It’s been a while since I wrote about my widow dating life, but things are still going strong with non-girlfriend / Client #2 aka the girl I didn’t meet on Tinder. It was August when I turned up at a pub on Fleet Street in jeans and Converse because I genuinely thought we were there to talk about work-related LGBT network matters. After half an hour, the eye contact showed it was clearly not just networking and by midnight I had her pushed up against the railings near St Paul’s Cathedral, trying to lure her home with me even though I hadn’t shaved my legs. It didn’t work. Fast forward to January and I’ve fallen hard for her, played board games with her parents and brothers, welcomed in the new year on the beach, cuddled her puppy and cried comfortably in her arms.
Friday night was her first proper introduction to my friends – a big dinner with my band mates. We’ve talked many times of how my friends are naturally going to be protective of me because I’m a widow and they don’t want me to be hurt. I’ve also reassured her repeatedly that she makes me really happy, I want her there, and I want to show my friends how amazing she is. No surprises – Friday went well as non-girlfriend is a mean conversationalist and my band mates are the most chilled bunch. It helped that they all brought plus ones for dinner too, so any fears of being examined under a microscope were put to rest. To my surprise, non-girlfriend also confirmed that she would be introducing me to her Gay Women’s Network committee as her girlfriend next weekend, when we’ll be in a similar large setting with lots of plus ones. I didn’t probe, but I smiled as it feels like it’s taken forever to get her to accept that we are in a relationship (read about the initial Netflix and chilling we did here and then the more girlfriendy conversations here).
I was doubly delighted on Friday because I got a letter from my lawyer which indicates that my two year legal battle with my late wife’s family over the ownership of my home is shortly going to be settled. I’ve stayed quiet about their antics on this blog out of respect, but mainly fear of legal repercussions. Let’s just say it’s been very painful to have been betrayed and they’ll have their time in the spotlight soon enough. Knowing I am on the verge of having security, despite spending shit loads of money, is a huge relief. The evening with non-girlfriend and the band was therefore cause for significant celebration and packed with a bazillion emotions. After non-girlfriend went home, the rest of us went to karaoke and I belted, really belted, out some tunes to express the explomotions (my new word to describe an explosion of varying emotions).
You’d think I’d know this already but, only at the age of twenty-nine, have I learned that six glasses of prosecco and two pints of beer are too much for my little 5’1 body to handle. My evening culminated in me vomiting into a Tesco plastic bag containing my new Dune stilettos, which was in turn inside my nice Whistles leather bag containing a £500 Bottega Veneta purse that belonged to my late wife, my iPhone, my work Blackberry, a couple of lip glosses and ten tampons. I must say, my vomiting was very elegantly done, as far as throwing up goes. Not a drop touched the upholstery of the front seat of the Mercedes Benz taxi. I’m mortified.
For the record, the smell of sick is impossible to get out. The bags are ditched, I’ve bought a new iPhone and the purse is dusted in bicarbonate of soda. I’m yet to figure out what I’ll tell my work tomorrow about why the keyboard of my Blackberry is making crunching noises. I also have tinnitus from the sound of my own amplified karaoke voice.
None of this matters though as, tonight, non-girlfriend explicitly asked me to be her girlfriend. There ain’t no hangover or vomit scent that’ll rain on my parade. I’m now in a relationship. I’m a girlfriend again and I’m fucking excited. So excited that I’ve bawled my eyes out in grief. This widow shit isn’t easy.