous and said she would still like to meet up. Well done me! Text banter resumed.
This week, I dolled up in my Roland Mouret, and went on what was a spectacular dinner date with a beautiful woman who was far from superficial and most definitely surpassed my expectations. We talked for six hours. SIX. I came home thinking that I may have actually met my match, texting Stripper Friendly Gin Drinker friend, “I HAVE FOUND FUTURE WIFE.” I haven’t felt a connection like this before and when we kissed, everything around me stopped. Our mouths fit so perfectly. She wants to take me out for a second date in hipster land, also known as Shoreditch.
I know my regular readers, you nosy things, want the stats on this woman. TG#4 is so ethical that it’s almost sickening. She works for a large children’s charity and is super passionate about social justice. She mentors children from deprived areas in her spare time and says this time is the highlight of her week. She studied psychology. She salsa dances. She can spell and use a semi colon correctly. She watches TED talks before going to bed, as opposed to the trash I watch. She’s a Labour voter whose idea of a fun night is playing leaders debate bingo with prosecco in front of the TV (I concur). She’s witty in writing and in real life. She talks a lot. She’s tall, femme and gorgeous but doesn’t know it – the girly kind who plays with her hair when nervous. She’s one tough cookie. I could fall for her in an instant. Maybe I have because, unlike other women recently, I didn’t want to instantly drag her home with me for sex on the first date. I want more.
What is it that appeals most? Well, it’s her ability to empathise and determination to make something good come from her negative experiences. She’s a grown up. Out of respect for her (see? I already respect her), I feel it inappropriate to expand on the deeper details of what she shared with me on this blog. However, I will expand that her mother died at the age of 43, when she was only 16. She acted as her mother’s carer for four years as she deteriorated – the cancer ravaged her young body. It was heartbreaking to hear but also clear that she has embraced and accepted the sadness, channeling her energies into worthwhile causes now. Her views are sophisticated, interesting and authentic. Now THAT is sexy. A woman with life experience who won’t let it define her? MATCH. She also likes red rioja. Wow.
However, here I sit on a Sunday afternoon fretting yet again. I only received one message yesterday morning from her. The days after our date, there was a flurry of messaging to and fro. Repetitive strain injury type messaging. Why the silence now? Has she found out about my wife? Does she think I’m tainted? Fuck. This is ridiculous. Her father didn’t, by the sounds of things, react well to his wife dying. Will she assume that I’m going to be like that too? Sigh. I just don’t know. Maybe she’s scared of something else. I wish that wife could use her magic heaven power things to suss her out and report back to me in some sort of supernatural sign.
In the meantime, Boy Widower called today. I didn’t pick up. No more being taken advantage of by him (although I did have a sex dream about him on Wednesday, yikes).
Grief may have made me grow up, but when it comes to dating, I’m like a child again.