|
Me and Men by Michelle Nell
So it's been eight months and I am on the scene again! Eight months of sulking and self-pity and now I am ready to play 'The Game' - again! I did something that I last did when I was fourteen: I joined the gym. Actually the gym gave me a three-month trial (maybe they knew) and I graciously (in other words very-offendedly) accepted. I comforted myself with the thought that it is all part of The Plan: new look; new social life and in general, actually, just a life. I have been sitting at home every Friday night for the past eight months, (including New Year's Eve, when I fell asleep at 17 minutes past eight). So Lee, friend of the year for the last ten years, grabbed me out of my misery, snapped me out of the semi-permanent sulking syndrome, and took me for a night on the town. Actually, it's more a case of a early evening, sloshed, at a pizza place - one glass of wine and I started to whine about my life and then passed out, decorating the floor like a seven-day-old pizza topping. Due to the disastrous outcome of 'Mission Unsuccessful', it took me two and a half days to recover from a one-drink hangover, and another month to brew on the purpose of my life. Then one day Destiny gave me a big, fat slap in the face, parked her ass in my hands and gave herself over. It struck me like thunder that, with Lady Destiny as my own, I might just as well surrender and make The Plan work. So The Plan gets put into gear and moi here takes drastic action. First off, straight to the hairdresser (mom's sunny stoep - I might have a Master Plan but that doesn't mean I'm rich). My long, lovely curls gets chopped off, on strict instructions that I want to look like Dharma on SABC 3, so with the Mnet TVGuide on my lap, it's snip-snip to the new me. I must admit though, Ma has done a lovely job and I feel like the Queen of England, except for the age difference. I might be 26 but I still get asked for ID when going out, and the only time I really felt old was when Ma came with and she got asked for ID. Yes, it's in the genes! Next up, on the list, is taking-up the gym-thing and that is a completely all-together different story. Let's just say that spinning is not dancing in circles, as to me it means not being able to walk for days and discovering muscles on your bum only certain I-don't-like-my-gender people should have. Still, I persist in the knowledge that I will walk out of here so sexy that the men would drop dead behind me, and leave a trail from here to Timbuctoo, or from here to the sunbed, as that is next on the list. Should The Plan be, at the least, just an average success, I will be in the same league as a Greek Love-Goddess and people will offer to kiss my feet and wipe my (sexy, sweet) ass wherever I go. This, however, only happens in Nu Metro releases, so I stay confident and practice to create an irresistible aura. With this goes orange toilet paper and with that goes thrust so instead of representing a Greek Love-Goddess I look more like a (difficult) walking advertisement for T-rush. After five litres of plain yoghurt and 8 days of itchy-and-scratchy misery, I'm once-again on the scene and make a tremendous come-back. We hit a local club and the next morning I hit my bed like a rock, satisfied that I have snogged the head of a man I barely know, and gave out my number about 4 times. All-in-all, if you don't count the falling around, instead of graciously walking / dancing / transporting myself from one point to the other, it was a very successful night. It took me a week to recover and it took me another week to realise that no one is going to call, not even the Cutie-Pie with the leather jacket. I have a brainstorming session with Nikki and we include her brother. He is one of us, due to him jumping out of the closet very unexpectantly. (Dumped girlfriend for her brother and for his bravery deserves to be a Sister). Our brainstorming concludes that men are intimidated by us, as they fear sexy, successful woman. (Me having my own web-design business and Nikki being a very successful Marketing Executive), and not to the mention the MHNE List (Must Have No Exceptions). This list decreases my changes of a life-long partner a bit, as it consists of certain requirements that any man, worthy of my sparkling personally, simply must have. It's not that it's a very long list, it's just a very MUST-HAVE list. Who wants a man that's not independent and doesn't earn good money, or, even better, work for himself? Onethat can spend some quality time with you, have a 4x4 (not only does this make the money-issue speak for itself, but it also prooves a sense-of-adventure, and that can only be GOOD). Then there are the minor listings like star signs and age. I am not fussy: I just know what I want! Another BS-session and we conclude that we will not drop our requirements, as