Novel Project 2010 - Chapter One

‘I can’t understand why you’re single.’
    I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard that. Usually from women; who, as it happens, haven’t made the connection between my being single and the undeniable fact that they are themselves unwilling to date me. Some might call this a catch-22 situation. I call it bloody typical.
    Granted, I’ve had a number of relationships in my time. A few I’ve even enjoyed. But they always end after a couple of months, or 6 dates, whichever comes sooner.
    Annoyingly enough, I’m usually the one who gets chucked. Usually with one of two stock phrases.
    ‘I see us as just friends’. Which is so cliched as to be a blatant lie. Or alternatively:
    ‘I just don’t see us going to the next level’. I have absolutely no idea what this next level is, nor of any particular power-ups required to reach it. As far as I’m concerned, there are a total of six stages to a relationship:

    1.    Awkward dating
    2.    Awkward shagging
    3.    Awkward cohabiting
    4.    Marriage
    5.    Kids
    6.    Death
 
    I won’t get into the details of my prior relationships, but by my reckoning, the “next level” would be living together, and six dates is certainly insufficient time to contemplate sharing a home. That level of commitment would probably require a pregnancy scare or two.
    I can usually manage a total of about two car-crashes of relationships in a year, some of which last longer than others. If I were the sort of person who draws graphs, I might be able to predict my eventual marriage at the age at which most men have their last child. Or more specifically, the age of Charlie Chaplin when he had his last child. Which I believe was somewhere in his mid 80s. Being a realist, I imagine I’m unlikely to be virile at that age. Or alive.
    A lot of this may come across as complaining.The few people I know who revel in the label of a ‘whinger’ tend to attract very particular looks at cocktail parties. The kind of look you might see in the eyes of a Rottweiler confronted with a yapping little Terrier intent upon making its acquaintance. The Rottweiler has all the killer instinct and big teeth to make short work of the irritating little bugger, but has been cursed with a muzzle to prevent it carrying out the deed. Social norms are a bit like that muzzle. How’s that for a metaphor?
    In short, getting a reputation as a moaning bastard is a perfect way of avoiding all those banal little conversations that seem unavoidable at any gathering where there isn’t a film showing. Personally, I rather like small talk. As such I try to avoid complaining about my life in casual conversation, restricting any complaining to things that all parties dislike and have no power over whatsoever. For young professionals, such complaints typically revolve around the prices of one thing or another. Usually things we can’t afford, such as houses, or putting a hit on Ted the Whinger.
    However, alcohol has a tendency to turn me into something of a lumbering prat-a-saurus, lolloping through social gatherings leaving a trail of offended people and spilled drinks, or at the very least embarassing myself. So   it was one New Year’s Eve at a friend’s party, me having reached that wonderful point of inebriation when you know you’re going to regret something in the morning, but can’t quite recall what it is. I was rooting around the kitchen in search of some form of drink that might have previously escaped the notice of myself and the other 30-odd people in the house. Handily, this made my huntsman’s costume seem all the more suitable for the occasion, rather than a bad pun to fit with the party’s theme, neither of which I could entirely recall at this point.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. Looking over the wrong shoulder, I found a fellow reveller staring back in the hope of starting a conversation. It was a friend of a friend, whose name was either Matt or Mark. We had known each other just long enough that it would make asking his name embarrassing. A stronger person might bite their lip and just ask, or ask someone else. I choose the path of least resistance: never call him by name.
    ‘Hi, mate.’ I greeted him, my plan working perfectly yet again.
    ‘How about this music, eh?’. Matt-or-Mark asked.
    ‘Yeah, its rubbish.’ I slurred back. Which was followed by a slightly hurt look in eyes that suggested he was responsible for this particular track being played. Figuring things were awkward enough, I tried to change the subject.
    ‘Having fun?’. Not the most creative of questions. For all I knew he was the host, and was slightly more concerned with everyone else’s enjoyment. Well, he would if he was a decent host.
    ‘Yep, great, thanks.’. Then nothing, he didn’t even ask the same question of me. I figured he was either a terrible host, or not the host at all, or incredibly drunk. Possibly all three. I decided to parry this attack by pretending he’d asked anyway.
