I got Barthélémy around my 13th birthday, just before going away to boarding school. Though Mum completely disapproved of him from the first, she gave in, I believe, because of guilt –and Guilt, to a child, can be a pretty powerful ally in Getting What You Want. Boarding School was never something Mum ever envisioned for her children, even though she’d never intended to put off her career for us. She would have Both, and why shouldn’t she?
Anyways, having gotten Bart so late in my life, it may be surprising how tightly we bonded. I KNEW him the second I saw him in the shop. I KNEW we would love each other, and grow old together. I knew he’d keep my secrets with his life, and adore me despite the doubtful nature of some of them. Indeed, he’s supported me through no end of crushes, break-ups, family and work problems and, lately, singlehood fiascos. In a perfect dream world, I’ve no doubt that I’d be married to Bart, and we’d have six beautiful child cubs. Problem is, he’s a Bear. A soft, mushy-in-all-the-right-places Bear, who should have been given up years ago without a murmur. But he hasn’t. And not that I would bring Bart to any date and introduce him as my BFF –but he is. I’m happy to have him out of the way, somewhere in my room –but he’s always with me. And he’ll always be… until I find it in myself to cede him to my eldest and/or only child.
The problem is… Bart may be the standard against whom I base every other of my relationships. In which case, I really should get rid of him as soon as possible, given my Disdainful Eye and other critical afflictions. Perhaps without Bart’s beautiful hazel eyes to gaze into (and I should mention they’re the extreme of warm and loving) I might be able to lower my standards some, and link my life to a short, weak-chinned dullard who has never left the village I met him in, during a passing visit. Even worse, I might begin to take a shine to creatures such as Roosh (the very name, my friends, should be a RED FLAGGED LIGHTHOUSE.)
Funny thing is, this was quite a week for Romance, in my world. Yesterday alone, I received no less than 6 notifications of interest… one, LITERALLY, from the Man of My Dreams (MoMD).
Now, Girls. Two things about the prospective MoMD:
1) You should know that he is, as his name implies, a figment of your imagination. It is VERY unlikely that he exists, and thus, in our looking, we should be careful not to look for him exclusively.
Seriously though, I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw Frank’s profile. In fact, I’m going to give it to you:
√ Green Eyes
√ Wants (more) children
√ Describes himself as: “sportingly, generously, romantically, loving”
√ A glorious, BEAUTIFUL set of smiling photoS –DE-VAS-TA-TING. He’s STUNNING.
x 231lb (!!!)
x Divorced (Why? WHY would anyone allow him to get away?)
My womb skipped so many beats I had to perform CPR on it (this basically entails banging on your lower stomach until you can feel your legs again.) Then came, in quick succession, twelve visions of our First Kiss, my 6 future children, and an evening together before the fireplace of our newly built home…
When you’re thinking like this, you’re likely to write to the bloke in an off-putting over-eager or over-familiar manner, which translates, in physical dating, to that girl at the club who is so clearly offering her wares to her pick of the night that it makes you cringe for her. In fact, having very properly returned his Interest, I should now exercise my breathing apparatus, and wait for him to write ME a proper message. Problem is… CAN I wait that long? WILL I?
Bart sits there and smiles blithely at me –SO like a male to be completely useless when it COUNTS.