they are essential to leading a comfortable and happy life. As we both have still a few years before we hit the big 3-mark, we will take our time hunting, and only move in for the kill when absolutely certain. I must add that I am not the easiest person to live with, as my last relationship with King Ding-a-Ling practically scarred me for life. Not only did he run away leaving me with a R30,000 bad debt, but, as if that was not enough, he ripped my heart out and tore it apart, mercilessly. However, I have the advantage over him that I am a Master Revenge-Planner and he doesn't know that. He doesn't know about the Crap Box but I do! Yes, it was my Master Brain behind the idea. It was my Master Brain that worked out the details and it was my Master Brain, together with those of The Sisters that started the Crap Collection Project, the CCP. In short, the CCP goes something like this: Collect crap, put in box, wrap it in bank-balance sheets with high balances and post to ex. Wait short period then repeat. Bank balance to be higher with each wrapped parcel. Ex to become suicidal. How's that for a master plan? Anyway, one Sales Rep, Restaurant Manager and Accountant later, I am still cruising the scene. In true Dharma-style my aura speaks for itself, and I am as much desired as the Mopani worm. I didn't get discouraged though, and pretty soon got into the routine of hitting the pubs and clubs, then the floor and eventually the door. That is, I got shown the door. However, it was just a matter of time before bouncers and managers realized that I am a walking, semi-permanently sloshed goldmine and therefore soon become a VIP. Very Intensively Pissed, that is! Along with the VIP treatment came the men. I tell you, never in my life have I experienced so much interest reflected on me. After much pondering I discovered the secret. Being treated as VIP, I constantly get pampered by everybody, in other words there is always someone around me, mostly a man. This leads everybody else thinking I am spoken-for and nothing is as desirable as forbidden fruit. That's it. That's the secret to For Ever Getting Attention, ladies - act Attached! So, with this in mind, I go out to thoroughly enjoy myself every weekend, and after a month, I am in a steady routine of getting pissed every Friday, recover Saturday, watch Rugby at the pub in the afternoon, and spend Sunday doing something impressive like skiing at the dam. The Sunday routine would usually acquire an invite from who-ever showed interest, or got his head snogged-off, by myself, on either Friday eve, or Saturday during rugby. Although this routine seemed to be very successful, considering the great impact it had on my social life, I never went further than sticking my tongue down some delicious creature's throat&ldots;until last week! As usual, Nikki and I went out to our usual spot, of which I won't mention the name, as I am sure you will break your back laughing, but the minute we walked in, I knew that that night was going to be different. It was! We had just ordered our drinks, and strolled towards the dance floor, when Nikki caught sight of a potential client of mine, who, up until now, I had not met in person. At exactly the same moment, he saw her and grabbed hold of her arm, so there was no way of quietly slipping past. Before I continue, I firstly have to tell you a bit more about this client. Actually, it's these clients: Darren and Barry. (Was that my heart doing a triple somersault? God! I can't even say the man's name without getting a first-degree heart attack) Darren and Barry are adrenalin specialists. At least, that is what they call themselves. They are equal partners in an adventure-sport business, and potential clients of mine, as I am in the process of doing them a website. As I said, I had not met either of them before, but I felt like screaming Holy Moly on the top of my lungs and telling everybody that there is, in fact, a god, when I first laid eyes on Darren. I have never in my life seen a man like him, and so exactly 'my type'. Tall, dark, brown hair and a smile that melts your heart, and eyes that turn your legs into jelly. Nikki introduces us, and, for the first time in my life, I do not have words. Suddenly I cannot remember the word 'Hi', not in any of the four languages that I speak. (Which by the way still stays Hi!). I blame this on the fact that I am not yet drunk. I hope that my smile does the trick, which apparently it does, as much later there are body shots and close dancing. Although I can't remember that specific part of the evening, I remember, very well, sitting on the loo, with Nikki in front of me, the bin between her legs, puking my lungs out. What a pity that I must get so absolutely pissed on the night that I meet Prince Charming and then go and get sick in the loos, like a spotty teenager. |