    ‘Me too.’ Sadly that was the best I could come up with.
    ‘You here with anyone?’
    ‘Nah. Just got out of a relationship, not really in the mood at the moment.’ I lied.
    ‘Nobody here take your fancy?’ I was beginning to speculate that Matt-or-Mark was a pimp, or possibly coming on to me. His raised left eyebrow made it hard to tell.
    ‘Not particularly. Besides, I’m rubbish chatting people up at parties. End up talking like a drunken tosser.’ The first hint of a self-deprecating moan.
    ‘I know what you mean, used to be much the same.’ Matt-or-Mark gloated.
    ‘Used to be?’ I’ll admit part of me was intrigued, either this man had some magical method for conversing with the fairer sex that he might instill upon me like an aged karate master might instill upon an Italian-American street punk in a cheesy 80s movie.
    ‘Yeah, until I gave that internet dating thing a try.’ So much for the karate master, it suddenly became a crazy old hermit ranting at an Italian-American street punk in a cheesy 80s movie.
    ‘Internet dating?’ I quipped, ‘Aren’t all the people on there either nuts or old men pretending to be women?’
    ‘Well, was how I met Vanessa. Been with her 2 years now.’
    I now had two choices. I could either admit my mistake and apologise or try to talk my way out of inadvertently calling this man’s other half a crazy, aged female impersonator. I took the secret third path, which was to quickly change the subject and hope he didn’t notice.
    ‘Good for you, mate. Didn’t know you were with someone.’
    ‘Yeah, but afraid she’s not here tonight. She always volunteers at the Shelter this time of year.’
    I could see his game, he’d managed to find the only single guy in the room so he could brag. Lording it over me with his tales of not only being in a long term relationship, but with some big-hearted soul who will give up the biggest party night of the year to help her fellow man. And to top it all off, she didn’t force him to come along! She sounds almost perfect. The git.
    ‘And you two met online?’ I inquired, expecting there to be a specialist site for these kind of people. “smugdate.com” or something.
    ‘Yeah, its great. Really easy. None of the faffing around you get meeting people at parties.’
    ‘Faffing?’
    ‘You know, trying to figure out if she likes you or not. If she’s single or not. That kinda thing.’
    He’d got the wrong end of the stick. I was wondering aloud why anyone would still use the word ‘faffing’.
    Before I could decide whether to clarify what I meant or probe for more details, the conversation was cut short by excited screams from another room. We turned just in time to catch sight of a guy we both immediately pretended not to know, running naked through the crowded room. Somehow, despite the large number of people and the small amount of space, nobody managed to get in his way and the whole thing was over pretty quickly. The room was silent for a while, before people generally started realising it was probably time to go home.
    On the way home, I began to wonder about what Matt-or-Mark had said. He had made online dating sound easy. But did I really want to go looking for love amongst the sort of people who use these sites? People who are so socially retarded that they can only bear to introduce themselves to someone if they're in a separate building? Who will only make a move on someone if they're 100% sure that they're not going to react with violence. So frightfully embarrassed about possibly flirting with someone who is already taken that they would insist on checking before even beginning a conversation with them.
    Looking back on things, this was exactly the sort of person I am. So I signed up.

    After a long, drawn out registration process - including intimate details of my income, turn ons and dog/cat preference - I was listed. Almost immediately, I was absolutely bombarded. By a need to check my messages every five minutes.
    It wasn't long before I figured the drunken picture of me at Oktoberfest probably wasn't going to pique anyone's interest, so I picked a more sensible photo, and started being a bit more proactive in hunting for someone.
    Judging on their photographs, I began wondering how some of these women could possibly be single. They were just too attractive to not have attracted a first move from someone else - social skills or not. I imagined three possible scenarios:

    1.    The photos were not of the women in question.
    2.    Their image manipulation skills were impressive
    3.    They were mentally unstable

    None of these seemed to be ideal. Still, it was worth finding out, so I got in touch with the ones that had the most amusing lists of interests. The first few ladies I contacted - either by email or a pre-canned "wink" - seemingly ignored my messages. It appeared my carefully prepared choice of "Hi" over "Hello" had failed to woo the women of cyberspace. But gradually, I began to get a trickle of responses and was soon organising dates.